that seemed like being born again.  Then another came.  Years fell off my back and I was back again to the innocent days 1917 when I took such childish joy in painting pure nature moods.  There came to mind a painting of a muddy road I had made with a blue- bird on a fence.  Regret for all the sophistication + self-consciousness that has crept into my work came over me.
      Just beyond here I came to an open space and could look out over a vast expanse of country – the hill I was on – Chestnut Ridge- sloped down gradually to the flat country surrounding the lake – far away to the left was the lake with a smudge of smoke that indicated Lackawanna – the rest of the view was composed of sweeping plains with pigmy trees, clusters of toy houses and lone houses – here and there were tiny streaks of white smoke from moving trains.
     The walk from here on, over a stiff muddy road tho I grew more & more peacefully tired was a rare delight – down hill all the time – at times I came to huge drifts of snow – thicker than my height on which I walked – the twigs of willows bristled a sharp yellow – young apple trees gleaming a rich sienna – a kill deer or two – always the fresh cold wind – it recalled to me the walk I took with Wilcox, Heller and Eastman in spring to Brandywine Falls.
     The descent ended at the approach to a village – I dreaded finding out the name of the place for up until now I had no idea where