Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

A small short-haired yellow dog comes out to snap at my heels; its master, a boy of six playing in the yard – I time my kick perfectly and send the yelping dog out into the street; the boy screams I stride on unheeding – I suddenly feel the presence at my back of the father who is rushing after me, I turn and with all my strength hit him with my fist in the face – he falls into a ravine along the road—
I am walking along a street in Salem – which is yet not Salem – we have company at my home and I must sleep at the home the Hestons, who live in Buffalo – I make a short cut from one street to another, that I used to make 20 years ago – there is a monumental works there (none in reality)—
It is next morning – I can see that my presence in the Heston home is resented – I am made to feel that I am a social inferior – this is done not by positive insults, but by a completely cold ignoring of my presence – I go to a bathroom to wash up – another guest rudely orders me away.
I go outside – their home is one of many set close together on blind street