Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

onion flowers – cows in pastures added interest to the odor – I presently came to a little grove by the side of the wood & decided to walk thru it.
Entering it was like coming a newly made woods, on the first day – I stood still hardly daring to breathe – the thinning trees let sunshine thru in freckled patches – the ground was lightly coated with fresh brown leaves – a dignified hush was over all things – a lane had been cut thru it, which I followed thru to a side road whence I came to my main road again—
Some distance ahead I saw where a dirt road veered off from the main road & went up over a hill & I determined to take it – before I came to it, I chance to look back toward Springville, & saw higher hills that I had not been able to see in the town, rising to the south like phantoms – as I walked along I kept looking at a hill that faced the south & was covered with scattered groves, & the queer-shaped bushes that cows make by eating the lower branches – I kept watching it with regret – I should climb that hill I thought – but I pushed on up the hill-road – knocking wild apples – their sharp flavor a delight – The road attains the first plateau – a few clouds have appear in fleets along the southern horizon – a pasture woods stings my curiosity—