Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

I enter it – an old cow-shed delights me as much as when I was a boy – I found what seemed like a bird nest inside under the leaves – as I touched it, a reddish brown mouse with a white belly ran out—
The woods had evidently been struck by a mean tornado this summer as uprooted trees were scattered about in the greatest confusion – crows were around – I sat on a fallen tree loathe to leave the spot—
Shortly beyond here my road ran into another “improved” road – It ran in a northwesterly direction & I thought by taking it I would miss Boston, my original destination & I debated whether to try to find the Boston road, but decided to continue up the hill – along the road here was a little bank covered with long dry grass, & plated with what I can only  call road-pride maples – such places seem to me to so inevitably belong to late Summer that I decided to eat my lunch here – on the other of the side of the road were countless goldenroad (sic) – to the south a pasture I could see the blue hills south of Springville—
Shortly after continuing on my way I came to a macadamized road that veered off to the northeast – a sign read “Boston – 6 min –“ & I decided after all to go to Boston – This road ran along the top of