Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

a wide rolling hill – to the east lay a wide valley & beyond it another wide rolling hill – back, & other hills – in the after noon sunlight, I went along, singing & whistling idiotic songs—
The barren hill with a single scraggly elm & a solitary black house silhouetted against the sky on its extreme top – a feeling of wide loneliness—
Came upon an old farm-house that was a delight – a fine colonial shape, in a terrible state of repair – in front of it a huge black walnut tree – I make a sketch of it – first one of the occupants & then another come up to see what I am doing – the second one tells me that the main part of the house was built over a hundred years ago, & the other part 75 years ago, as a cheese factory – that the black walnut was brought from Vermont by his grandfather & planted there a smaller tree nearby he said was first as old as he was -  it was planted the fall before he was born & came up in the following spring which amazed me, as the tree was only a sapling apparently, while he was quite old – 63 years as he told me.
A heavy shadow suddenly fell across the battered house, & I turned to see that a wonderful formation of huge clouds had spread over the western sky, & then followed my