Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

places in the road with fantastic flames writhing in the rising wind.
As I enter Orchard Park I think of old imaginary times I thought of when I was a boy – one tall old mansion with long dreary windows looms up in front of the moon like a spectre—

Dec. 27

An early March evening – an open doorway – all day the snow has been melting and water runs in glittering rivulets in the sun – a woman, drunk, sings ribald song on the doorstep – inside the evening chill creeps up the black stairs—
The comradeship of boys! – when we grow up we have too many responsibilities – we are too much immersed in our own affairs – suddenly I think of myself as a lonely youth climbing a snow covered hillock at dusk

Jan. 14—

January moonlit night – it has been thawing and raining for several days – the creek is full to its banks – rushing headlong—