re-embrace all this epic poetry of American fills my heart – I feel as tho I had betrayed my native country.
     We have brought a radio-phonograph.  The new toy – the radio past has filled my mind for several days, in spite of myself.  But this morning the realization of the trivial and banal music that comes “thru the air” flooded me- my “belly was full” – I fled out into the open for a tramp – How good and beautiful the most trivial things seemed – dead goldenrod and milk-weed pods – a tiny frozen pool, with a few few bleached stones and scrubby hawthorne around it – beautiful ghostly grass – the vast misty hollow of the gray sky – I pause a moment on the edge of a little grove to look at the black trees swaying against the sky and to listen to the wind – the great goodness and beauty of nature sweeps over me-
     The “telegraph harp” by theClintonBridgeis going full strength – this wild untamed and unorganized humming sounds as great music to my jaded ears
     The boy has been out late in the fields – the December twilight is closing down – vast gray void over the hills to the east and northeast – the road to the village dips down into the wide valley set in among the hills.  The little village is almost obscure – the boy is coming home to a cheerfully lit kitchen, where supper is being prepared.
     Saturday evening.  On the way back to work, laborers stop at a candy booth to buy.  Laborers do not work Saturday evening anymore –
     Direct contact – that is the thing.[1]