Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

decided to visit the pitcher-plant bog. I parked the car on the Genesee road, and cut across fields.; It was delightful in the woods north of the bog. I was attracted at once by the numerous moths (small, gray moths about ¾ inches in diameter) – that were fluttering among the trees. They seemed to prefer the bases of the trees, and the trunk for about six or eight feet upward. (was it some special attraction the trees trunk had? or was it warmth). Their fluttering was constant, a nervous twinkling of light reminiscent of heart lightening. How quiet the woods – that almost tomb-like stillness of late autumn, broken occasional by the nuthatch call of a nuthatch. The level sunshine streamed thru the trees, filling the air with a spider-web glow of light – ; The bog is like an enchanted place. The very moss one walks on has an eerie quality – Soft and spongey, and seeming to be too fragile to hold one up, it nevertheless does. By stamping I could make the “ground” shake in all directions for almost 15 or 20 feet. On the south edge, in the shade of some pine trees, I found the remnants of an early snow-fall.; Going back to the car (with the sun at my back just “kissing” the distant blue horizon) I felt at peace with god and man. I seemed like the prodigal son.; ; ; ; ______________________; On the 15th Norman More out to seek my advice “as to dealers” – what he really wanted, but had the grace not to ask, was a letter of introduction I suspect, to some dealer.