Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

point only narrow tracks thru snow. ; Dale-its Baptist church-old house; Lunch near a crossroad east of here. The rain, threatening all morning sets in, in earnest. It is pleasant eating in the cosy [sic] security of the car, listening to the drumming of ran on the car-top, and looking out over the misty, snow-patterned landscape. ; After lunch, for short walk eastwards – in memory, the road went up over a rise of ground, and it seems like the brink of vast unknown land to the east- land of eastern spring-time. A large, old Victorian house, surrounded by trees. ; Back, and drive southwards. At a Y in the road, I came upon a deserved house, which had a veranda running around two sides of it. Here, on this perch, I determined to make a sketch of something no matter what. ; On closer view, it became obvious that the building was not a house, but more like a public place, a sort of tea-room. The porch pillars were Corinthian in style, carved wood; the main part of the structure was given over to a huge “living room”, with large, French doors opening out onto the porch, having round tops. The pillars fascinated me; and I determined to make a sketch bringing one or several of them in somehow. ; While I was looking around, a young woman emerged from a house across the road, carrying home bundles or shopping bags. She asked me if I was looking for something; and so I asked her something of the history of the place. She called it a “museum”, but