Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

the stair, and stepped out of the door.; One of the pleasures of dreams, tho [sic] it happens not very often, is returning to scenes experienced in previous dreams. So it was now. I have been in this settlement of new homes before. It is before evening, the light from the south, and the new homes gleam brightly against damp woods and sky to the north.; As I walked out into a sort of square between two streets, I thought I heard my name called. Turning I caught sight of Geo. Shakespeare, one of the painters at the Birge Co. with him own, he motioned to me to come over. He told me, as I came up, he wanted me to see his garden. (I thought he was retired, and tended his garden as a hobby.) Thru a little gate made of lath, we entered into the garden, and it was like going into fairyland.; Every flower in the garden was white – first in order came huge sunflowers – the leaves and stalks pale gray green, the flowers with pale greenish white disks, surrounded by large, ambling luxuriant rays or petals, a waxy swan white next in order came gigantic white carnations – they had just been watered, and the cool dampeners resulting was filled with their powerful scent – nest came some white gladiolas, which Shakespeare said were his special pride – “Crescent Moon Gladiolas” he called them, and on closer examinations, I saw the reason for his