Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

Take the Otto Cattaraugus road. Stop by a stream. The first feeling of the beauty of the day—a songsparrow and a noisy stream—Thousands of small water-rounded rocks. They give me the same agonizing feeling that “wild sweet-peas” and “dried bean-pods” evoke. At Cattaraugus I parked by the rail-road and walked northward a bit on the it, but turn back as nothing interesting turns up.North and toward Gowanda on Route 18—Stop by a wooded hollow to eat my lunch. The brook—hepaticas—dappled clouds dim the sun’s light.Thru Gowanda and east on the Zoar Valley Road. When I reached the country where I painted the “Snow Remnants” I realized my quest was at an end. Here I would spend the day. Almost at once I found the subject I wanted in the huge wood extending along the north side of the road. I was soon at work, and did not stop until after six. A short exploration southbound, then after getting two baskets of rotten hemlock wood, I drove out to the brow of the plateau facing westbound to eat my evening lunch. The sun had set, and great vague fan-shaped streamers of mist were spreading upward from the S.W. foreboding a rainy tomorrow. The calls of spring-peepers from all sides. A great loneliness which was almost unbearable. I left for home at last dusk.When I got home B had gone to bed, but got up see my picture. She and C liked it very much. The Boston Symphony on. They played Strauss’ “Also Sprach Zarathustra”—it had moments of ravishing beauty, and long passages of dull material, and also moments of in—