Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, May 27, 1914

Yesterday while standing under our cherry tree, delighting in the breeze, which was cleaning up after a small thundershower, a humming-bird - a delicate mite of a thing dropped down out of the wind and with that remarkable ease of poise and balance, pro­ceeded to sip the honey from the columbine. At once I uncon­sciously began to philosiphize on the incident. My first thought was - what a delightful life-work was his - to merely sip honey from flowers. And second thought was: were allowed to sip nothing but honey would not its sweetness which we prize, eventually become sour and as gall to us?  Coming to my senses however I exclaimed as if in rebuke to my own thought. “But why spoil such a pretty scene with such aimless eulogizing.” And indeed why? What a scene painted  - but could it be painted?

And that brings me to my ever present dilemma: which do I love most painting or writing? At school this winter more or less shut indoors by the weather painting seemed to be my highest form of expression and yet - with the first call of a red-bird came the first doubt. His notes were as vital to me as the most subtle coloring in the sky; the manner in which he trilled or repeated his refrain as vital as the most rhythmical design, and if painter how record it? I might paint a setting for him identical with the season of the year when I would first hear him and paint him perched on a branch with his head lifted and throat swelled and title it “The Song of the Cardinal.” But would it be? As well might I execute a wonderful complicated design and called it a Music Drama from Wagner. It would give as much as it was intended.

Charles Burchfield, May 27, 1914