Charles Burchfield, Journals, September 22, 1914

A fresh cool morning. A slight dew. Thin-sparkled grass.

The air is full of falling poplar leaves. The ground is covered under the trees - a yellow-mottled ground. They fall straight down in a whirling fashion. They do not twinkle sunshine as they fall. The thinning trees form a lacy screen against the sky.

Noonwards came compact whitish fire-edged thunderish clouds. This is I believe the hottest day of the year. The warmest place I believe, was at the head of Vine, which is slightly inclined just enough so that the sun’s rays strike it at perfect right angles. The fire laden rays of the sun struck the hot pavement and bounded back in sultry heat waves.

Silver maples, + white birches are becoming yellow-drenched.

The yellow-soaked silver maples are dropping their leaves. Contrary to my custom, I walked down the east side of Vine in order to walk thru the leaves under the poplars there. The odor of green decay came up from them which was intoxicating.

My perfume chest is growing larger. I have not mentioned the wonderful odor of the wild cucumber tree berries. If I were a woman my handker¬chiefs would be reminiscent of these acrid perfumes - they are stimulants to the imagination.

The hot wind rollicked over the curly livid edged clouds and helped my feet rustle the leaves.

The sky is the only cooling agency today. It is a deep resounding blue, perhaps accentuated by the blindingly white clouds.

Tho the effect of the sunset was a rich mustardy yellow, yet the air westward was full of delicate rainbow colors, that were beautiful. The air, as it has been several nights past, was full of silently twinkling blackbirds. Always at sunset; I think they must be going to some temporary rendesvous.

Saw a “night-blooming cerias' The way people flock around flowers of this sort and spurn the dandelion under their feet in truly typical of the unthinking mass. They do not know that we have hundreds, of flowers just as wonderful and beautiful. I do not wish to infer that the night-blooming cerias is not beautiful. It is beautiful, but it is not for us; the inhabitants of its native soil alone can appreciate its real beauty. To them it means a certain season of the year when it blooms. For us it only has meaningless abstract beauty. We know it is beautiful by reason of the form of its growth, by the purity of its whiteness, and because its scent is not unpleasant. We can go no farther. But who can begin to say why the buttercup is beautiful? Or the dandelion or the skunk-cabbage? The beauty of a flower does not exist in its form + scent, but in the associations it brings up; not because it tallies with certain abstract rules of beauty but because it has some subtle meaning for us.

Charles Burchfield, September 22, 1914