Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, Vol. 37, December 2, 1928

     Already it is definitely December. Yesterday morning it was still November — fine cold misty rain out of the southwest void of gray sky, heavy oppressive pall over the earth, a feeling of something terrible about to happen. — but as the day wore on, with little wind a penetrating cold developed till by dark, snow-flurries were falling and the gnawing chill of black December filled the air.
     I regret the passing of November. November is one of the great seasons of the year. A few nights ago Frank & I were talking seasons out in front of the house, and I remarked that my three favorite months were March, August & November. As it happened they were his. Later I tried to couple other months together in like manner that both the same relation to their seasons as these three months. I should have four groups of three each, but it did not work out so. One trio I managed December, June & October – January & July went together, leaving February, April, May & September as singles.
Charles E. Burchfield, December 2, 1928