Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, December 19, 1914

Awake at 10:00. A heavy warm-sogged snow falling. Down town and to Mullins.

P.M. to Posts and Bottoms sketching in the sluggish storm.  Ground heavily matted with solid water-soaked snow. Trees bushes and weeds aglitter with drops of melted snow. Distant woods streaked any white haze  

In the bottoms, I find a small flock of some species of sparrows. They seemed to care not a bit about the snow. One of them (I think) from the density of the swamp sent a sort of whistling warble that caused me to listen breathlessly. There was music! The idea of the bird singing in a snow-storm - or perhaps only calling, I’ll admit - was in itself a rare poem. As I felt the irresistible down-rush of the steady snow-stream and listened to the bird-sound, I felt a touch of something which has not been mine for days.

As I was stomping along Egypt Road reveling in the slush coated road a young fellow from Salem whom I knew came along in a wagon and offered me a lift. Disliking to appear uncordial I accepted but was perverse enough to hate being carried up painter Hill. Finally I had to get out and walk. Anyhow I had lived up to my obligations. Retracing my course in the road I sketched a while.

Vague darkness coming down forced me homeward. The clouds were breaking now, and became darker with sharper contrasts. The snow on the storm-sides of trees popped forth as if the trees were lit up by a strong white light. The wind was rising too and was fresher and colder. As I stood looking down into the dim Dutchman’s, the black looming sky and the startle-white landscape all impressed me as being something weird and mysterious. How I hated to leave it!

 Charles E. Burchfield, December 19, 1914