DREAMLAND. THE WAKING SOUL Larry lay under the trees upon the soft, green grass, with his hat tilted far forward over his eyes and his grimy hands clasped together beneath his head, wishing with all his might first one thing and then another, but always that it was not so warm. When the children had gone to school in the morning, they had seen Larry's figure, as they passed along the street,... more...

The most extraordinary dream I ever had was one in which I fancied that, as I was going into a theater, the cloak-room attendant stopped me in the lobby and insisted on my leaving my legs behind me. I was not surprised; indeed, my acquaintanceship with theater harpies would prevent my feeling any surprise at such a demand, even in my waking moments; but I was, I must honestly confess, considerably... more...

I. THE LOST JOY. All day, where the sunlight played on the sea-shore, Life sat. All day the soft wind played with her hair, and the young, young face looked out across the water. She was waiting—she was waiting; but she could not tell for what. All day the waves ran up and up on the sand, and ran back again, and the pink shells rolled. Life sat waiting; all day, with the sunlight in her eyes, she sat... more...

Before the dawn of history mankind was engaged in the study of dreaming. The wise man among the ancients was preëminently the interpreter of dreams. The ability to interpret successfully or plausibly was the quickest road to royal favor, as Joseph and Daniel found it to be; failure to give satisfaction in this respect led to banishment from court or death. When a scholar laboriously translates a... more...

STRIKE HANDS, YOUNG MEN!    Strike hands, young men!We know not whenDeath or disaster comes,Mightier than battle-drumsTo summon us away.Death bids us say farewellTo all we love, nor stayFor tears;—and who can tellHow soon misfortune's handMay smite us where we stand,Dragging us down, aloof,Under the swift world's hoof?    Strike hands for faith, and powerTo gladden the passing hour;To... more...

The chronicles which I am about to present to the reader are not the result of any conscious effort of the imagination. They are, as the title-page indicates, records of dreams, occurring at intervals during the last ten years, and transcribed, pretty nearly in the order of their occurrence, from my Diary. Written down as soon as possible after awaking from the slumber during which they presented... more...

PROEM "SO LET THEM PASS, THESE SONGS OF MINE"   So let them pass, these songs of mine,  Into oblivion, nor repine;  Abandoned ruins of large schemes,  Dimmed lights adrift from nobler dreams,   Weak wings I sped on quests divine,  So let them pass, these songs of mine.  They soar, or sink ephemeral—  I care not greatly which befall!   For if no song I e'er had... more...

DREAMTHORP It matters not to relate how or when I became a denizen of Dreamthorp; it will be sufficient to say that I am not a born native, but that I came to reside in it a good while ago now. The several towns and villages in which, in my time, I have pitched a tent did not please, for one obscure reason or another; this one was too large, t'other too small; but when, on a summer evening about... more...

CHAPTER I. DESCRIPTION OF HEAD-DRESSES. Fig. 1 is a front view of a head-dress of Lady Arderne, (who died about the middle of the fifteenth century.) The caul of the head-dress is richly embroidered, the veil above being supported by wires, in the shape of a heart, with double lappets behind the head, which are sometimes transparent, as if made of gauze. Such gauze veils, or rather coverings for the... more...

DRESSED GAME AND POULTRY À LA MODE. Blackbird Pie. Stuff the birds with the crumb of a French roll soaked in a little milk, which put in a stewpan with 1-1/2 ounces of butter, a chopped shalot, some parsley, pepper, salt, a grate of nutmeg, and the yolks of two small eggs. Stir over the fire till it becomes a thick paste, and fill the insides of the birds with it. Line the bottom of the pie-dish with... more...