I have often dreamed complete tales, and, oddly enough, the scene of my tale-dream is, more often than not, in Hyde Park. I append the following by way of illustration. I dreamed it was a wet night, and that I saw, sitting alone on a seat in Hyde Park, with the rain falling mercilessly on her head and shoulders, and forming a large puddle in her lap, a woman — a silent, white-faced woman, that might well have passed for a corpse, or for a typical phantasm of the dead. I was so struck with the sight that I involuntarily stopped, and, advancing towards her, enquired if she were ill.The sound of my voice made her start, and, shaking the water from her dress with a dull, mechanical movement, she said reproachfully, ”Why can’t folks let me alone? You are the third who has spoken to me within the…

I can fly. To substantiate my statement, I then climb on to the table or chair, spring off, and, with both feet together, rise to the ceiling, much to my own gratification and the edification of my audience.Bitter, indeed, is my chagrin when I awake and discover that I am as far off flying as ever. Again, many is the time I have dreamed I have been in a huge, empty house, pursued by some grotesque monstrosity that, after chasing me up endless staircases and along the most blood-curdling corridors, has at length cornered me in a gloomy top attic. All seems hopeless, and I am expecting to be caught every second, when, just as the dreadful creature bounds into the room, I leap on to the window-sill and, with a prodigious bound, spring into space. And then, joy of joys, instead of falling, I find I can fly —…