Cecily had a packet of visiting cards which she was hoarding against the day when she would be grown up and could put the calling etiquette of the Family Guide into practice ; but she generously gave us all one apiece for the covers of our dream books . As I turn the pages and glance over the na&iuml;ve records , each one beginning , `` Last night I dreamed , '' the past comes very vividly back to me . I see that bowery orchard , shining in memory with a soft glow of beauty -- `` the light that never was on land or sea , '' -- where we sat on those September evenings and wrote down our dreams , when the cares of the day were over and there was nothing to interfere with the pleasing throes of composition . Peter -- Dan -- Felix -- Cecily -- Felicity -- Sara Ray -- the Story Girl -- they are all around me once more , in the sweet-scented , fading grasses , each with open dream books and pencil in hand , now writing busily , now staring fixedly into space in search of some elusive word or phrase which might best describe the indescribable . I hear their laughing voices , I see their bright , unclouded eyes . In this little , old book , filled with cramped , boyish writing , there is a spell of white magic that sets the years at naught . Beverley King is a boy once more , writing down his dreams in the old King orchard on the homestead hill , blown over by musky winds . Opposite to him sits the Story Girl , with her scarlet rosetted head , her beautiful bare feet crossed before her , one slender hand propping her high , white brow , on either side of which fall her glossy curls . There , to the right , is sweet Cecily of the dear , brown eyes , with a little bloated dictionary beside her -- for you dream of so many things you ca n't spell , or be expected to spell , when you are only eleven . Next to her sits Felicity , beautiful , and conscious that she is beautiful , with hair of spun sunshine , and sea-blue eyes , and all the roses of that vanished summer abloom in her cheeks . Peter is beside her , of course , sprawled flat on his stomach among the grasses , one hand clutching his black curls , with his dream book on a small , round stone before him -- for only so can Peter compose at all , and even then he finds it hard work . He can handle a hoe more deftly than a pencil , and his spelling , even with all his frequent appeals to Cecily , is a fearful and wonderful thing . As for punctuation , he never attempts it , beyond an occasion period , jotted down whenever he happens to think of it , whether in the right place or not . The Story Girl goes over his dreams after he has written them out , and puts in the commas and semicolons , and straightens out the sentences . Felix sits on the right of the Story Girl , fat and stodgy , grimly in earnest even over dreams . He writes with his knees stuck up to form a writing-desk , and he always frowns fiercely the whole time . Dan , like Peter , writes lying down flat , but with his back towards us ; and he has a dismal habit of groaning aloud , writhing his whole body , and digging his toes into the grass , when he can not turn a sentence to suit him . Sara Ray is at his left . There is seldom anything to be said of Sara except to tell where she is . Like Tennyson 's Maud , in one respect at least , Sara is splendidly null .
Well , there we sit and write in our dream books , and Uncle Roger passes XXXXX and accuses us of being up to dev -- to very bad mischief .
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