A waking man who dreamt marvellously about a fantastical world saw how terrible the earth truly is.

And now, here, the dying light of his soul waits dreaming again.

He was, indeed, a child; a child to whom knew not who his family was, and who knew not who nursed him; for he lived atop a cold mountain in a small, sad cabin of oak wood. He can only cry, for his family--he thinks--died long ago. But here was he dreaming beautifully about a perfect world.

Thenceforward, we must begin the tale at the beginning of his dream; in the fantastically sloping trees, where the hills run wild, and where the howling of daemons stay unheard, where land is untouched by man, he dreams of a small family, articulate and happy.

This--methink--was he thinking of what it may have been like if he had a family. He also dreamt he had a brother and sister, both elder than him indeed. And in this happy land, there appears, from under a bridge, a small, cute dog.

They named him Charlie, and he lived with them for a long time.

He then dreamt of having a family of his own. His wife gave birth to one child, to whom went by the name Albert, and who was intelligent and good-looking.

Here his dream finally becomes more realistic, and this is probably to be account for his assumption that his family is dead, for here his child dies. I know not how this happened. Then, from grief, his wife kills herself!

Now, at the end of his sadness, he scarcely muttered something I could not fathom, and then, walked out the door. He walked all the way to a pond, and lay now dead.

And when he woke up, the sad feeling in his body had strengthened! As here, when he walked out the door, he saw how terrible the land was! Rotting, sad, and dreary, with no signs of life, and with dismally burnt trees and ponds of blood.

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