At various times I seemed to be trying to reason out physiological questions -- with no success however. I have no idea why I suddenly found myself tossing in a canoe on a pale green sea, but this was my experience. The atmosphere was yellow and so were the sails of some large vessels, which scudded past. I remarked particularly that one was a hermaphrodite brig and one a barkentine. My canoe finally slid away of itself and I landed on our own stone wall -- Turner St. being a sort of Venetian canal. I was enclosing my favorite confection in frail little boxes (made of burdocks, I think) and packing these away tier on tier in a large drawer. I finished my work and went away, returning presently to find that the chocolate had all melted, the boxes had gone to pieces and the contents of the drawer were a mottled, semi-fluid mass. By and by my father appeared and talked about war relics. He especially lamented that he had not brought home any muscles. He said these souvenirs were very expensive, but one John Billings had a collection of fifty. There was a football game in Copley Square. I scored a touchdown for Tech by carrying the ball up the steps of the Public Library. Anon, a great band like Sousa's, was about to play. I held my breath for the opening crash, but instead the woodwind began to play sweetly and softly the tender chords of the accompaniment to "Comfort ye my people." About the third measure I woke up -- tried to go to sleep and hear more -- but the thread was broken.