I looked from a car window into a land which, it seems to me, I have visited before when asleep, though never when awake. There were no trees. Jagged cliffs of gray limestone rose out of smooth and rolling fields covered with short, fine grass--mostly beautifully green and as free from weeds and stones as any lawn. Above the ledges the ground was again grassy and thrown into swells and hollows of most graceful contour. Then more cliffs sprang to another level and so on, terrace above terrace. Here and there smart white buildings stood out in the powerful sunshine. "Peterboro Mountain," I announced confidently as I viewed my creation. Wandering over the green slopes, I approached a towering mass of rocks in which was an opening--a great funnel slanting down with a small glimmer of light at the end. Evidently it extended through to the other side of this rugged spur. I went in. Presently the passage tapered until I crawled, rubbing the rock and descending gradually. At length I could squeeze no further. A yard or two ahead I could see that the light which had guided me streamed into the cave from an invisible source--probably an opening--around a corner at the left. Suddenly I felt oppressed and dizzy. I climbed a rough ledge above a large and beautiful spring. There were pebbles of pink and slate color at the bottom of the clear pool. Mr. U. seemed to be up above among the bushes. I was on top of Mr. H.'s room, sitting close to the edge and dissecting some large moths, which I killed by rolling them in paper saturated in picric acid.