Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, December 12, 1934

A dream:

I had been invited to an unusual party. The guest had been picked from all walks of life, all professions (legitimate or otherwise, for there was a notorious gangster present). It was understood that neither by direct reference nor implication were we to mention anything of our calling or of our families. To be accepted in this company, we all had to meet on one common ground and be proficient at it – to wit: we were to be witty and entertaining.

I was very anxious to qualify, and it seemed that I did, tho I can remember nothing of our conversation. As the evening went on, our hostess, who was a smallish middle-aged woman, very urbane, sophisticated, and gracious, came to me and asked me how I liked the company and the whole idea. I praised both enthusiastically.

About this time, the gangster, who was a vile-looking person and filled me with dread, made a joking remark about picking the pocket of a wealthy young man present. We all realized that he had broken the rules by referring to his vocation, and ­it seemed to be the signal for the party to break up. Besides, we all felt that he was really not joking.

We were supposed to sleep there the night and have breakfast together in the morning before dispersing until the next year's meeting. Cards were passed out with the numbers of our rooms on them, and we were told to keep our numbers secret. Mine was no. 8. A servant, a tall boarding-house sort of housekeeper woman came to lead me to my room – it turned out to be in a smaller house, separate from the main one. When she made sure that everything was in order in my room, she warned me to lock my door and, bidding me goodnight, left.

A soft cool breeze was stirring the curtains at a south window. I went and sat by it a moment. It was very quiet except for the calls of katydids. Without undressing, I lay down on the bed, and oddly enough, just as I was becoming drowsy, I awoke.