It was a little stream, but it fills so much of my memory with its regular recurrence of autumnal floods, that I can have no confidence that one of these is in reality the oldest thing I remember.

Indeed, I have a suspicion that my oldest memories are of dreams,--where or when dreamed, the good One who made me only knows.
They are very vague to me now, but were almost all made up of bright things.

One only I can recall, and it I will relate, or more properly describe, for there was hardly anything done in it.

I dreamed it often.

It was of the room I slept in, only it was narrower in the dream, and loftier, and the window was gone.