Now, he said to me in this letter, “I had a dream, I repeated the dream, and then I had a third dream all on the same night.” So the first and the second were simply the same dream repeating. “I do not bring back the details,” said he, “of the dream, but it was all about in detail, strangely enough, about my birthday. I cannot recall all the things that happened, I only know here stood a man in a white robe with a book in his hand open in the middle. It was gilt edged and he had a quill in his hand, or it could have been a scythe. He looked almost like a cartoonist’s concept of Father Time, and he was insistent that my birthday was a certain day. I was equally forceful in stating it was not, because I knew my birthday to be the 19th of September, 1927, and he was insisting over my protest pointing all the things out in the book. Then I woke, in spite of his insistence and my protest, for I knew my birthday. At least that was my physical birthday.”867 ¶5