Learn about Stories of the angels :
THE story of my dream was as follows. I had been sitting in my room one Sunday afternoon in the summer, and had read the parable of the Sower. After reading it I lay back in my chair and thought in a sort of idle way about what it meant, and my memory kept on saying to me over and over again, “The reapers are the angels,” and then I must have fallen asleep and dreamed. I found myself sitting on a bare, brown side of a mountain in the Holy Land, beneath the vivid blue sky of a Syrian afternoon. Close by me was a little company of men resting in various attitudes upon the ground and they seemed to be grouped more or less round a man who looked exactly the same as they did, but who evidently was felt by them to be a sort of leader or teacher. From their dress and appearance they were all of them, except perhaps one or two, Galilean peasants. Their rather rough manner and the peculiar pronunciation of their words proved this. I was sitting quite close to them, but they evidently either could not see me, or did not notice me, except that before my dream was over the one who was their leade turned and gazed at me with a thoughtful look as if he were reading my heart and mind. For quite a while nothing was said by anyone, and all watched a crowd of people who were scattered up and down the side of the mountain. Some of them were hurrying, and some were sauntering, but all were going away, and the bright colors of their Eastern costumes as they moved in different directions made in conjunction with the even brighter colors of the wild flowers a dazzling picture over which in places lay the early shadows of evening.