The sun
shone into the window at a pretty well opened angle when the Colonel
first found himself sufficiently awake to address his yet slumbering
spouse.
"Sally!" said the Colonel, in a voice that was a little husky,--for he
had finished off the evening with an extra glass or two of "Madary,"
and had a somewhat rusty and headachy sense of renewed existence, on
greeting the rather advanced dawn,--"Sally!"
"Take care o' them custard-cups! There they go!"
Poor Mrs. Sprowle was fighting the party over in her dream; and as the
visionary custard-cups crashed down through one lobe of her brain into
another, she gave a start as if an inch of lightning from a quart
Leyden jar had jumped into one of her knuckles with its sudden and
lively _poonk_!
"Sally!" said the Colonel,--"wake up, wake up! What 'r' y' dreamin'
abaout?"
Mrs. Sprowle raised herself, by a sort of spasm, _sur son seant_, as
they say in France,--up on end, as we have it in New England. She
looked first to the left, then to the right, then straight before her,
apparently without seeing anything, and at last slowly settled down,
with her two eyes, blank of any particular meaning, directed upon the
Colonel.
"What time is't?" she said.
"Ten o'clock. What 'y' been dreamin' abaout? Y' giv a jump like a
hoppergrass.
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