Ere long oblivion brooded over the late hilarious crew, who lay down like bundles of hair in their festal garments, and the northern lights threw a flickering radiance over a scene of profound quietude and peace.
Chapter Thirteen.
Mischief Hatching.
At early dawn next morning Ippegoo was awakened from a most refreshing slumber by a gentle shake of the shoulder.
“Oh! not yet, mother,” groaned the youth in the drowsiest of accents; “I’ve only just begun to sleep.”
He turned slowly on the other side, and tried to continue his repose, but another shake disturbed him, and a deep voice said, “Awake; arise, sleepy one.”
“Mother,” he murmured, still half asleep, “you have got the throat s–sickness v–v–very bad,” (referring to what we would style a cold).
A grim smile played for a moment on the visage of the wizard, as he gave the youth a most unmotherly shake, and said, “Yes, my son, I am very sick, and want you to cure me.”