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The little iron Soilder;
or, what Aminadab Ivison dreamed about.
Aminadab Ivison started up in his bed. The great clock at the head of the staircase, an old and respected heirloom of the family, struck one.‘Ah,’ said he, heaving up a great sigh from the depths of his inner man, ‘I've had a tried time of it.’
‘And so have I,’ said the wife. ‘Thee's been kicking and threshing about all night. I do wonder what ails thee.’
And well she might; for her husband, a well-to-do, portly, middle-aged gentleman, being blessed with an easy conscience, a genial temper, and a comfortable digestion, was able to bear a great deal of sleep, and seldom varied a note in the gamut of his snore from one year's end to another.
‘A very remarkable exercise,’ soliloquized Aminadab; ‘very.’
‘Dear me! what was it?’ inquired his wife.
‘It must have been a dream,’ said Aminadab.
‘Oh, is that all?’ returned the good woman. ‘I'm glad it's nothing worse. But what has thee been dreaming about?’
‘It's the strangest thing, Hannah, that thee ever heard of,’ said Aminadab, settling himself
