“How long have I been in this measly old barracks?” asked Mr.
Spoopendyke, turning painfully in his bed, and gazing in a vague,
half-dazed way toward a long line of antidotes on the mantel.
“About two weeks, dear,” said Mrs. Spoopendyke, coming toward him with
a bowl of gruel, and smiling pleasantly. “The doctor says you are not
likely to have another attack if you keep very quiet, and follow his
instructions.”
“Oh, he does, does he?” said Mr. Spoopendyke, making a vain effort
to sit up, and falling back with a groan. “He says I won’t have
another attack? Now, what do you suppose the dod-gasted, bald-pated
pill-roller knows about my case, anyway? Perhaps you think he could
make an Egyptian mummy dance a Highland fling, and put life into a
cigar sign. All he needs is three bulletins a day and unlimited chin
to become one of the leading physicians of the country. I suppose if I
take all that stuff up there I shall be born again, and see the next
centennial. What does that bone-sawing, blistering old ape know about
the future, anyway. How can he tell whether I will have another attack
or not? Perhaps he will tell you the name of your next husband, and
the color of his hair, for fifty cents. Perhaps he is a dod-gasted
Spiritualist. What’s that?”
“Gruel,” said Mrs. Spoopendyke.
“Gruel, always gruel,” said Mr. Spoopendyke, turning his face to
the wall. “Do you imagine I’m a Sheltering Arms and St. John’s Guild
excursion thrown into one? Why don’t you tie a bib around my neck, get
me a rubber to chew on, and put a rattle in my hand?”
“But the doctor says you must not eat solid food at pres”--
Oh, I’m not to eat solid food,” said Mr. Spoopendyke, kicking
viciously at the foot-board. “A diet of cannon-balls and scrap-iron
won’t agree with me. It won’t do for me to attempt digesting steel
rails and bridge girders. He thinks they won’t agree with me, does
he? The measly old rattle-brained powder-mixer. Here, give me that
stuff,” and Mr. Spoopendyke knocked the bowl out of his wife’s hands,
spilling the contents over the bed-clothes. “There, now I suppose you
are satisfied,” he said, squirming over toward the wall, and digging
his face in the pillow, while Mrs. Spoopendyke gathered up the pieces,
and said it was so fortunate that the bowl was only earthenware.
The following excellent satire on the current juvenile literature of
the day, was originally published in the columns of the Brooklyn Eagle: