Mr. Huntley is of middle age, of lively temperament, pleasing manners, and is kind and sympathetic. He has been married for a number of years to a handsome and highly cultured lady, and lives with happy surroundings in a retired street in Brooklyn. Early in 1882, he was compelled, by serious illness, to cease his labors for a number of months. It is extremely difficult to determine which is his best production. The Spoopendyke sketches are all good. Here is a fair specimen of them: SPOOPENDYKE’S ILLNESS. “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: