D., entered the
dining-room. "I am mighty glad you've come. I've wanted for a long time
to ask you about this music cure that everybody is talking about and get
you if possible to write me out a list of musical nostrums for every day
use. I noticed last night before going to bed that my medicine chest was
about run out. There's nothing but one quinine pill and a soda-mint drop
in it, and if there's anything in the music cure I don't think I'll have
it filled again. I prefer Wagner to squills, and compared to the
delights of Mozart, Hayden and Offenbach those of paregoric are nit."
"Still rambling, eh?" vouchsafed the Doctor. "You ought to submit your
tongue to some scientific student of dynamics. I am inclined to think,
from my own observation of its ways, that it contains the germ of
perpetual motion."
"I will consider your suggestion," replied the Idiot. "Meanwhile, let us
consult harmoniously together on the original point. Is there anything
in this music cure, and is it true that our Medical Schools are
hereafter to have conservatories attached to them in which aspiring
young M.
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