"She really does quite well," my father said one night. "It almost sounds like a tune. Is it 'Yankee Doodle,' or 'Old Dog Tray'?"
"Neither!" my mother cried, warmly. "I don't know exactly what it is myself, but it is probably something classic. And she is doing it beautifully!"
"It is 'Yankee Doodle,' mother," I said, in a whisper.
She did not hear me. She was looking at the piano with sad eyes.
"They have taken an awful lot out of it," she said. "It was the first thing that we bought after we were married!"
"Was it?" my father inquired, briskly. "I thought we bought the coffee-pot first. Didn't we fry eggs in the coffee-pot?"
My mother gave him a startled glance.
"We did fry eggs in a coffee-pot," she admitted, reluctantly. "At least you fried them. I did not know how."
"Somehow eggs don't taste as good now-a-days as those did," my father said, musingly. "I wonder if it was the coffee-pot."