"It's just like mahogany!" enthusiastically cried Mary, "ain't it. Miss
Gray?"
"Not quite, dear," mildly said Rachel, who was truth itself, "but it looks very nice. But, Mr. Jones," she added, in a low timid voice, "why did you tell the man it was firewood, when you meant it as a counter?"
Jones wagged his head, winked, and touching his nose with his right hand forefinger, he whispered knowingly: "That was business, Miss Gray, and in business, you know—hem!"
"But the Teapot, father," cried Mary, "where's the Teapot?"
"Why, here's the Tea-pot," exclaimed Jones, suddenly producing this masterpiece of art, and holding it up aloft to the gaze of the beholders.
Such a Teapot had never been seen before, and, most probably, will never be seen again, to the end of time. Its shape we will not, because we cannot describe. It confounded Rachel, and startled even Mrs. Gray. She coughed, and looked at it dubiously.
"Where's the lid?" she said.
"Why, here's the lid; but it don't take off, you know."
"Oh! I see. And that's the handle."
"The handle! bless you, Mrs. Gray, it's the spout."