"Yes," she said in her high, chronically irritable voice, "let's get
along with it. I want to see what that horn-shaped contraption can do.
Looks to me like nothin' so much's an old fashioned phonygraph."
"It's far more wonderful than any phonograph," the doctor told her
good-naturedly. Then turning to Bob, directed: "Let her go, Bob.
It's just time to catch that concert in Pittsburgh."
Bob obeyed, and then the fun began. For an hour that seemed only a
minute in length all listened to a concert of exquisite music both
vocal and instrumental, a concert given by some of the world's great
artists and plucked from the air for their benefit.
Once Aunty Bixby dropped her trumpet and was heard to murmur something
like "drat the thing!" But Jimmy gruntingly got down on his knees
and retrieved the instrument from its hiding place under a chair.
Then, finding she had missed part of a violin selection, the old
woman exclaimed irritably.
"There, I missed that. Have them play it over again!"
The boys looked at each other, then looked suddenly away, trying
their best to control the corners of their mouths.
However, when the concert was over and the last soprano solo, flowing
so truly through the horn-shaped amplifier, died away into silence
they saw that Aunty Bixby's bright old eyes were wet.
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