Penrod might have forgotten almost anything else more readily; for such a horn has this double compulsion: people cannot possibly keep themselves from looking at its possessor--and they certainly have GOT to listen to him! Penrod was preoccupied at dinner and during the evening, now and then causing his father some irritation by croaking, "Taw, p'taw-p'taw!" while the latter was talking.

And when bedtime came for the son of the house, he mounted the stairs in a rhythmic manner, and p'tawed himself through the upper hall as far as his own chamber.
Even after he had gone to bed, there came a revival of these manifestations.

His mother had put out his light for him and had returned to the library downstairs; three-quarters of an hour had elapsed since then, and Margaret was in her room, next to his, when a continuous low croaking (which she was just able to hear) suddenly broke out into loud, triumphal blattings: "TAW, p'taw-p'taw-aw-HAW! P'taw-WAW-aw! Aw-PAW!" "Penrod," Margaret called, "stop that! I'm trying to write letters.

If you don't quit and go to sleep, I'll call papa up, and you'll SEE!" The noise ceased, or, rather, it tapered down to a desultory faint croaking which finally died out; but there can be little doubt that Penrod's last waking thoughts were of instrumental music.

And in the morning, when he woke to face the gloomy day's scholastic tasks, something unusual and eager fawned in his face with the return of memory.