A beautifully random brass whistle‑ish instrument from my grandmother’s stash — complete with the B&S Toronto beaver stamp, which I’m choosing to believe is official proof it once belonged to a very polite Canadian. It’s got six finger holes, a decorative engraving, and the kind of patina that only comes from decades of being moved from drawer to drawer without explanation. It might be a fife, it might be a whistle, it might be something she used to summon children from the garden — honestly, the mystery is half the charm. Whatever it is, it’s old, it’s characterful, and it looks like it should be displayed next to a stack of sepia photographs and a tin of buttons. Benji inspected it, decided it doesn’t make food noises, and lost interest immediately.
