tootle

Grandfather Tootle, the bassoon, spends his time in dozing: all you can hear from him is an occasional snore.

Mrs. Tootle, the flute, is of a romantic turn of mind, doting on moonlight and warbling birds and babbling brooks.

Mr Tootle is so far figurative, touching the dismemberment, as that he means the boat, and not the man.

But they never tootle now, and never sing, and when they speak, their tongue is that of the unmusical barbarians.

A man who lets his sword rust at home while he goes about tootle-de-rooling on a flute!