A reed of grass placed between thumbs. I had to learn to call pheseants before I would be allowed to use my brother's bugle, or so I was told by "Little Bill". After that, I was relegated to "fist trumpet" while trying to work up to the bugle. But, with perseverence, I mastered it. Even then, I was allowed only the mouth piece until proficient with it. However, all was lost when, one Sunday morning early, I let loose a call for infantry charge that apparently brought back some sour memories for dear old Dad... and sour memories for my backside !

I haven't plyed the bugle for thirty years... my ass is still sore !