Then I yelled. I grabbed her in both arms and danced around the
conservatory like a plumb fool. Then we both ran back and leaned over
the box, and raved. There were half a dozen little greenish-white
stalks sticking out, each top curved over like a dear little ingrowing
nail.
"Aren't they cute!" exclaimed my wife.
"Cute!" I said, in disgust. "Why, my dear, they're not cute--they're
wonderful!"
I pushed the window up a little to give them air. My wife caught my arm
excitedly and pulled it down again.
"You mustn't do that," she said; "you'll freeze the sprouts!"
"Sprouts," I said, "come on potatoes, onions, cabbages, and beets. These
are not sprouts; they are bulbs!"
She said not a word, but got a book and showed me a picture of a
bulb--a tulip bulb.
"That," she said, "is a bulb. These are sprouts."
If there's anything that makes home unhappy, it's that atmosphere of
superiority in a woman. I tried to point out to her that she couldn't
believe everything she saw in a book.
"History," I said, "is continually changing. That may have been a bulb
at the time of publication, but----"
It was no use. I had to give in. She had the dots on Uncle Henry for
sure, but you've got to give it to me--you've just got to. How was this
one? Listen:
"Of course they're sprouts. I knew they were sprouts all the time. I was
just trying to catch you."