"I will not," I said. "I will just scrape an inch of dirt off the top!"
When it comes to inventing labor-saving devices, I'm a mental gatling.
Nothing happened to those nasturtium seeds for five days. On the morning of the fifth day I heard a scream from my wife and rushed downstairs, to find her leaning over the nasturtium box.
"Oooooeeee! Lookee!" she shrieked.
I looked.
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!"