"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."