Harold thought the Wimple-Dimple Dimmer-Wimmer was an excellent piece of machinery.
“Hey,” Harold said, “that’s a Wimple-Dimple Dimmer-Wimmer.”
“Is that a bug?” Harold’s mother asked, whirling around in alarm.
“What?” Harold asked.
“Is it a bug?” Harold’s mother repeated, crossing her arms and hunching up her shoulders the way you do when you think there might be a really big bug nearby.
“No, it’s a Wimple-Dimple…Dimmer…Wimmer,” Harold said, slowing down. Why did she think it was a bug? It was right there, right there, a Wimple-Dimple Dimmer-Wimmer, plain as day. ￼
“Harold, please don’t go playing in that pile of junk. You’ll get hurt,” Harold’s mother told him.
“It’s not junk, it’s a W…I will not get hurt!”
“It is junk. Just like everything else in this garage. We’ll have to clean it out before we can put the car in here.”
Harold thought, I don’t see any junk, but didn’t say it out loud because he knew his mother saw only junk.
Just then Harold’s father came into the garage with a box.
“Oh,” he said.
“‘Oh,’ indeed,” Harold’s mother said. “We’ll have to clean everything out before we can put the car in here. Well, back to the moving truck,” she said with a sigh.
Harold’s father looked around. “Cool stuff,” was all he said.