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“My God!” Professor Clevenger said, “I think they’re getting ready to attack,” as he pointed toward the massed array of cabbages swaying back and forth in the field next to the little house, while one decrepit-looking cabbage – obviously the leader, one much older than the other cabbages, due to the wilted nature of the leaves and the slightly grayish tint of the vegetable matter around its protuberant mid-section – rolled slowly forward in an obvious challenge, it’s flayed leaves waving in the wind as a strangely ululant cry sang forth from the field in 1,000 tongues, and all this time I'm thinking, “we’re doomed, truly doomed,” and also realizing as the round forms advanced unerringly upon the house that cabbages have no tongues.
Don
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