“I think so,” said the Lady Person, and she laughed
again. “Now go back to sleep. Sleep tight dear.” And she
went out again.
“Psst,” said Henry. “You weren’t whistling. That
was
me
, playing a pickle-concerto on my piccolo!”
Peter looked down and saw Henry. He didn’t
believe his eyes. He pulled the covers up to his chin,
quickly.
“Don’t be afraid,” said Henry. “I’m just a little old
iggly wiggly pickle taking a trip around the world. I
won’t hurt you. My name’s Henry. Glad to meet you,
Peter.”
Peter looked down. “Are you really a pickle?” he
asked.
“Yes,” said Henry, “a squiggly wiggly, happily
snappily, flippity flappity little old pickle. I’m traveling.
Do you mind if I pay you a short visit?”
“No,” said Peter. He bent over and looked down at
Henry. Peter started to pick Henry up, but Henry
slipped out of his hands.
“Sorry,” said Henry. “I’m all smeared up with
pickle polish. Makes me very squiggly and hard to get
hold of.”
“That’s okay,” said Peter. “Guess what! I just had a
dream about a pickle
just like you.
He came through the
hall and talked to the cat, and then he came in to see
me.”
“No kidding!” said Henry. “Isn’t
that
a
coincidence.”
“Did you just play a few notes that went ‘dum, dee
HENRY
THE
PICKLE
40
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