Dr. Herbert Benjamin
“Well, there are the Purple Pickle Pickers, for
example,” said Poppa Pickle, “and a pack of other
perils.”
Henry was not impressed.
Momma pickle wiped her hands in her apron and
looked worried. “Don’t you like it here in your nice salty
sour home?” she asked. “I don’t know what’s got into
you! Why, just look out there! There isn’t a drop of salt
water or vinegar anywhere! You’d dry out!” Momma
Pickle frowned.
“Why don’t you just go down to the other end of
the shelf and play quietly with the sugar,” she said. “Any
time you want to be a sweet-and-sour pickle, that’s all
right with us. But to go away into the outer world. . . No!
I put my foot down when it comes to that!”
Henry looked down at the sugar bowl at the other
end of the shelf. “I’m tired of playing in the sugar,” he
said. “I don’t want to be a sweet-and-sour pickle today. I
want to see the world.”
“Have you any idea what the world is like?” asked
Momma Pickle.
“Yes,” said Henry, and all the little pickles rose up
out of the vinegar in amazement.
“Who told you?” asked Momma Pickle.
“A fly,” said Henry.
“What did he say?” asked Momma Pickle, peering
through her glasses.
“He said there’s a big pail of ice cream on the table
in the other room. I’d like to go explore the ice cream.”
Momma Pickle shuddered.
5
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