The rain passed over, and each one of the group
convereged at the top of the hill
with the pumpkin on top, smelling like soup
which was making them green at the gills

Each one looked around, and was thus introduced
to the new members and friends
even though they were wary of the dragon (but who
wouldn't be, if they had any sense?)

Percival Pink turned a bit red at the cheeks
when somebody mentioned his name,
and the Painter looked thoughtfully mind and meek
as he pondered his future of fame.

The Piglet yawned and leaned on his friend,
the affable knitting-friend Please
and the Pirate looked bored as he drowsily said,
"Can somebody pass round the cheese?"

Of course there was none, and so they looked round again
at every face in the group
and realized with a gasp and "Ahem!"
the the Pickler must have flown the coop.

"Where is he, our captain, our adventurer brave?"
each one of the party cried out,
"Surely he's not an abandoning knave,
but perhaps he's still wand'ring about?"

"No, no!" said the Pilot, rubbing his nose
which was quickly turning quite blue
"He's gotten all lost, stopping smelling a rose!
Yes, he's gotten all lost and confused!"

"Pshaw!" squeaked the Piglet, and tightened his shawl
around his little pink form
"I think he's gotten lost in the woods,
and is making a fire for warmth."

"I doubt it," the Pirate said, flipping a coin
even though the sides were both tails,
"I think he's sailing away on the sea
'cos he's found him a ship rigged with sails."

Percival snorted, and a smoke ring appeared
which caused everyone to step back
"I'M SORRY," he bellowed, turning red at the ears,
"I SURE DIDN'T MEAN TO DO THAT."

"Indeed you did not," the Politician said,
puffing himself proudly out
and he went on to explain the law, which he said
he would know even upside-in-out.

"Enough of this chatter!" exclaimed poor Please,
who was looking uncommonly pale,
"All this talk about sense is making me want to sneeze,
a sneeze the size of a whale!"

They all quieted down at the sound of his words,
which were louder than he usually spoke,
and the Pumpkin-grower said, in a voice like whey-curds
"Well, then, how shall we look for this bloke?"

But he needn't have asked, for just at that time,
over the hill Pickler came
and they all sat there, as silent as mimes,
until one of them called out his name.

"Hullo, my dear friends!" the Pickler cried,
just the way he had the first time
they'd all stood on the hill, and all of them sighed
remembering fondly the rhyme.

"I've come back for you all," he added in haste,
and they saw a gleam in his eye
which meant one of two things: one, he'd just had a taste
of koshers dipped in rye...

Or, two: that he'd just thought up a grand plan
involving the next daring quest,
and all of them hoped it was the second one, and
that this plan would be one of his best.

"You see," he went on, the gleam clearly there,
"I've had the most wonderful day--"
But alas, there he stopped, and refused to share
any details, his mouth sealed as with clay.

They prodded and pried, they poked and they pinched
they tried a zillion more ways
to get him to tell, but even tickled and tinched,
the Pickler kept secret his day.

He kept to himself all the things that he'd seen,
all the things done and heard, also felt
but the thoughts and memories of it were keen
and wrapped around him like a skunk-pelt.

And all through his life he would harbor them there,
locked away in his heart, ripe with age:
the one secret of his perfect day fair
and his rainy, mysterious day.