As told by Maureen
Peterjon Thomas sometimes comes out to visit me as I weed the flowers in the perennial bed in front of my house. He makes his home under the large grey rock that sits in the middle of the Globe Thistles. His front door looks like no more than a gopher hole in the ground. But once I stuck a little dental mirror into the hole ‑ you know the kind I mean, with the mirror at an angle ? ‑ and just 3 " down the tunnel turned. Past the turn was a beautiful copper door with a stained glass window in it and an elegant brass ring for a doorknob. The door was shut and I didn't have the nerve to intrude further, but what I did see of the door verified what Gertrude Gretchen told me about Peterjon Thomas being the fanciest PIP she had ever met.
I've never seen him without his little coat and neatly buttoned cuffs. And there's never any dirt or stains on his top‑stitched vest. He's reputed to be an excellent tailor, which explains why the other PIPS are frequently seen carrying bundles of cloth into my garden. ( I occasionally leave little scraps of cloth from my dollmaking in places where I think Peterjon Thomas will find them. Being independent and stubborn I know he would refuse them if he even thought I was suggesting that he use these pieces.)
While I pull the quack grass and purslane from around the Iris, Peterjon and I chat about the people whom I meet in my doll‑making classes. More than any of the other Pips, Peterjon has a curiosity about humans. I find that most doll makers are interesting and creative people who like to talk, so I usually have lots of stories to tell him. He especially likes to hear stories of their childhood, both the good and the bad memories. Apparently Pips don't have families like humans do, because Peterjon laughs uproariously at some things that seem quite normal to me.
It's not clear to me where Pippsywoggins come from, though I suspect that it has something to do with butterflies. There are always a lot of butterflies around just before a new Pip comes into the community. For some reason Peterjon has never told me any of his childhood stories. Perhaps he will tell them to you.© 1993, 2006 by Maureen Carlson
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