So they got down off the gate and went round to the other side of the wood to fetch the sticks.
Christopher Robin had spent the morning indoors going to Africa and back, and he had just got off the boat and was wondering what it was like outside, when who should come knocking at the door but Eeyore.
“Hallo, Eeyore,” said Christopher Robin, as he opened the door and came out. “How are you ?”
“It’s snowing still,” said Eeyore gloomily.
“So it is.”
“ And freezing.”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” said Eeyore. “However,” he said, brightening up a little, “we haven’t had an earthquake lately.”
“What’s the matter, Eeyore?”
“Nothing, Christopher Robin. Nothing important. I suppose you haven’t seen a house or whatnot anywhere about?”
“What sort of a house?”
“Just a house.”
“Who lives there?”
“I do. At least I thought I did. But I suppose I don’t. After all, we can’t all have houses.”
“But, Eeyore, I didn’t know—I always thought—”
“I don’t know how it is, Christopher Robin, but what with all this snow and one thing and another, not to mention icicles and suchlike, it isn’t so Hot in my field about three o’clock in the morning as some people think it is. It isn’t Close, if you know what I mean—not so as to be uncomfortable. It isn’t Stuffy. In fact, Christopher Robin,” he went on in a loud whisper, “quite-between-ourselves-and-don’t-tell-anybody, it’s Cold.”