One day, when Pooh was walking towards this bridge, he was trying to make up a piece of poetry about fir-cones, because there they were, lying about on each side of him, and he felt singy. So he picked a fir-cone up, and looked at it, and said to himself, “This is a very good fir-cone, and something ought to rhyme to it.” But he couldn’t think of anything. And then this came into his head suddenly: