“Well, he seems so.”
Pooh was thoughtful when he heard this, and then he murmured to himself:
But whatever his weight in pounds, shillings, and ounces, He always seems bigger because of his bounces.
“And that’s the whole poem,” he said. “Do you like it, Piglet?”
“All except the shillings,” said Piglet. “I don’t think they ought to be there.”
“They wanted to come in after the pounds,” explained Pooh, “so I let them. It is the best way to write poetry, letting things come.”
“Oh, I didn’t know,” said Piglet.
Tigger had been bouncing in front of them all this time, turning round every now and then to ask, “Is this the way?”—and now at last they came in sight of Kanga’s house, and there was Christopher Robin. Tigger rushed up to him.
“Oh, there you are, Tigger!” said Christopher Robin. “I knew you’d be somewhere.”
“I’ve been finding things in the Forest,” said Tigger importantly. “I’ve found a pooh and a piglet and an eeyore, but I can’t find any breakfast.”
Pooh and Piglet came up and hugged Christopher Robin, and explained what had been happening.
“Don’t you know what Tiggers like?” asked Pooh.
“I expect if I thought very hard I should,” said Christopher Robin, “but I thought Tigger knew.”
“I do,” said Tigger. “Everything there is in the world except honey and haycorns and—what were those hot things called?”
“Thistles.”
“Yes, and those.”
“Oh, well then, Kanga can give you some breakfast.”