Oh, the butterflies are flying, Now the winter days are dying, And the primroses are trying To be seen.
And the turtle-doves are cooing, And the woods are up and doing, For the violets are blue-ing In the green.
Oh, the honey-bees are gumming On their little wings, and humming That the summer, which is coming, Will be fun.
And the cows are almost cooing, And the turtle-doves are mooing, Which is why a Pooh is poohing In the sun.
For the spring is really springing; You can see a skylark singing, And the blue-bells, which are ringing, Can be heard.
And the cuckoo isn’t cooing, But he’s cucking and he’s ooing, And a Pooh is simply poohing Like a bird.
“Hallo, Pooh,” said Rabbit.
“Hallo, Rabbit,” said Pooh dreamily.
“Did you make that song up?”
“Well, I sort of made it up,” said Pooh. “It isn’t Brain,” he went on humbly, “because You Know Why, Rabbit; but it comes to me sometimes.”
“Ah!” said Rabbit, who never let things come to him, but always went and fetched them. “Well, the point is, have you seen a Spotted or Herbaceous Backson in the Forest, at all?”
“No,” said Pooh. “Not a—no,” said Pooh. “I saw Tigger just now.”
“That’s no good.”
“No,” said Pooh. “I thought it wasn’t.”
“Have you seen Piglet?”
“Yes,” said Pooh. “I suppose that isn’t any good either?” he asked meekly.
“Well, it depends if he saw anything.”