“If it was the wind,” said Owl, considering the matter, “then it wasn’t Pooh’s fault. No blame can be attached to him.” With these kind words he flew up to look at his new ceiling.
“Piglet!” called Pooh in a loud whisper.
Piglet leant down to him.
“Yes, Pooh?”
“ What did he say was attached to me?”
“He said he didn’t blame you.”
“Oh! I thought he meant—Oh, I see.”
“Owl,” said Piglet, “come down and help Pooh.”
Owl, who was admiring his letterbox, flew down again. Together they pushed and pulled at the armchair, and in a little while Pooh came out from underneath, and was able to look round him again.
“Well!” said Owl. “This is a nice state of things!”
“What are we going to do, Pooh? Can you think of anything?” asked Piglet.
“Well, I had just thought of something,” said Pooh. “It was just a little thing I thought of.” And he began to sing:
I lay on my chest And I thought it best To pretend I was having an evening rest; I lay on my tum And I tried to hum But nothing particular seemed to come. My face was flat On the floor, and that Is all very well for an acrobat; But it doesn’t seem fair To a Friendly Bear To stiffen him out with a basket-chair. And a sort of sqoze Which grows and grows Is not too nice for his poor old nose, And a sort of squch Is much too much For his neck and his mouth and his ears and such.
“That was all,” said Pooh.
Owl coughed in an unadmiring sort of way, and said that, if Pooh was sure that was all, they could now give their minds to the Problem of Escape.