“Piglet,” said Pooh a little shyly, after they had walked for some time without saying anything.
“Yes, Pooh?”
“Do you remember when I said that a Respectful Pooh Song might be written about You Know What?”
“Did you, Pooh?” said Piglet, getting a little pink round the nose. “Oh, yes, I believe you did.”
“It’s been written, Piglet.”
The pink went slowly up Piglet’s nose to his ears, and settled there.
“Has it, Pooh?” he asked huskily. “About—about—That Time When?—Do you mean really written?”
“Yes, Piglet.”
The tips of Piglet’s ears glowed suddenly, and he tried to say something; but even after he had husked once or twice, nothing came out. So Pooh went on.
“There are seven verses in it.”
“Seven?” said Piglet as carelessly as he could. “You don’t often get seven verses in a Hum, do you, Pooh?”
“Never,” said Pooh, “I don’t suppose it’s ever been heard of before.”
“Do the Others know yet?” asked Piglet, stopping for a moment to pick up a stick and throw it away.
“No,” said Pooh. “And I wondered which you would like best. For me to hum it now, or to wait till we find the others, and then hum it to all of you.”
Piglet thought for a little.
“I think what I’d like best, Pooh, is I’d like you to hum it to me now —and—and then to hum it to all of us. Because then Everybody would hear it, but I could say ‘Oh, yes, Pooh’s told me,’ and pretend not to be listening.”