No one can write a book which children will like, unless he write it for himself first. – A. A. Milne.
At first as they stumped along the path which edged the Hundred Acre Wood, they didn’t say much to each other; but when they came to the stream, and had helped each other across the stepping stones, and were able to walk side by side again over the heather, they began to talk in a friendly way...
Pooh,” said Rabbit kindly, “you haven’t any brain.” “I know,” said Pooh humbly.
Eighteen pockets in one suit? I haven’t the time.
You mean Piglet. The little fellow with the excited ears. That’s Piglet.
And if anyone knows anything about anything,” said Bear to himself, “it’s Owl who knows something about something,” he said, “or my name’s not Winnie-the-Pooh,” he said. “Which it is,” he added. “So there you are.” Owl.
Good morning, Eeyore,” shouted Piglet. “Good morning, Little Piglet,” said Eeyore. “If it is a good morning,” he said. “Which I doubt,” said he. “Not that it matters,” he.
Grin” rhymes with “win”; don’t waste it.
In the drowsy heat of the summer afternoon the Red House was taking its siesta. There was a lazy murmur of bees in the flower-borders, a gentle cooing of pigeons in the tops of the elms. From.
I must go forward where I have never been instead of backwards where I have.
People say nothing is impossible, but I do nothing everyday.
Then would you read a Sustaining Book, such as would help and comfort a Wedged Bear in Great Tightness?
Pooh began to feel a little more comfortable, because when you are a Bear of Very Little Brain, and you Think of Things, you find sometimes that a Thing which seemed very Thingish inside you is quite different when it gets out into the open and has other people looking at it.
Eeyore nodded gloomily at him. “It will rain soon, you see if it doesn’t,” he said.
When you love what you have, you have everything you need.
We didn’t know we were making memories, we were just having fun.
I found courage in the countryside, in nature. Being alone never frightened me, even at night, provided I was in contact with my surroundings – with the grass underfoot, with the dim shapes of trees and distant mountains. This was what I clung to.
We didn’t realize we were making memories, we just knew we were having fun.
The Piglet was sitting on the ground at the door of his house blowing happily at a dandelion, and wondering whether it would be this year, next year, sometime or never. He had just discovered that would be never, and was trying to remember what “it” was, and hoping it wasn’t anything nice, when Pooh came up.
There is nothing that you and I could not accomplish together, if we gave our minds to it.