No Sensible Author Wants Anything But Praise.

Tut, Tut, Looks Like Rain

When Late Morning Rolls Around And You're Feeling A Bit Out Of Sorts, Don't Worry; You're Probably Just A Little Eleven O'clockish.

That's Right. You'll Like Owl. He Flew Past A Day Or Two Ago And Noticed Me. He Didn't Actually Say Anything, Mind You, But He Knew It Was Me. Very Friendly Of Him. Encouraging." Pooh And Piglet Shuffled About A Little And Said, "well, Good-bye, Eeyore" As Lingeringly As They Could, But They Had A Long Way To Go, And Wanted To Be Getting On. "good-bye," Said Eeyore. "mind You Don't Get Blown Away, Little Piglet. You'd Be Missed. People Would Say `where's Little Piglet Been Blown To?' -- Really Wanting To Know. Well, Good-bye. And Thank You For Happening To Pass Me.

If There's A Buzzing-noise, Somebody's Making A Buzzing-noise, And The Only Reason For Making A Buzzing-noise That I Know Of Is Because You're A Bee.

She Also Considered Very Seriously What She Would Look Like In A Little Cottage In The Middle Of The Forest, Dressed In A Melancholy Gray And Holding Communion Only With The Birds And Trees; A Life Of Retirement Away From The Vain World; A Life Into Which No Man Came. It Had Its Attractions, But She Decided That Gray Did Not Suit Her.