Tut, Tut, Looks Like Rain

No Sensible Author Wants Anything But Praise.

Come, Come, Come. Without A Monster Or Two It's Not A Quest, Merely A Gaggle Of Friends Wandering About.

But [pooh] Couldn't Sleep. The More He Tried To Sleep The More He Couldn't. He Tried Counting Sheep, Which Is Sometimes A Good Way Of Getting To Sleep, And, As That Was No Good, He Tried Counting Heffalumps. And That Was Worse. Because Every Heffalump That He Counted Was Making Straight For A Pot Of Pooh's Honey, And Eating It All. For Some Minutes He Lay There Miserably, But When The Five Hundred And Eighty-seventh Heffalump Was Licking Its Jaws, And Saying To Itself, "very Good Honey This, I Don't Know When I've Tasted Better," Pooh Could Bear It No Longer.

For One Person Who Dreams Of Making Fifty Thousand Pounds, A Hundred People Dream Of Being Left Fifty Thousand Pounds.

Piglet Sidled Up To Pooh From Behind. "pooh?" He Whispered. "yes, Piglet?" "nothing," Said Piglet, Taking Pooh's Hand. "i Just Wanted To Be Sure Of You.