What I Like Doing Best Is Nothing.

No Sensible Author Wants Anything But Praise.

You Gave Me Christopher Robin, And Then You Breathed New Life In Pooh. Whatever Of Each Has Left My Pen Goes Homing Back To You. My Book Is Ready, And Comes To Greet The Mother It Longs To See -- It Would Be My Present To You, My Sweet, If It Weren't Your Gift To Me.

How Sweet To Be A Cloud. Floating In The Blue!

I Suppose That By This Time They Had Finished Their Dressing. Roger Scurvilegs Tells Us Nothing On Such Important Matters; No Doubt From Modesty. "next Morning They Rose," He Says, And Disappoints Us Of A Picture Of Udo Brushing His Hair.

"i Just Like To Know," Said Pooh Humbly.