Work Header

A Little Boy and His Bear

Work Text:


You can't stay in your corner of the Forest waiting for others to come to you. You have to go to them sometimes.

--Pooh's Little Instruction Book


I. In Which Piglet Finds a Special Honey Pot

Winnie the Pooh lay back on his back on the cold ground and stared up at the morning sky, wishing the snowflakes wouldn’t stop. Snow had a fluffy sort of feeling to it that reminded him of his own stuffing, and he often thought, when he remembered to, that he should like to be stuffed with snow sometime just to see what it felt like. Except, when he thought hard enough, that snow was cold and it should make him cold, which he realized it was doing at that very moment, and it was exactly that thought which made him sit up suddenly so that he might now get out of the cold. Preferably somewhere where there was honey.

Sitting up so very suddenly happened to startle Piglet, who had been lying next to Pooh, though he played it off as just a very large shiver among the tiny shivers he had recently begun to produce.

“Piglet,” Pooh declared, “it seems to me that after sitting outside and watching the sky and enjoying the fluffy sort of tickly feeling of the snow, it seems to me that some honey would be nice.” Pooh rather thought that some honey would be nice even when not sitting outside and watching the sky and enjoying the fluffy sort of tickly feeling of the snow, but Bears of Very Little Brain were not ones to dwell on trivialities (mostly because they didn’t know what trivialities were).

“Th-that would nice, Pooh,” Piglet stammered through chattering teeth. Secretly, he was glad Pooh had suggested going inside as he had not brought out his scarf that morning, having failed to realize that an Un-Windy Day could still be a Cold one. He scurried after his friend and closed the door behind them with a shivery sigh of relief.

“Hmm,” Pooh “hmm”-ed to himself. He stood in the middle of his house, tapping his head thoughtfully as he looked around.  “If I were a honey pot, where would I put myself if having been put down by a Bear who wished to eat my honey at a later, hungrier, time?”

Piglet had also begun to look around in a vague effort to assist his friend. “Pooh,” he said, in what he hoped was a helpful tone, “d-do you think a Full Honey Pot might be with that stack of Empty Honey Pots over there?” He pointed timidly to the corner of Pooh’s kitchen, where there was quite a large pile of Empty Honey Pots. But then he realized that perhaps Pooh was not the sort of Bear who put Full Honey Pots by the Empty Honey Pots as being Full was rather different from being Empty, and he wished he hadn’t said anything.

But Pooh agreed that that was a very good place to start as one can’t finish a search unless one has started it first. He toddled over to the high stack of Empty Pots, thinking of how best to pull them down without pulling them down upon himself, when a gust of wind blew through the nearby open window, causing something to suddenly flutter out of one of the pots.

“P-P-Pooh!” Piglet cried, pointing. “One of your Empty Pots was Full!”

Pooh frowned as the object slowly drifted to the ground in front of them. It had definitely come out of a honey pot but did not have the sticky, smackeral quality of honey Pooh had been hoping for.

As the object settled on the floor, Pooh and Piglet bent over to examine it. “Ah,” said Pooh. “Piglet, you did not find my Full Honey Pot.”

Piglet’s shoulder sagged. “Oh. Well, it is so hard to see when something is Full or Empty when one is so very small and—”

“You have found my Un-Hunny Pot,” Pooh declared, interrupting him. “This is not honey but something of, hm, Equal Importance.”

Piglet shivered again, this time in excitement for having found something Pooh thought just as important as honey. He bent down again to examine the item.

It was a piece of paper. That, he saw quite easily. It had letters on it, of the Wobbly type, which he thought Owl might have written, being that he knew the most about writing even if it was a little Wobbly. Upon further inspection, however, Piglet discovered the real writer of the note.


 “Oh. Oh, dear,” Piglet whispered.

 Christopher Robin had indeed been “backson” after having written that particular note, but the memory of other, more recent, “backsons” sadly brought to mind—even in Bears of Very Little Brain—the goodbyes that had preceded them.

Pooh was tapping his head again in a think-y sort of way and was quiet for some time before he spoke again. “It seems to me,” he started, and then stopped. “It seems to me. . .” Pooh trailed off. He tried tapping his head with his other hand. Perhaps a piece of fluff was affecting his ability to turn his thoughts into words. He tried again. “It seems to me—”

“It-it seems to me,” Piglet said, finding himself shivering again but for entirely different reasons, “that Christopher Robin has not been as back soon as he said he would after the last time.”

Pooh smiled at his friend. “Yes,” he said quietly. “It seems to me that that is exactly what I meant to say.”


II. In Which Christopher Robin is Missing, and Roo Answers an Important Question

After finding a chair to step on in order to reach the Un-Hunny Pot, Pooh and Piglet rummaged through the objects found within. Aside from Christopher Robin’s first “Backson” note, there were several others, whose Wobbliness decreased as they rifled through them, as well as a red scarf, what looked like a piece of blue plastic, and a small twig.

Now, Piglet did not like feeling sad. It was a much stranger feeling than that of being nervous or concerned—feelings he was familiar with—but he suspected this sad feeling was due to something he had done, and so he set about trying Make Pooh Better.

“Pooh.” Piglet spoke in the ever-so-careful tone of one who was trying to make a friend feel better without actually having to say, “I am trying to make you feel better.” Not many people (or animals) are good at that sort of thing, but Piglet decided to be Brave and give it a try.

“Pooh,” he said, “what if we go and visit Tigger?” This was perhaps the bravest thing Piglet could think of suggesting. It was not that he disliked Tigger or was scared of him, but Tigger had a way of Bouncing that just Unsettled him so, no matter how many times Kanga warned Tigger to be gentle.

“Piglet,” Pooh said, gathering up the Un-Hunny Pot, “I think that is a grand idea. I am sure Tigger would love to help us find Christopher Robin.”

“Find Christopher Robin?” Piglet didn’t remember suggesting that.

“Of course,” Pooh stated. “When something is missing, it because someone misses it.” Pooh thought he remembered Christopher Robin telling him that once. “When we find him, he won’t be missing anymore.”

Piglet squiggled with joy (which is much like wriggling with joy but in a squeeze-y sort of way) at having come up with such a grand idea, and grabbed his scarf, wrapping it extra tight around his neck. Pooh settled on the red scarf from the Un-Hunny Pot, and together, they set out to see Tigger.

It was a short walk through the snow to Kanga’s house, where Tigger lived, and they found Tigger and Roo enjoying their afternoon lunch when they arrived.

“Hullo, Pooh! Hullo, Piglet!” Roo waved so hard that his chair tipped backwards and he rolled head over feet until he reached the front door. “Pooh!” he cried, twisting his head to look up at the bear. “You are upside down!”

Pooh bent over to look at Roo, which was hard since Roo’s chin was now where his eyes were supposed to be, and his eyes were now on his chin! “Am I upside down?” Pooh asked. He glanced at his feet, which were most assuredly touching the floor, and moved them up and down. “I thought I was right side up, but today does seem to be an upside down sort of day.”

“It is a bouncy day!” Tigger cried. He had opted out of sitting on a chair and was instead bouncing on his tail in front of the table.

Kanga entered the front room from the kitchen and smiled. “Hello, Pooh. Hello, Piglet!” she said. “What brings you here today?”

Pooh explained about the Un-Hunny Pot and how Christopher Robin was missing and that they had decided to find him. Tigger was all for an expedition in the snow, and Roo was already grabbing his scarf when Kanga asked, “Where are you going to look for him? The Hundred Acre Woods and surrounding forests are very big, and it is very cold out.”

Pooh tilted his head to the side, and Tigger stopped mid-bounce. “Oh, dear,” Piglet whispered. They had not thought about that.

“But Mama,” Roo tugged on Kanga’s elbow. “When I hide from you, I always hide under my bed. What if Christopher Robin is hiding under his bed?”

Kanga smiled knowingly as all mothers do when their children unwittingly give up important secrets. “All right,” she said. “You may check Christopher Robin’s room, but I want to be back by dinner.”

And that settled things.


III. In Which Our Friends Attempt a Rescue Mission

Pooh and Piglet, with Kanga, Roo, and Tigger, journeyed back into the snow, now heading for the tree that held Christopher Robin’s door. His tree was on the other side of the wood, which had Kanga worrying over Roo’s cold feet, but Roo—who had swiped an apple from lunch—was concentrating more on whether or not Tigger could balance the fruit on his nose while he bounced. (Piglet spent the walk hovering behind Pooh, worried that the apple would fall on his head.)

On their way through the wood, they passed by Rabbit’s garden where a large green object was hurriedly digging carrots out of the snow.

“Rabbit, is that you?” Pooh asked, stopping by the fence.

“There is a Rabbit here somewhere, but he’s very busy,” a muffled voice called out. “Come back later.”

“Oh. Please tell Rabbit, then, that we are going to find Christopher Robin, and that if he wants to join us, we shall be at his tree.” Pooh nodded to himself, glad to have passed on the important message.

“Christopher Robin!” the voice cried. “Hold on a moment.” The big green object, which turned out to be made of green boots, green snow pants, a green coat, green mittens, and a green hat, wobbled over to the group of friends. After a moment of maneuvering limbs and mittens, a small yellow hand reached up to move the hat, and Rabbit’s eyes peeked out over a thick, green scarf.

“Tiggers do not wear coats,” Tigger pronounced, eyeing Rabbit’s outfit. “They don’t let Tiggers bounce.”

“Rabbits do not need to bounce to get things done,” Rabbit stated crisply. Turning to Pooh, he said, “You’re going to find Christopher Robin?”

“He’s m-m-missing,” Piglet spoke up. His teeth were starting to chatter again, and he wondered why Small Things had to worry more about covering up a smaller amount of skin.

“Then I better come with you,” Rabbit decided. “There’s no telling how long it will take you to find him if I’m not there to tell you where to look.”

And so Rabbit joined their party. (Several of his friends-and-relations followed as well, but they stayed a few steps behind in case Rabbit roped them into helping with a task of enormous proportions—and as more than a few of them were Small Things, many of Rabbit’s tasks seemed enormous.)

After Rabbit’s garden, their path neared Owl’s house, where they found Owl telling Eeyore about an aunt of his that had once lost one of her feathers.

“Ah, Pooh,” Owl cried. “I was just telling Eeyore about my Aunt Claribel who once lost one of her feathers. It was still attached to her when she flew away from home, but upon arriving at—”

“What he means to say is, my tail is missing,” Eeyore interrupted him. “Someone must have taken it again.”

Piglet gasped. “P-perhaps someone took Christopher Robin!” he cried. “He’s missing too!”

“Christopher Robin is missing?” Owl flew down from his branch and landed in front of Pooh and Piglet. “My dear friends, Christopher Robin knows exactly where he is. It is we who do not know where that is.” Owl nodded to himself, proud at having declared this intelligent declaration.

“He probably doesn’t want to be found,” Eeyore said morosely. “Sometimes I don’t want to be found either.” He looked at Owl as he said this, who nodded again and then stopped, confused as to whether or not Eeyore was agreeing with him.

“We are going to his tree,” Pooh announced, “to see if he is in his room.”

“Then we shall join you,” Owl said, taking to the air again. “If anyone knows anything about trees, it is me.”

The group of friends took off once again for Christopher Robin’s tree, and Eeyore, sighing, followed.

Upon arriving at Christopher Robin’s tree a little while later, everyone crowded around the door, but not a one moved to knock.

“W-what if he doesn’t answer?” Piglet whispered.

“He probably doesn’t want to see us,” Eeyore said in his gloomy voice.

“Nonsense,” said Kanga, who quickly moved to cover Roo’s ears. “It’s possible that Christopher Robin is just sick. He is staying home because he doesn’t want us to catch his cold.”

“Sick?” Piglet hadn’t even considered that possibility. What if Christopher Robin were sick? What if he were stuck in bed with the sniffles and not able to get up and visit ever again?

“Do you think he might have the measles?” Pooh asked. He thought he remembered, through the soft sort of fluff that let him remember, Christopher Robin talking about something called measles. Or perhaps he was just thinking of Woozles, and what did everyone think about that?

“Oh, no,” Owl corrected him. “It’s called the sneezles. Why, I once had such a horrible case of the sneezles that I couldn’t speak for a week.”

“The woods were quiet for once,” Eeyore nodded. “It was a nice change.”

“Hoo-hoo-hoo-hooo!” Tigger sat back and bounced on his tail. “I once sneezled so hard, I bounced all the way to China and back!”

“Yes,” Rabbit said, frowning. “And you took out my cabbages in the process. My friends-and-relations had to help me plant them all over again.” His friends-and-relations, who were standing behind him, all nodded and crossed their arms.

Pooh toddled up to the door and put his ear to it. He couldn’t be sure, as his fluff-filled brain was a sort of muffled-filled brain, but he thought he heard a noise. A noise like a small noise but sort of boy-ish in a way that might possible be similar to that made by one like a Christopher Robin-type person.

“He’s in there,” Pooh said.


IV. In Which Rabbit Counts to Three, and Pooh Opens a Door

Upon hearing this proclamation, the residents of the Hundred Acre Woods stopped and froze in place—except for Roo, who was so wound up that he tipped over in excitement.

“W-what do we do?” Piglet asked quietly. It seemed like a quiet sort of moment, and he didn’t want to ruin it.

Owl cleared his throat. “In my experience, the only way to get through a closed door is to open it.”

“Sh-should we knock first?” Piglet asked. He didn’t want to disturb Christopher Robin in case he was sleeping, which Piglet always found helped him best when he was sick.

“But of course,” Owl said. “One should always announce oneself before entering the room.” He waddled up to the door and pushed passed Pooh. He raised his wing and knocked on the door, which unfortunately did not have the desired effect Owl was going for, being that feathers are light and airy and doors are not.

“Ahem, ahem,” Owl cleared his throat again. “Piglet, why don’t you knock?” he magnanimously offered (which is an Owl-y way of saying it was a Very Grand Offer indeed).

“Oh, oh goodness,” Piglet fairly whimpered to himself. What if Christopher Robin didn’t answer? What if he did? In the end, Piglet’s turn consisted of his running up to the door, timidly tapping on it, and then running away to hide behind Eeyore.

Tigger, however, had the idea to Bounce at the door, but unfortunately the door only Bounced him back, whereupon he landed on Piglet and Eeyore.

Rabbit, Kanga, and even Roo tried thumping, rapping, and even pounding on the door, but no one answered.

Pooh, all the while, watched as his friends tried to help, and suddenly had an idea. “Nothing makes me happy like a nice pot of honey and a nice little hum on a hummy sort of day,” Pooh said to them. “Perhaps if we sang a little song, it might help us as we try to open the door ourselves and see if Christopher Robin is home.”

Piglet was all for a cheery song as the idea of a trapped Christopher Robin made him sad, and he thought maybe a song might cheer him up while he was stuck behind the door. Owl fluttered away to a nearby branch to practice his operatic solo, which is a fancy way of saying he was practicing his screeching.

Pooh licked his lips, distracted for the moment by the thought of honey, and thought of a nice first line.

“I hope this door Pa-Pa-Pum,” he sang, turning the doorknob to the right. There was a short moment of silence before Kanga realized Pooh was smiling at her.

“Oh, um, isn’t a chore Pa-Pa-Pum,” she contributed. Pooh turned the doorknob to the left.

“I bet he snores Pa-Pa-Pum,” said Rabbit, pointedly staring at several of his friends-and-relations. Pooh turned the doorknob upways.

“He—” Eeyore started to speak when Roo suddenly jumped in front of him. “I have an apple core Pa-Pa-Pum!!” He excitedly held up what remained of his little snack. And Pooh turned the doorknob downways.

Eeyore frowned. “That wasn’t what I meant to say at all.” He sighed. “It never is.”

Pooh patted him on the head. “Sometimes the best poems have surprise endings,” he said. 

Eeyore tossed his head and shuffled off in a grumpish manner. Piglet, on the other hand, came running up to Pooh, breathless and excited. “I heard a noise behind the door!”

Owl frowned and waved his wing in the air. “Somebody already rhymed ‘door,’ Piglet. You need to choose a new word.”

Piglet’s shoulders sagged, but Pooh came up and put his arm around his friend’s shoulder. “I think Piglet is suggesting that we try opening the door again. Thank you, Piglet.”

Piglet beamed, and then paused in his beaming to think. “B-but we already tried opening it. How do we open something that won’t?”

Pooh tapped his head in his think-y sort of way for a few moments, thinking. “We pull it. Very hard.” He decided.

And so it was decided.

Rabbit, remembering the time that Pooh got stuck in his front door, had a lot of experience in lining his friends up and getting them to pull on something that wouldn’t budge, and so he directed his friends once again in lining up and pulling on the door.

Pooh was first, with Piglet right behind, while Tigger lined up behind him. Rabbit placed Roo behind Tigger with Kanga behind him, while Owl and Eeyore stood behind her. Rabbit was last, so that he was able to direct his friends-and-relations to stand behind him. (Several of them groaned, having known that Rabbit would eventually make use of them.)

“We shall count on three,” Rabbit called out to his friends.

“Tree?” Owl said. “We know this is a tree. What we want to do is open the door.”

“Not tree,” Rabbit yelled. “On three.”

“Three?” Pooh called. “All right.”

And so they pulled. And pulled. And pulled.

Unfortunately, they all pulled at different times and so the door did not budge.

“I told you,” Eeyore said, shaking his head. “He doesn’t want to be found. Much like my tail.”

“I remember playing Hide-and-Seek with Christopher Robin,” Pooh said. “He always wanted to be found.” He put his ear to the door once more, checking first that no fluff was in the way, and Listened. Listening, he discovered, was a lot like loving in that one did not spell it, one felt it. And Pooh felt, felt deep down in his stuffing, the familiar bump bump bump of an old memory. Christopher Robin was somewhere behind that door, waiting for them.

“Perhaps he is trying to find us. Let us pull on more time. On Rabbit’s three,” Pooh told them.

Everyone nodded and agreed to try one last time.

“One!” Rabbit yelled.

“Two!” Rabbit yelled louder. (“Stop tugging!” he yelled not so loudly at the closest friend-and-relation. “I haven’t said three yet.”)

“Three?” Pooh said again.

And they so they pulled.

But the door would not open outward. Instead, a loud exclamation suddenly echoed throughout the woods. Was it from behind the door? (Did someone say, “Pooh!”) Had a friend-and-relation been stepped on? (Did someone say, “Ooh!”) Whatever the cause, the noise startled Rabbit, who fell forward onto Owl—

who tripped over Eeyore—

who stepped on Kanga’s foot—

—who bumped into Roo—

—who pulled Tigger’s tail—

—who Bounced into Piglet

—who shoved Pooh

—who pushed open the door. Silly Old Bear, they had been pulling the wrong way.

The friends from the Hundred Acre Woods tumbled forward into Christopher Robin’s room. And continued tumbling until they crashed against something hard and found themselves looking up at someone that might once have had a familiar face.


V. In Which Something Lost Is Found

“Christopher! Oh, Christopher, come look! They’ve come!”

Christopher peered down into the large box that was sitting before his wife and was shocked to suddenly find his childhood staring back at him. A yellow bear, a little pink pig, even a striped tiger. They were all there. “Anne, where. . . how did you get these?” He reached out and gently ran his finger over the bear’s head. Still soft after all these years.

“I wrote to your father about sending them. I had hoped the post would be quick about it, but I suppose that’s impossible when it’s the holidays. I wanted to send them out to be cleaned, but. . .” She rummaged through the toys, “Well, I suppose they don’t look that bad. Remarkable when you think about how long they sat in your parents’ attic.” She shrugged and smiled. “We can clean them later. Alexander will understand.”

“Alexander?” Distracted by a mark on the bear’s red scarf, Christopher picked him up and rubbed at the offending spot.

Anne’s eyebrows went up. “Of course. Didn’t we discuss this? I thought we would give them to him for Christmas. Too late for that now," she shrugged, "but--" She laughed suddenly. “You don't want to play with them, do you?”

He laughed nervously. “No, no, of course not.” He paused, shifting the pig and tiger to look underneath. “Even the kangaroos,” he said to himself, kneeling down for a closer look. “When did you want to give them to him?” He looked back up at his wife

“I was thinking after dinner,” Anne said, beaming. “We should hide them until then, don’t you think?”

 After considering it for a moment, all the while still clutching his yellow bear, Christopher replied, “The closet should be fine,” and reluctantly closed the box. Jumping up, he brought the box to the hallway closet and, after a quick examination, decided to shove it underneath an old hatbox behind their coats. “I think he’ll like them,” he said, returning to the parlor. “I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t playing with them. . . What?”

Anne was leaning against the entryway to the parlor with her arms crossed. Biting her lower lip, her eyes shone with laughter.  “I was hoping we could give them all to Alexander,” she said, and pointed to his hand, to which his bear still faithfully clung.

Christopher smiled and shook his head, sighing. “Bother,” he said, and went to place his friend back in the box with the others.

Later that night, after dinner, Christopher brought the box back out and called his son over to the sofa. “We have a surprise for you, Alexander.” His son, already in his nightshirt, sat down next to him and eagerly pulled back one of the flaps to see inside.

“Are these presents?” Alexander asked.

“They are,” his father smiled.

“For me?” His son climbed on the couch and bounced on his knees.

“For you.” Christopher reached into the box and pulled out a set of kangaroos. “These here are Kanga,” he said, placing the larger of the two down first, “and Roo. Kanga is Roo’s mother and is very protective of him, but just like your mother loves you very much, Kanga loves Roo as well. Roo,” he picked up the smaller animal, “loves to play and can get quite excited, but you must see that he takes his medicine. He wants to grow up big and strong.”

Alexander took the kangaroos from his father, staring at them with wide eyes.

“This is Owl,” Christopher said next, holding up the large bird. “He knows an awful lot about many things, but I wouldn’t ask him how to spell if I were you. He’s the only one who can write, but his spelling is not always what it should be.” Christopher grinned as his son took the stuffed animal from him.

Holding up a rabbit, Christopher introduced the next friend. “This is Rabbit,” he said. “Let him manage his garden in peace and quiet, and he will be a very happy friend. He does have a few friends-and-relations so mind you keep track. Too many friends can ruin a party.”

Alexander nodded and took Rabbit, placing him gently next to Owl in his lap.

After Owl came a large grey donkey Christopher named Eeyore. “Eeyore is often sad and grumpy and doesn’t always have a sense of humor, but he does mean well. Have some thistles on hand for snacking, though, because they tend to cheer him up when he loses his tail, which—” Christopher turned the donkey over to confirm his suspicions, “he has done again.”

Alexander laughed, to which his father replied, “Perhaps you will have better luck in keeping his tail on than I did.”

The next animal to come out of the box was a long, striped tiger. “This is Tigger. He is the only one of his kind, as he will often tell you, and he loves to bounce.” Christopher took a deep breath and snuck a look at his wife. “Just keep him away from Mama’s good china, all right? He . . . tends to bounce right into those things.”

Alexander giggled and, grabbing Tigger, made him bounce on along the edge of the box.

“Now this,” said Christopher, putting forth a tiny pink animal, “is Piglet. He is a very small animal and is not so very fond of bouncing or loud noises, but he can be very brave when he needs to be, and is excellent at very nearly finding Heffalumps. And if you ever want to make him feel better,” he said as his son tucked Piglet into his arms, “feed him lots and lots of haycorns. He loves them.”

When he looked into the box for the next animal, Christopher found that there was only one left. The corner of his mouth curved into a small smile, and after a moment of silence, he pulled the bear from the box. “And here we have the last, but certainly not the least, friend from the Hundred Acre Woods. This is Winnie the Pooh, who was Edward Bear once upon a time, and also Winnie-ther-Pooh, as well as Sir Pooh de Bear, but really, just Pooh. He may be a bear of very little brain, but he is the Best Bear.”

Christopher moved the box to the side and pulled out a few objects that his wife had not noticed. “When you visit with Pooh, wear your big boots, and you are sure to have lots of adventures. This stick, for example, is for a game called Poohsticks—when the river melts, I’ll have to teach it to you.” It was just an ordinary twig, but Alexander took it carefully in both hands as if his little five-year-old life depended on it.

“And this right here,” Christopher continued, holding a small piece of blue plastic, “is from when Pooh tried to disguise himself as a raincloud to trick some honeybees into giving up their honey. He used one of my balloons,” Christopher waggled this piece of blue in front of his son’s face, “to float up to the beehive.”

Alexander frowned. “But it’s not a balloon anymore!”

His father grinned. “Ah, that is a story for another day.” He looked his son up and down appraisingly. “Do you think you can take care of my friends for me? They need lots of attention and very much love to play.”

The little boy nodded vigorously, his thick brown hair flopping over his eyes. “Can I play with them now, Papa?”

There was a short silence, in which both father and son felt a million years go by. Later, Christopher would try to convince himself that he only imagined the faint crisp smell of leaves settling on a forest floor after a wonderfully blustery day.

Eventually, he nodded. “You may.”

“I’m going to show them my room!” His son gathered the stuffed animals in his arms and hurried over to the staircase, but the large load was just too much for his small arms, and Pooh slipped out, crashing head-first onto the floor. Alexander settled for holding Pooh’s foot and dragging his new friend to his room up the stairs by his feet.


As Pooh bump-bump-bump-ed his way up the staircase, the fluff bounced around his head until all but some Very Important Thoughts disappeared. And being a Bear of Very Little Brain, these were Very Important Thoughts indeed. His first thought, one that he felt must be shared with his friends, was that this Christopher Robin was not the same Christopher Robin as before, and that not being “backson” had changed him. On the other paw (and since Pooh only had two paws, this was his second and other Important Thought), there was now a new boy—a Christopher Robin-sort of boy—in his place.

So perhaps it wasn’t all bad that the first Christopher Robin had gone away, if it meant the Hundred Acre Woods would have a new Christopher Robin-sort of friend to come and play . . . though surely this boy must know a better way of carrying a bear up the stairs? And might he possibly have any honey on him?

Bump bump bump


And by-and-by Christopher Robin came to an end of the things, and was silent, and he sat there looking out over the world, and wishing it wouldn’t stop [...] So they went off together. But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest a little boy and his Bear will always be playing.

--A. A. Milne, The House at Pooh Corner