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He thought how sad it was to be an Animal who had never had a bunch of violets picked for him.
A. A. Milne
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A. A. Milne
Age: 74 †
Born: 1882
Born: January 18
Died: 1956
Died: January 31
Author
Essayist
Military Officer
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Prosaist
Screenwriter
Writer
London
England
Alan Alexander Milne
A.A. Milne
Never
Violets
Violet
Picked
Bunch
Animal
Thought
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And that, said John, is that.
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She turned to the sunlight And shook her yellow head, And whispered to her neighbor: Winter is dead.
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Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin. It is, as far as he knows, the only way of coming downstairs, but sometimes he feels that there really is another way, if only he could stop bumping for a moment and think of it. And then he feels that perhaps there isn't.
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On Monday, when the sun is hot, I wonder to myself a lot. Now is it true, or is it not, that what is which and which is what?
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When you do the things that you can do, you will find a way.
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It is a terrible thing for an author to have a lot of people running about his book without any invitation from him at all.
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It's always useful to know where a friend-and-relation is, whether you want him or whether you don't.
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Did I miss? you asked. You didn't exactly miss, said Pooh, But you missed the balloon. I'm so sorry, you said, and you fired again, and this time you hit the balloon and the air came slowly out, and Winnie-the-Pooh floated down to the ground.
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On Wednesday, when the sky is blue, and I have nothing else to do, I sometimes wonder if it's true That who is what and what is who. - Winnie-the-Pooh
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Piglet opened the letter box and climbed in. Then, having untied himself, he began to squeeze into the slit, through which in the old days when front doors were front doors, many an unexpected letter than WOL had written to himself, had come slipping.
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I'm not lost for I know where I am. But however, where I am may be lost.
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Piglet was so excited at the idea of being Useful that he forgot to be frightened any more, and when Rabbit went on to say that Kangas were only Fierce during the winter months, being at other times of an Affectionate Disposition, he could hardly sit still, he was so eager to begin being useful at once.
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When I was One, I had just begun. When I was Two, I was nearly new. When I was Three I was hardly me. When I was Four, I was not much more. When I was Five, I was just alive. But now I am Six, I'm as clever as clever, So I think I'll be six now for ever and ever.
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I'll give you three guesses, Rabbit. Digging holes in the ground? Wrong. Leaping from branch to branch of a young oak tree? Wrong. Waiting for somebody to help me out of the river? Right. Give Rabbit time, and he'll always get the answer.
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Chess has this in common with making poetry that the desire for it comes upon the amateur in gusts.
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James gave the huffle of a snail in danger. And nobody heard him at all.
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When you are pretty sure that an Adventure is going to happen, brush the honey off your nose and spruce yourself up as best you can, so as to look Ready for Anything.
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Mind over matter, will make the Pooh unfatter.
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