“Ha!” said Rabbit, feeling quite happy again. “Another notice!”
This is what it said:
Gon out
Backson
Bisy
Backson.C. R.
“Ha!” said Rabbit again. “I must tell the others.” And he hurried off importantly.
The nearest house was Owl’s, and to Owl’s House in the Hundred Acre Wood he made his way. He came to Owl’s door, and he knocked and he rang, and he rang and he knocked, and at last Owl’s head came out and said “Go away, I’m thinking—oh it’s you?” which was how he always began.
“Owl,” said Rabbit shortly, “you and I have brains. The others have fluff. If there is any thinking to be done in this Forest—and when I say thinking I mean thinking—you and I must do it.”
“Yes,” said Owl. “I was.”
“Read that.”
Owl took Christopher Robin’s notice from Rabbit and looked at it nervously. He could spell his own name Wol, and he could spell Tuesday so that you knew it wasn’t Wednesday, and he could read quite comfortably when you weren’t looking over his shoulder and saying “Well?” all the time, and he could—
“Well?” said Rabbit.
“Yes,” said Owl, looking Wise and Thoughtful. “I see what you mean. Undoubtedly.”
“Well?”
“Exactly,” said Owl. “Precisely.” And he added, after a little thought, “If you had not come to me, I should have come to you.”
“Why?” asked Rabbit.
“For that very reason,” said Owl, hoping that something helpful would happen soon.
“Yesterday morning,” said Rabbit solemnly, “I went to see Christopher Robin. He was out. Pinned on his door was a notice.”
“The same notice?”
“A different one. But the meaning was the same. It’s very odd.”
“Amazing,” said Owl, looking at the notice again, and getting, just for a moment, a curious sort of feeling that something had happened to Christopher Robin’s back. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“The best thing,” said Owl wisely.
“Well?” said Rabbit again, as Owl knew he was going to.
“Exactly,” said Owl.
For a little while he couldn’t think of anything more; and then, all of a sudden, he had an idea.
“Tell me, Rabbit,” he said, “the exact words of the first notice. This is very important. Everything depends on this. The exact words of the first notice.”
“It was just the same as that one really.”
Owl looked at him, and wondered whether to push him off the tree; but, feeling that he could always do it afterwards, he tried once more to find out what they were talking about.
“The exact words, please,” he said, as if Rabbit hadn’t spoken.
“It just said, ‘Gon out. Backson.’ Same as this, only this says ‘Bisy Backson’ too.”
Owl gave a great sigh of relief.
“Ah!” said Owl. “Now we know where we are.”
“Yes, but where’s Christopher Robin?” said Rabbit. “That’s the point.”
Owl looked at the notice again. To one of his education the reading of it was easy. “Gone out, Backson. Bisy, Backson”—just the sort of thing you’d expect to see on a notice.
“It is quite clear what has happened, my dear Rabbit,” he said. “Christopher Robin has gone out somewhere with Backson. He and Backson are busy together. Have you seen a Backson anywhere about in the Forest lately?”
“I don’t know,” said Rabbit. “That’s what I came to ask you. What are they like?”
“Well,” said Owl, “the Spotted or Herbaceous Backson is just a—”
“At least,” he said, “it’s really more of a—”
“Of course,” he said, “it depends on the—”
“Well,” said Owl, “the fact is,” he said, “I don’t know what they’re like,” said Owl frankly.
“Thank you,” said Rabbit. And he hurried off to see Pooh.
Before he had gone very far he heard a noise. So he stopped and listened. This was the noise.
Noise, by Pooh
Oh, the butterflies are flying,
Now the winter days are dying,
And the primroses are trying
To be seen.And the turtle-doves are cooing,
And the woods are up and doing,
For the violets are blue-ing
In the green.Oh, the honey-bees are gumming
On their little wings, and humming
That the summer, which is coming,
Will be fun.And the cows are almost cooing,
And the turtle-doves are mooing,
Which is why a Pooh is poohing
In the sun.For the spring is really springing;
You can see a skylark singing,
And the blue-bells, which are ringing,
Can be heard.And the cuckoo isn’t cooing,
But he’s cucking and he’s ooing,
And a Pooh is simply poohing
Like a bird.
“Hallo, Pooh,” said Rabbit.
“Hallo, Rabbit,” said Pooh dreamily.
“Did you make that song up?”
“Well, I sort of made it up,” said Pooh. “It isn’t Brain,” he went on humbly, “because You Know Why, Rabbit; but it comes to me sometimes.”
“Ah!” said Rabbit, who never let things come to him, but always went and fetched them. “Well, the point is, have you seen a Spotted or Herbaceous Backson in the Forest, at all?”
“No,” said Pooh. “Not a—no,” said Pooh. “I saw Tigger just now.”
“That’s no good.”
“No,” said Pooh. “I thought it wasn’t.”
“Have you seen Piglet?”
“Yes,” said Pooh. “I suppose that isn’t any good either?” he asked meekly.
“Well, it depends if he saw anything.”
“He saw me,” said Pooh.
Rabbit sat down on the ground next to Pooh and, feeling much less important like that, stood up again.
“What it all comes to is this,” he said. “What does Christopher Robin do in the morning nowadays?”
“What sort of thing?”
“Well, can you tell me anything you’ve seen him do in the morning? These last few days.”
“Yes,” said Pooh. “We had breakfast together yesterday. By the Pine Trees. I’d made up a little basket, just a little, fair-sized basket, an ordinary biggish sort of basket, full of—”
“Yes, yes,” said Rabbit, “but I mean later than that. Have you seen him between eleven and twelve?”
“Well,” said Pooh, “at eleven o’clock—at eleven o’clock—well, at eleven o’clock, you see, I generally get home about then. Because I have One or Two Things to Do.”
“Quarter past eleven, then?”
“Well—” said Pooh.
“Half past.”
“Yes,” said Pooh. “At half past—or perhaps later—I might see him.”
And now
