Pooh and Piglet shuffled about a little and said, “Well, goodbye, Eeyore” as lingeringly as they could, but they had a long way to go, and wanted to be getting on.
“Goodbye,” said Eeyore. “Mind you don’t get blown away, little Piglet. You’d be missed. People would say ‘Where’s little Piglet been blown to?’—really wanting to know. Well, goodbye. And thank you for happening to pass me.”
“Goodbye,” said Pooh and Piglet for the last time, and they pushed on to Owl’s house.
The wind was against them now, and Piglet’s ears streamed behind him like banners as he fought his way along, and it seemed hours before he got them into the shelter of the Hundred Acre Wood and they stood up straight again, to listen, a little nervously, to the roaring of the gale among the treetops.
“Supposing a tree fell down, Pooh, when we were underneath it?”
“Supposing it didn’t,” said Pooh after careful thought.
Piglet was comforted by this, and in a little while they were knocking and ringing very cheerfully at Owl’s door.
“Hallo, Owl,” said Pooh. “I hope we’re not too late for—I mean, how are you, Owl? Piglet and I just came to see how you were, because it’s Thursday.”
“Sit down, Pooh, sit down, Piglet,” said Owl kindly. “Make yourselves comfortable.”
They thanked him, and made themselves as comfortable as they could.
“Because, you see, Owl,” said Pooh, “we’ve been hurrying, so as to be in time for—so as to see you before we went away again.”
Owl nodded solemnly.
“Correct me if I am wrong,” he said, “but am I right in supposing that it is a very Blusterous day outside?”
“Very,” said Piglet, who was quietly thawing his ears, and wishing that he was safely back in his own house.
“I thought so,” said Owl. “It was on just such a blusterous day as this that my Uncle Robert, a portrait of whom you see upon the wall on your right, Piglet, while returning in the late forenoon from a—What’s that?”
There was a loud cracking noise.
“Look out!” cried Pooh. “Mind the clock! Out of the way, Piglet! Piglet, I’m falling on you!”
“Help!” cried Piglet.
Pooh’s side of the room was slowly tilting upwards and his chair began sliding down on Piglet’s. The clock slithered gently along the mantelpiece, collecting vases on the way, until they all crashed together on to what had once been the floor, but was now trying to see what it looked like as a wall. Uncle Robert, who was going to be the new hearthrug, and was bringing the rest of his wall with him as carpet, met Piglet’s chair just as Piglet was expecting to leave it, and for a little while it became very difficult to remember which was really the north. Then there was another loud crack … Owl’s room collected itself feverishly … and there was silence.
In a corner of the room, the tablecloth began to wriggle.
Then it wrapped itself into a ball and rolled across the room.
Then it jumped up and down once or twice, and put out two ears. It rolled across the room again, and unwound itself.
“Pooh,” said Piglet nervously.
“Yes?” said one of the chairs.
“Where are we?”
“I’m not quite sure,” said the chair.
“Are we—are we in Owl’s House?”
“I think so, because we were just going to have tea, and we hadn’t had it.”
“Oh!” said Piglet. “Well, did Owl always have a letterbox in his ceiling?”
“Has he?”
“Yes, look.”
“I can’t,” said Pooh. “I’m face downwards under something, and that, Piglet, is a very bad position for looking at ceilings.”
“Well, he has, Pooh.”
“Perhaps he’s changed it,” said Pooh. “Just for a change.”
There was a disturbance behind the table in the other corner of the room, and Owl was with them again.
“Ah, Piglet,” said Owl, looking very much annoyed; “where’s Pooh?”
“I’m not quite sure,” said Pooh.
Owl turned at his voice, and frowned at as much of Pooh as he could see.
“Pooh,” said Owl severely, “did you do that?”
“No,” said Pooh humbly. “I don’t think so.”
“Then who did?”
“I think it was the wind,” said Piglet. “I think your house has blown down.”
“Oh, is that it? I thought it was Pooh.”
“No,” said Pooh.
“If it was the wind,” said Owl, considering the matter, “then it wasn’t Pooh’s fault. No blame can be attached to him.” With these kind words he flew up to look at his new ceiling.
“Piglet!” called Pooh in a loud whisper.
Piglet leant down to him.
“Yes, Pooh?”
“What did he say was attached to me?”
“He said he didn’t blame you.”
“Oh! I thought he meant—Oh, I see.”
“Owl,” said Piglet, “come down and help Pooh.”
Owl, who was admiring his letterbox, flew down again. Together they pushed and pulled at the armchair, and in a little while Pooh came out from underneath, and was able to look round him again.
“Well!” said Owl. “This is a nice state of things!”
“What are we going to do, Pooh? Can you think of anything?” asked Piglet.
“Well, I had just thought of something,” said Pooh. “It was just a little thing I thought of.” And he began to sing:
I lay on my chest
And I thought it best
To pretend I was having an evening rest;
I lay on my tum
And I tried to hum
But nothing particular seemed to come.
My face was flat
On the floor, and that
Is all very well for an acrobat;
But it doesn’t seem fair
To a Friendly Bear
To stiffen him out with a basket-chair.
And a sort of sqoze
Which grows and grows
Is not too nice for his poor old nose,
And a sort of squch
Is much too much
For his neck and his mouth and his ears and such.
“That was all,” said Pooh.
Owl coughed in an unadmiring sort of way, and said that, if Pooh was sure that was all, they could now give their minds to the Problem of Escape.
“Because,” said Owl, “we can’t go out by what used to be the front door. Something’s fallen on it.”
“But how else can you go out?” asked Piglet anxiously.
“That
