Oh Bother Pooh Bear!

Oh hello there! My name is...is...oh! I'm Pooh. What's a Pooh you ask? Well, your looking at one! My friend Bigfoot Bear has let me set up my own little place on his webpage, totally dedicated to Pooh things. Isn't that sweet of him? Oh bother! I forgot what I put on the page!

Wisdom*Pics*Past Wisdom *Pooh Story*Poohrific Links*Pooh Webrings*
My Pooh

The Wisdom of the Pooh Bears

Week of December 1st--
"Drinking your milk and talking at the same time may result in your having to be patted on the back and dried for quite a long time afterwards."

Pooh Pics

Pooh Eating
Pooh Gang
Pooh's Garden
Pooh and Piglet
Another pic of Pooh and Piglet
Pooh at the Window
A Tired Pooh Bear
My Pooh bears
Pooh Walking Amongst the Leaves
A Little Black Rain Cloud
Pooh Disguised as a Bee
Poohbug
Think, think, think
Pooh in a tree
Pooh's Tummy
Reading Together
Pooh's Honey
Pooh Welcomes Winter
Pooh Trick-or-Treating
Pooh's Pumpkin
Winnie the What? (A Comic)
Pooh writes a letter

Pooh

By Christopher Milne

Pooh was only a year younger than I was, and my inseparable companion. As you find us in the poem 'Us Two,' so we were in real life. Every child has his favourite toy, and every only child has a special need for one. Pooh was mine, and probably, clasped in my arms, not really very different from the countless other bears clasped in the arms of countless other children. From time to time he went to the cleaners, and from time to time ears had to be sewn on again, lost eyes replaced and paws renewed.

The bear took his place in the nursery and gradually he began to come to life. It started in the nursery; it started with me.

It could really start nowhere else, for the toys lived in the nursery and they were mine and I played with them. And as I played with them and talked to them and gave them voices to answer with, so they began to breathe. But alone I couldn't take them very far. I needed help. So my mother joined me and she and I and the toys played together, and gradually more life and more character flowed into them, until they reached a point at which my father could take over. Then, as the first stories were written, the cycle was repeated. The Pooh in my arms, the Pooh sitting opposite me at the breakfast table, was a Pooh who had climbed trees in search of honey, who had got stuck in a rabbit hole, who was 'a bear of no brain at all'....