It was a drowsy summer afternoon, and the Forest was full of gentle sounds, which all seemed to be saying to Pooh, 'Don't listen to Rabbit, listen to me.' So he got in a comfortable position for not listening to Rabbit.

Something feels funny. I must be thinking too hard.

She turned to the sunlight And shook her yellow head, And whispered to her neighbor: "Winter is dead.

Piglet: "How do you spell 'love'?" Winnie the Pooh: "You don't spell it...you feel it."

I suppose this is the reason why diaries are so rarely kept nowadays- that nothing ever happens to anybody.

Nowhere can I think so happily as in a train.

Now then, Pooh," said Christopher Robin, "where's your boat?" "I ought to say," explained Pooh as they walked down to the shore of the island, "that it isn't just an ordinary sort of boat. Sometimes it's a Boat, and sometimes it's more of an Accident. It all depends." "Depends on what?" "On whether I'm on the top of it or underneath it.