但他的手因为紧握着绳子太久所以僵硬了，一直高举在半空一个多星期。当有苍蝇飞到他的鼻子上，他只能把它吹走。我想──但不太肯定──这就是为什么他叫做Pooh。

So that the end of the story?” asked Christopher Robin.

“That’s the end of that one. There are others.”

“About Pooh and Me?”

“And Piglet and Rabbit and all of you. Don’t you remember?”

“I do remember, and then when I try to remember, I forget.”

“That day when Pooh and Piglet tried to catch the Heffalump—”

“They didn’t catch it, did they?”

“No.”

“Pooh couldn’t, because he hasn’t any brain. Did I catch it?”

“Well, that comes into the story.”

Christopher robin nodded.

“I do remember,” he said, “only Pooh doesn’t very well, so that’s why he likes having it told to him again. Because then it’s a real story and not just a remembering.”

“That’s just how I feel,” I said.

Christopher Robin gave a deep sigh, picked his Bear up by the leg, and walked off to the door, trailing Pooh behind him. At the door he turned and said, “Coming to see me have my bath?”

“I might,” I said.

“I didn’t hurt him when I shot him, did I?”

“Not a bit.”

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