Read Now We Are Six Page 4

Has Timothy Tim.

  They go with him

  Wherever he goes,

  And wherever he goes

  They go with him.

  O Timothy Tim

  Has two blue eyes,

  And two blue eyes

  Has Timothy Tim.

  They cry with him

  Whenever he cries,

  And whenever he cries,

  They cry with him.

  O Timothy Tim

  Has one red head,

  And one red head

  Has Timothy Tim.

  It sleeps with him

  In Timothy’s bed.

  Sleep well, red head

  Of Timothy Tim.

  Waiting at the Window

  These are my two drops of rain

  Waiting on the window-pane.

  I am waiting here to see

  Which the winning one will be.

  Both of them have different names.

  One is John and one is James.

  All the best and all the worst

  Comes from which of them is first.

  James has just begun to ooze.

  He’s the one I want to lose.

  John is waiting to begin.

  He’s the one I want to win.

  James is going slowly on.

  Something sort of sticks to John.

  John is moving off at last.

  James is going pretty fast.

  John is rushing down the pane.

  James is going slow again.

  James has met a sort of smear.

  John is getting very near.

  Is he going fast enough?

  (James has found a piece of fluff.)

  John has hurried quickly by.

  (James was talking to a fly.)

  John is there, and John has won!

  Look! I told you! Here’s the sun!

  Pinkle Purr

  Tattoo was the mother of Pinkle Purr,

  A little black nothing of feet and fur;

  And by-and-by, when his eyes came through,

  He saw his mother, the big Tattoo.

  And all that he learned he learned from her.

  “I’ll ask my mother,” says Pinkle Purr.

  Tattoo was the mother of Pinkle Purr,

  A ridiculous kitten with silky fur.

  And little black Pinkle grew and grew

  Till he got as big as the big Tattoo.

  And all that he did he did with her.

  “Two friends together,” says Pinkle Purr.

  Tattoo was the mother of Pinkle Purr,

  An adventurous cat in a coat of fur.

  And whenever he thought of a thing to do,

  He didn’t much bother about Tattoo,

  For he knows it’s nothing to do with her,

  So “See you later,” says Pinkle Purr.

  Tattoo is the mother of Pinkle Purr,

  An enormous leopard with coal-black fur.

  A little brown kitten that’s nearly new

  Is now playing games with its big Tattoo…

  And Pink looks lazily down at her:

  “Dear little Tat,” says Pinkle Purr.

  Wind on the Hill

  No one can tell me,

  Nobody knows,

  Where the wind comes from,

  Where the wind goes.

  It’s flying from somewhere

  As fast as it can,

  I couldn’t keep up with it,

  Not if I ran.

  But if I stopped holding

  The string of my kite,

  It would blow with the wind

  For a day and a night.

  And then when I found it,

  Wherever it blew,

  I should know that the wind

  Had been going there too.

  So then I could tell them

  Where the wind goes…

  But where the wind comes from

  Nobody knows.

  Forgotten

  Lords of the Nursery

  Wait in a row,

  Five on the high wall,

  And four on the low;

  Big Kings and Little Kings,

  Brown Bears and Black,

  All of them waiting

  Till John comes back.

  Some think that John boy

  Is lost in the wood,

  Some say he couldn’t be,

  Some say he could.

  Some think that John boy

  Hides on the hill;

  Some say he won’t come back,

  Some say he will.

  High was the sun, when

  John went away…

  Here they’ve been waiting

  All through the day;

  Big Bears and Little Bears,

  White Kings and Black,

  All of them waiting

  Till John comes back.

  Lords of the Nursery

  Looked down the hill,

  Some saw the sheep-fold,

  Some saw the mill;

  Some saw the roofs

  Of the little grey town…

  And their shadows grew long

  As the sun slipt down.

  Gold between the poplars

  An old moon shows;

  Silver up the star-way

  The full moon rose;

  Silver down the star-way

  The old moon crept…

  And, one by another,

  The grey fields slept.

  Lords of the Nursery

  Their still watch keep…

  They hear from the sheep-fold

  The rustle of sheep.

  A young bird twitters

  And hides its head;

  A little wind suddenly

  Breathes, and is dead.

  Slowly and slowly

  Dawns the new day…

  What’s become of John boy?

  No one can say.

  Some think that John boy

  Is lost on the hill;

  Some say he won’t come back,

  Some say he will.

  What’s become of John boy?

  Nothing at all,

  He played with his skipping rope,

  He played with his ball.

  He ran after butterflies,

  Blue ones and red;

  He did a hundred happy things—

  And then went to bed.

  In the Dark

  I’ve had my supper,

  And had my supper,

  And HAD my supper and all;

  I’ve heard the story

  Of Cinderella,

  And how she went to the ball;

  I’ve cleaned my teeth,

  And I’ve said my prayers,

  And I’ve cleaned and said them right;

  And they’ve all of them been

  And kissed me lots,

  They’ve all of them said “Good-night.”

  So—here I am in the dark alone,

  There’s nobody here to see;

  I think to myself,

  I play to myself,

  And nobody knows what I say to myself;

  Here I am in the dark alone,

  What is it going to be?

  I can think whatever I like to think,

  I can play whatever I like to play,

  I can laugh whatever I like to laugh,

  There’s nobody here but me.

  I’m talking to a rabbit…

  I’m talking to the sun…

  I think I am a hundred—

  I’m one.

  I’m lying in a forest…

  I’m lying in a cave…

  I’m talking to a Dragon…

  I’m BRAVE.

  I’m lying on my left side…

  I’m lying on my right…

  I’ll play a lot tomorrow…

  I’ll think a lot tomorrow…

  I’ll laugh…

  a lot…

  tomorrow…

  (Heigh-ho!)

  Good-night.

  The End

  When I was
One,

  I had just begun.

  When I was Two,

  I was nearly new.

  When I was Three,

  I was hardly Me.

  When I was Four,

  I was not much more.

  When I was Five,

  I was just alive.

  But now I am Six, I’m as clever as clever.

  So I think I’ll be six now for ever and ever.

  A.A. MILNE (1882–1956) began his writing career as a humorist for Punch magazine, and also wrote plays and poetry. In 1926, he published his first stories about Winnie-the-Pooh, which were an instant success. Since then, Pooh has become a world-famous bear, and Milne’s stories have been translated into fifty languages.

  ERNEST H. SHEPARD (1879–1976) won a scholarship to the Royal Academy Schools, and later, like Milne, worked for Punch magazine, as a cartoonist and illustrator. Shepard’s witty and loving illustrations of Winnie-the-Pooh and his friends in the Hundred Acre Wood have become an inseparable part of the Pooh stories, and they have become classics in their own right.

  *Haw! Haw! Haw!

  *So I have had to write this one in pencil.

 


 

  A. A. Milne, Now We Are Six

  (Series: Winnie-the-Pooh # 4)

 

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