It rained and it rained and it rained. Piglet told himself that never in all his life, and he was goodness knows how old—three, was it, or four?—never had he seen so much rain. Days and days and days.

“If only,” he thought, as he looked out of the window, “I had been in Pooh’s house, or Christopher Robin’s house, or Rabbit’s house when it began to rain, then I should have had Company all this time, instead of being here all alone, with nothing to do except wonder when it will stop.” And he imagined himself with Pooh, saying, “Did you ever see such rain, Pooh?” and Pooh saying, “Isn’t it awful, Piglet?” and Piglet saying, “I wonder how it is over Christopher Robin’s way” and Pooh saying, “I should think poor old Rabbit is about flooded out by this time.” It would have been jolly to talk like this, and really, it wasn’t much good having anything exciting like floods, if you couldn’t share them with somebody.

They stuck the pole in the ground, and Christopher Robin tied a message on to it.

Then they all went home again. And I think, but I am not quite sure, that Roo had a hot bath and went straight to bed. But Pooh went back to his own house, and feeling very proud of what he had done, had a little something to revive himself.

“Pooh’s found the North Pole,” said Christopher Robin. “Isn’t that lovely?”

Pooh looked modestly down.

“Is that it?” said Eeyore.

“Yes,” said Christopher Robin.

“Is that what we were looking for?”

“Yes,” said Pooh.

“Oh!” said Eeyore. “Well, anyhow—it didn’t rain,” he said.

“Use what?” said Pooh.

“What we are talking about.”

“I wasn’t talking about anything,” said Pooh, looking puzzled.

“My mistake again. I thought you were saying how sorry you were about my tail, being all numb, and could you do anything to help?”

“No,” said Pooh. “That wasn’t me,” he said. He thought for a little and then suggested helpfully, “Perhaps it was somebody else.”

“Well, thank him for me when you see him.”

Pooh looked anxiously at Christopher Robin.