momentum that it sailed high into the air and straight over the stones that marked the boundary. A moment of amazed silence was followed by Owl raising his wings and flapping them in the air.
“Six runs,” he announced. “Four Legs win the match.”
“I did it!” Piglet was hopping up and down in excitement. “I hit a six! I won the game!”
The other players on the Four Legs side—Tigger, Pooh, Rabbit, and Eeyore—gathered around Piglet and raised him high into the air. Christopher Robin, Lottie, Kanga, and Roo looked on, smiling despite their disappointment.
“Three cheers for the Four Legs!” cried Christopher Robin. “Hip, hip—”
“Hooray!” cried the others.
“And three more cheers for Piglet!” cried Roo.
So they cheered and cheered some more while Christopher Robin helped Henry Rush and his young assistants to complete the page in the scoring book.
It had a few rubbings out, but looked like this:
FOUR LEGS INNINGS
FOUR LEGS WIN!
Late into the evening, everyone sat around a bonfire (the shattered bat had come in useful as kindling) and listened as Christopher Robin told them stories of the great cricketers of past generations.
“But,” he added, “in the annals of cricketing legend, whenever and wherever stories are told, they will also mention the mighty six that Piglet hit with a bat taller than he was in the Test Match between the Two Legs and the Four Legs late one summer’s afternoon in the Hundred Acre Wood.”
“Oh...” sighed Piglet happily, as he carelessly toasted a cucumber sandwich. Then he dreamed for a while, until he was roused by Pooh announcing that he had composed a hum to commemorate the occasion.
“I would very much like to hear it,” said Lottie, who had, after all, been the top scorer of the match.
“So would I,” whispered Piglet.
And so here is the hum as hummed by Pooh on the night of the great match, as the eyes of the cricketers shone and glistened in the firelight under the chestnut trees:
Who was it hit the winning run
For the Four Legs against the Two?
Though the bat in his hand
Disappeared into sand,
Was it me?
No—
It was you.
Who was it won the cricket game
For the Four Legs against the Two?
Though his bat was as big
As a fully grown pig,
Was it me?
No—
It was you.
Do we give a fig for the little pig
And the Four Legs who beat the Two?
We give more than that
For the pig and the bat,
And the mighty hit
Which completed it,
And the mighty swish
Like a massive fish.
Was it me?
No—
It was you.
Not Pooh
But Piglet.
It was you!
“But,” said Pooh, “it wasn’t really like a fish, only I couldn’t think of anything else and then I ran out of time, and sometimes it’s best to have something not quite right in a hum so that everybody can say: ‘Humph! I could have done it better myself.’”
“I couldn’t have,” said Christopher Robin quietly.
Chapter Nine
in which Tigger dreams of Africa
EEYORE, THE OLD GREY DONKEY and ex-headmaster, had been working on his letters with the aid of broken sticks. He was now expert at the straight letters like A and E and F and H, but needed to find bendy sticks for the curvy ones like C and R and S.
“Then you can’t make Christopher Robin,” said Piglet, and added after a moment’s thought, “or Piglet.”
“Or Eeyore,” said Eeyore. “Can’t make anything, except THE. What good is THE without something to come after it?”
“None at all,” said Piglet, who had come to see Eeyore just in case he hadn’t heard Pooh’s Cricketing Hum.
Eeyore looked down at Piglet’s feet.
“I do appreciate this kind visit,” he said, “but I’ll thank you for not standing on my thistle patch. I’m running short.”
“Should I help you look for some more?”
“If you have nothing better to do, Piglet. Old thistles are fine if you’ve got the teeth for ’em, but for crunchiness and fullness of flavour there is nothing to beat a patch of young thistles with the purple flowers still on them. What’s more, little Piglet, they are a cure for aches and pains.”
“Do you have some of those then, Eeyore?”
“After being wicked-keeper what can you expect?”
Just then, Lottie, who had been teasing the trout in the stream, which was sparkling and fresh again after a summer storm, joined them.
“Fine morning,” she said pleasantly.
“No,” said Eeyore. “It wasn’t then, and it isn’t now.”
“Don’t mind him,” said Piglet. “He’s out of thistles, Lottie.”
“Is that all? I know where the best thistles are. Would you like me to take you there, Eeyore?”
As they walked through the Forest carrying paper bags, a stripy thing