I don’t think he’s cold,” said Roo. “At least, he doesn’t feel cold.”
When Christopher Robin put the blanket over Tigger, he kicked it off, and when he poured out a mug of hot cocoa, Tigger sent it flying all over a woolen rug which a cousin of Kanga’s had crocheted and sent her for Christmas.
Christopher Robin called on Rabbit and Owl.
Rabbit said: “Keep him warm and give him cocoa,” which was not a lot of help, while Owl brought a black leather bag from which he removed a stethoscope, and listened to Tigger’s chest.
“What can you hear?” asked Roo. “And can I be doctor next?”
“No,” said Owl, “you cannot. All I can hear is drums, but it’s probably just his heartbeat.”
Tigger rolled his eyes and his tail stuck straight out behind him.
Just then, Pooh arrived, clutching a pot of honey.
“Do you think Tigger would like this?” he asked.
“Tiggers don’t like honey,” said Piglet.
“I had forgotten,” said Pooh, and he smiled a small, relieved smile.
That night and all the next day, Tigger lay under the ironing board muttering to himself, watched over by each of his worried friends in turn. Then on the third day, when Rabbit was checking the tidiness of Kanga’s cupboards while her back was turned, and going “tut-tut,” Tigger got up and slipped outside.
“Poor Tigger,” said Christopher Robin. “I wonder where he thinks he’s going.”
“To Africa, perhaps,” said Pooh.
Roo asked, “Which way is Africa?”
But nobody seemed to know.
It was Eeyore who found Tigger, lying on his back under an oak, staring at the branches.
“Africa!” Tigger muttered reproachfully at the tree.
Eeyore lifted him gently onto his back and brought him home.
“I was not always very kind to him,” the old donkey admitted, and sighed. “If only he hadn’t bounced.”
“He’s still not well,” said Piglet. “Look at how loose his skin is.”
This was true. Tigger’s skin appearedtobe several sizes toolarge.
“His tongue is not a good colour,” said Lottie. “I am not sure what colour it is meant to be, but I don’t think it’s that colour.”
“It’s meant to be tongue-coloured,” Owl suggested. “And it is now the colour a tongue goes after it has eaten too many blackberries.”
“Unripe, unwashed, and without custard,” added Lottie.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Christopher Robin, “if I were poorly, what I would most want.”
“To be well again,” said Pooh.
“Yes, Pooh, but what else? I think I should like to be surrounded by friendly and familiar things.”
“But he is,” said Pooh.
“If he’s decided he’s African...” Owl said, reasonably enough, “we can’t carry him to Africa; he’s too heavy. Unless . . . Eeyore?”
“Certainly not,” said Eeyore.
“I wonder,” said Christopher Robin. “Since we can’t take him to Africa, then I wonder whether we could bring Africa to him.”
“Africa!” said Tigger faintly, and burped.
Tigger lay in his favourite corner, restless and twitchy still, but in a kind of half-slumber. All around him the others had been busy and now they were putting the finishing touches to what Christopher Robin had proposed.
At first Tigger was aware of a gentle drumming. Was it his heart? No, it was coming from outside him.
He opened his eyes. Where on earth could he be? Above him was a canopy of lush green branches, and around him were swathes of fern and mosses. Water was dripping from the leaves, and it was hot and steamy. There was even a hissing of snakes.
“Where am I?” asked Tigger in wonderment. “Could I be...could I really be in Africa?”
Then Christopher Robin’s voice said, “Tigger, you are wherever you want to be. It’s called imagination.”
Tigger closed his eyes and fell happily asleep. Which was just as well, as it meant that he did not see Lottie drumming on two upturned wastepaper baskets with rolling pins belonging to Kanga and Rabbit, or Pooh up a ladder with a watering can, or Christopher Robin tending a fire, or even Roo blowing into the spouts of various kettles to make what he imagined might be snake hisses.
From that moment, Tigger’s slow recovery began. He began to do bending and stretching exercises, and his burps turned into occasional gentle hiccups. He demanded a spoonful of Extract of Malt every hour on the hour, and within a couple of days his skin no longer hung loose, his tongue was the pinkish colour proper for a fit Tigger, and his stripes —well, his stripes were the brightest and the best defined ever seen in the Hundred Acre Wood; possibly as bright as any in Africa.
One morning a week or so later, Roo and Tigger