If You Want To Make

When You Are A Bear Of Very Little Brain, And You Think Of Things, You Find Sometimes That A Thing Which Seemed Very Thingish Inside You Is Quite Different When It Gets Out Into The Open And Has Other People Looking At It.

Pay Attention To Where You Are Going Because Without Meaning You Might Get Nowhere.

No Sensible Author Wants Anything But Praise.

But [pooh] Couldn't Sleep. The More He Tried To Sleep The More He Couldn't. He Tried Counting Sheep, Which Is Sometimes A Good Way Of Getting To Sleep, And, As That Was No Good, He Tried Counting Heffalumps. And That Was Worse. Because Every Heffalump That He Counted Was Making Straight For A Pot Of Pooh's Honey, And Eating It All. For Some Minutes He Lay There Miserably, But When The Five Hundred And Eighty-seventh Heffalump Was Licking Its Jaws, And Saying To Itself, "very Good Honey This, I Don't Know When I've Tasted Better," Pooh Could Bear It No Longer.

Never Forget Me, Because If I Thought You Would, I'd Never Leave.