I won’t retread the volumes of glory on which this book fittingly reclines, nor will I lament the sad tale of Milne’s relationship with his son. I won’t philosophize on Tao nor will I wax nostalgic over the dim memories of my own Pooh Bear as a child. No, I will simply close my eyes and once again see my precious three year old granddaughter in ribbons, swinging high on a spring day with an expedition in her heart and a song on her lips.
“Sing Ho! for the life of a Bear!
Sing Ho! for the life of a Bear!”