“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 bounced up to them.

“Good morning, Tigger,” said Piglet nervously.

“No,” said Eeyore. “It wasn’t, and now it’s getting worse.”

“Hallo, Piglet; hallo, Eeyore; hallo, Lottie,” cried Tigger. “Where are you all off to?”

“We’re looking for thistles for Eeyore’s aches and pains,” said Piglet.

“I shall come too!” Tigger bounced high over a tree stump and back.

“Could you not limit yourself to small bounces?” Lottie asked.

“Very small bounces,” Eeyore warned.

“Like this!” said Piglet. He did a small bounce to show Tigger what he meant, and tripped over some bindweed.

The four of them set off. On the way, they met Kanga and Roo, who were enjoying the air after the storm, and the whole party headed into a cluster of trees.

Just inside, they passed a clump of blackberry bushes, heavy with succulent berries.

“Those are blackberries,” said Lottie. “Best in a pie with shortcrust pastry and custard.”

“Tiggers like blackberries,” said Tigger, after tasting one.

“Well, be careful, Tigger,” warned Kanga. “Only eat the black and juicy ones, and don’t eat too many.”

Tigger tasted several, and then grabbed a whole pawful, and then another and then another. As he munched, he said something which could have been: “Oommphph!” unlessperhapsitwas“Splurghfff!”

After a few swallows, Tigger beamed broadly and said, “Tiggers like blackberries very much,” with which he grabbed another pawful.

Meanwhile, Eeyore had come to a copious clump of purple thistles and was chewing on one.

“Not the best,” he mumbled as he chomped away,and grudgingly added, “Not the worst, either.”

When Kanga, Tigger, and Roo arrived home, Kanga said she would make them pancakes for dinner. But Tigger said that he didn’t think he would be able to eat any pancakes, so Roo said that he would eat them for him—and he did. When the pancakes had been disposed of, there was Extract of Malt for afters, but Tigger said that he didn’t think he could eat any of that either.

“Not even Extract of Malt?” asked Kanga. “My, my. That’s what comes of snacks between meals!”

After dinner, Roo brought out the big atlas, which they had borrowed from Christopher Robin. While Kanga darned socks, Roo and Tigger jumped over oceans, conquered nations, and tore off a corner of Madagascar by mistake.

Suddenly, Tiggers at back on his haunches, and looked down at West Africa, which was spread out beneath his feet. He blinked a couple of times, and let loose a magnificent burp.

“Tigger, dear!” said Kanga, a little less mildly than usual. Roo started to giggle, then looked more closely at Tigger.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Never better!” said Tigger, burping again and looking startled. “What’s that country?”

Looking over Tigger’s shoulder, Kanga identified it, “That’s the Ivory Coast.”

“Ivory Coast,” murmured Roo. “Sounds lovely.”

Tigger said: “I was just wondering: where do I come from?”

“Don’t you remember?” asked Kanga.

“Now you come to mention it, I do. I remember a forest, with trees much taller than the ones in the Hundred Acre Wood. And monkeys. I’m sure I remember monkeys. At least, I think I am sure.”

“Sounds like Africa,” said Kanga. “Now it’s bath-time, and then bed.”

“Oh no, not bath-time!” cried Roo, which was what he always said.

Tiggersaidnothing.Africa...Africa...it sounded right.

Tigger found he could not sleep. He tried lying on his back, but he did not know where to put his legs. He tried lying on his side, but his whiskers tickled. He tried standing up, but only Eeyore could sleep standing up, so finally he curled up in a corner under the ironing board and shut his eyes. But sleep would not come. His skin felt crawly, as if all his stripes were running into one big stripe, like raindrops on a windowpane, but, when he opened his eyes to check, he was not all orange or all black but just the same as he always was. He did not feel Tiggerish. He did not feel well. He burped and groaned. And, finally, he slipped into a fitful sleep.

Then he muttered: “Africa,” but his eyes remained shut.

“I ’spect he’s dreaming of the jungle,” said Roo, when they found him the next morning, still muttering. “That’s what I ’spect.”

At midday, Kanga sent Roo with a message to Christopher Robin’s house.

“Christopher Robin, Christopher Robin!” cried Roo. “Tigger’s not well. He’s twitching and making noises.”

“What sort of noises?”

“Rude ones, mainly.”

“It’s probably influenza,” said Christopher Robin. He had had it himself, and Matron had said to keep warm and drink lots. So he made a thermos of hot cocoa and took it around to Kanga’s house, along with a blue blanket that had a silky bit around the edge.

“But 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 and Piglet were sliding down the water chute when Christopher Robin and Pooh came briskly up to them. Christopher Robin was carrying a big book, and Pooh a sheet of handsome blue writing paper.

“Tigger,” said Christopher Robin, “we have something important to tell you.”

“Really?” said Tigger, and splashed water over Roo, who splashed water over Piglet, who splashed water over Tigger. “What’s that?”

“You ought to be sitting down,” said Christopher Robin. “It’s sitting down stuff.”

“Righty-ho!” said Tigger, and sat down twice with a bit of a bounce in between.

“Shall I tell him?” Pooh asked Christopher Robin, who nodded.

“Tigger, you aren’t African!”

“’Course I am!” said Tigger.

“You can’t be.”

“Why can’t I be?”

“You’re a tiger and there aren’t any tigers in Africa,” Christopher Robin explained. “Tigers come from Asia. China and India and places like that.”

“And circuses,” said Pooh.

Tigger thought about all this for a moment. It was a good deal to take in.

“Who says?”

Christopher Robin opened the big book at a place he had marked with a slip of paper.

“The Encyclopedia does.”

“Hmm . . .” Tigger considered this with his head on one side. Then he looked triumphantly at Pooh. “Bears don’t come from England.”

Christopher Robin smiled and said: “Well, there’s one here, and there always will be. Pooh Bear.”

“Am I the only one?” asked Pooh.

Christopher Robin thought for a moment.

“Well, maybe not the only bear in England,” he concluded. “But in all the world you are the one and only, incomparable Winnie-the-Pooh.”