this song, and one bee sat down on the nose of the cloud for a moment, and then got up again.
"Christopher—ow!—Robin," called out the cloud.
"Yes?"
"I have just been thinking, and I have come to a very important decision. These are the wrong sort of bees."
"Are they?"
"Quite the wrong sort. So I should think they would make the wrong sort of honey, shouldn't you?"
"Would they?"
"Yes. So I think I shall come down."
"How?" asked you.
Winnie-the-Pooh hadn't thought about this. If he let go of the string, he would fall—bump—and he didn't like the idea of that. So he thought for a long time, and then he said:
"Christopher Robin, you must shoot the balloon with your gun. Have you got your gun?"
"Of course I have," you said. "But if I do that, it will spoil the balloon," you said.
"But if you don't," said Pooh, "I shall have to let go, and that would spoil me."
