CHAPTER NINE
in which Piglet is entirely surrounded by water
It rained and it rained and it rained. Piglet told himself that never in all his life, and he was goodness knows how old – three, was it, or four? – never had he seen so much rain. Days and days and days.
‘If only,’ he thought, as he looked out of the window, ‘I had been in Pooh’s house, or Christopher Robin’s house, or Rabbit’s house when it began to rain, then I should have had Company all this time, instead of being here all alone, with nothing to do except wonder when it will stop.’ And he imagined himself with Pooh, saying, ‘Did you ever see such rain, Pooh?’ and Pooh saying, ‘Isn’t it awful, Piglet?’ and Piglet saying, ‘I wonder how it is over Christopher Robin’s way,’ and Pooh saying, ‘I should think poor old Rabbit is about flooded out by this time.’ It would have been jolly to talk like this, and really, it wasn’t much good having anything exciting like floods, if you couldn’t share them with somebody.
For it was rather exciting. The little dry ditches in which Piglet had nosed about so often had become streams, the little streams across which he had splashed were rivers, and the river, between whose steep banks they had played so happily, had sprawled out of its own bed and was taking up so much room everywhere, that Piglet was beginning to wonder whether it would be coming into his bed soon.