Solitude     I have a house where I go     When there’s too many people,     I have a house where I go     Where no one can be;     I have a house where I go     Where nobody ever says “No”;     Where no one says anything—so     There is no one but me.         King John’s Christmas     King John was not a good man—     He had his little ways.     And sometimes no one spoke to him     For days and days and days.     And men who came across him,     When walking in the town,     Gave him a supercilious stare,     Or passed with noses in the air—     And bad King John stood dumbly there,     Blushing beneath his crown.         King John was not a good man,     And no good friends had he.     He stayed in every afternoon.…     But no one came to tea.     And, round about December,     The cards upon his shelf     Which wished him lots of Christmas cheer,     And fortune in the coming year,     Were never from his near and dear,     But only from himself.         King John was not a good man.     Yet had his hopes and fears.     They’d given him no present now     For years and years and years.     But every year at Christmas,     While minstrels stood about,     Collecting tribute from the young     For all the songs they might have sung,     He stole away upstairs and hung     A hopeful stocking out.     King John was not a good man.     He lived his life aloof;     Alone he thought a message out     While climbing up the roof.     He wrote it down and propped it     Against the chimney stack:     “TO ALL AND SUNDRY—NEAR AND FAR—     F. CHRISTMAS IN PARTICULAR.”     And signed it not “Johannes R.”     But very humbly, “JACK.”         “I want some crackers,     And I want some candy;     I think a box of chocolates     Would come in handy;     I don’t mind oranges,     I do like nuts!     And I SHOULD like a pocketknife     That really cuts.     And, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me at all,     Bring me a big, red, india rubber ball!”     King John was not a good man—     He wrote this message out,     And got him to his room again,     Descending by the spout.     And all that night he lay there,     A prey to hopes and fears.     “I think that’s him a-coming now.”     (Anxiety bedewed his brow.)     “He’ll bring one present, anyhow—     The first I’ve had for years.”     “Forget about the crackers,     And forget about the candy;     I’m sure a box of chocolates     Would never come in handy;     I don’t like oranges,     I don’t want nuts,     And I HAVE got a pocketknife     That almost cuts.     But, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me at all,     Bring me a big, red, india rubber ball!”     King John was not a good man—     Next morning when the sun     Rose up to tell a waiting world     That Christmas had begun,     And people seized their stockings,     And opened them with glee,     And crackers, toys, and games appeared,     And lips with sticky sweets were smeared,     King John said grimly: “As I feared,     Nothing again for me!”         “I did want crackers,     And I did want candy;     I know a box of chocolates     Would come in handy;     I do love oranges,     I did want nuts.     I haven’t got a pocketknife—     Not one that cuts.     And, oh! If Father Christmas had loved me at all,     He would have brought a big, red, india rubber ball!”     King John stood by the window,     And frowned to see below     The happy bands of boys and girls     All playing in the snow.     A while he stood there watching,     And envying them all…     When through the window, big and red     There hurtled by his royal head,     And bounced and fell upon the bed,     An india rubber ball!     AND, OH, FATHER CHRISTMAS,     MY BLESSINGS ON YOU FALL     FOR BRINGING HIM     A BIG, RED,     INDIA RUBBER     BALL!      

The beloved chapter book series about the honey-loving, bumbling bear Winnie-the-Pooh, originally published in the 1920s, has been lovingly repackaged with new cover art and Ernest Shepard’s original black-and-white illustrations.