Children’s Literature

2007 年 3 月 27 日

CHARLOTTE’S WEB

 

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Charlotte’s Web by

E. B. White

 

Scholastic, Inc. Copyright 1952

PDF edition made by Chaixingzi, March, 27th, 2007

 

 

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Contents

 

1. BEFORE BREAKFAST

 

2. WILBUR

 

3. ESCAPE

 

4. LONELINESS

 

5. CHARLOTTE

 

6. SUMMER DAYS

 

7. BAD NEWS

 

8. A TALK AT HOME

 

9. … WILBUR’S BOAST

 

10. AN EXPLOSION

 

11. THE MIRACLE

 

12. A MEETING

 

13. GOOD PROGRESS

 

14. DR. DORIAN

 

 

 

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15. THE CRICKETS

 

16. Off To The Fair

 

17. UNCLE

 

18. THE COOL OF THE EVENING

 

19. THE EGG SAC

 

20. THE HOUR OF TRIUMPH

 

21. LAST DAY

 

22. A WARM WIND

 

 

 

 

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CHAPTER 1

 

Before Breakfast

 

Where’s Papa going with that ax?” said Fern to her mother as they were

setting the table for breakfast.

 

“Out to the hoghouse,” replied Mrs. Arable. “Some pigs were born last

night.”

 

“I don’t see why he needs an ax,” continued Fern, who was only eight.

 

“Well,” said her mother, “one of the pigs is a runt. It’s very small

and weak, and it will never amount to anything. So your father has

decided to do away with it.”

 

“Do away with it?” shrieked Fern. “You mean kill it? Just because it’s

smaller than the others?”

 

Mrs. Arable put a pitcher of cream on the table. “Don’t yell, Fern!”

she said. “Your father is right. The pig would probably die anyway.”

 

Fern pushed a chair out of the way and ran outdoors. The grass was

wet

and the earth smelled of springtime. Fern’s sneakers were sopping by

the time she caught up with her father.

 

“Please don’t kill it!” she sobbed. “It’s unfair.”

 

 

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Mr. Arable stopped walking.

 

“Fern,” he said gently, “you will have to learn to control yourself.”

 

“Control myself?” yelled Fern. “This is a matter of life and death, and

you talk about _controlling myself.” Tears ran down her cheeks and she

took hold of the ax and tried to pull it out of her father’s hand.

 

“Fern,” said Mr. Arable, “I know more about raising a litter of pigs

than you do. A weakling makes trouble. Now run along!”

 

“But it’s unfair,” cried Fern. “The pig couldn’t help being born small,

could it? If I had been very small at birth, would you have killed me?”

 

Mr. Arable smiled. “Certainly not,” he said, looking down at his

daughter with love. “But this is different. A little girl is one

thing, a little runty pig is another.”

 

“I see no difference,” replied Fern, still hanging on to the ax. “This

is the most terrible case of injustice I ever heard of.”

 

A queer look came over John Arable’s face. He seemed almost ready

to

cry himself.

 

“All right,” he said. “You go back to the house and I will bring the

runt when I come in. I’ll let you start it on a bottle, like a baby.

Then you’ll see what trouble a pig can be.”

 

When Mr. Arable returned to the house half an hour later, he carried a

 

 

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carton under his arm. Fern was upstairs changing her sneakers. The

kitchen table was set for breakfast, and the room smelled of coffee,

bacon, damp plaster, and wood smoke from the stove.

 

“Put it on her chair!” said Mrs. Arable. Mr. Arable set the carton

down at Fern’s place. Then he walked to the sink and washed his

hands

and dried them on the roller towel.

 

Fern came slowly down the stairs. Her eyes were red from crying. As

she approached her chair, the carton wobbled, and there was a

scratching

noise. Fern looked at her father. Then she lifted the lid of the

carton. There, inside, looking up at her, was the newborn pig. It was

a white one. The morning light shone through its ears, turning them

pink.

 

“He’s yours,” said Mr. Arable. “Saved from an untimely death. And may

the good Lord forgive me for this foolishness.”

 

Fern couldn’t take her eyes off the tiny pig. “Oh,” she whispered. “Oh,

look at him! He’s absolutely perfect.”

 

She closed the carton carefully. First she kissed her father, then she

kissed her mother. Then she opened the lid again, lifted the pig out,

and held it against her cheek. At this moment her brother Avery came

into the room. Avery was ten.

 

He was heavily armed – an air rifle in one hand, a wooden dagger in

the

other.

 

 

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“What’s that?” he demanded. “What’s Fern got?”

 

“She’s got a guest for breakfast,” said Mrs. Arable. “Wash your hands

and face, Avery!”

 

“Let’s see it!” said Avery, setting his gun down. “You call that

miserable thing a pig? That’s a fine specimen of a pig it’s no bigger

than a white rat.”

 

“Wash up and eat your breakfast, Avery!” said his mother.

 

“The school bus will be along in half an hour.”

 

“Can I have a pig, too, Pop?” asked Avery.

 

“No, I only distribute pigs to early risers,” said Mr. Arable. “Fern

was up at daylight, trying to rid the world of injustice. As a result,

she now has a pig. A small one, to be sure, but nevertheless a pig. It

just shows what can happen if a person gets out of bed promptly. Let’s

eat!”

 

But Fern couldn’t eat until her pig had had a drink of milk.

 

Mrs. Arable found a baby’s nursing bottle and a rubber nipple. She

poured warm milk into the bottle, fitted the nipple over the top, and

handed it to Fern. “Give him his breakfast!” she said.

 

A minute later, Fern was seated on the floor in the corner of the

kitchen with her infant between her knees, teaching it to suck from the

bottle. The pig, although tiny, had a good appetite and caught on

 

 

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quickly.

 

The school bus honked from the road.

 

“Run!” commanded Mrs. Arable, taking the pig from Fern and slipping

a

doughnut into her hand. Avery grabbed his gun and another

doughnut.

 

The children ran out to the road and climbed into the bus. Fern took no

notice of the others in the bus. She just sat and stared out of the

window, thinking what a blissful world it was and how lucky she was to

have entire charge of a pig. By the time the bus reached school, Fern

had named her pet, selecting the most beautiful name she could think

of.

 

“Its name is Wilbur,” she whispered to herself.

 

She was still thinking about the pig when the teacher said: “Fern, what

is the capital of Pennsylvania?”

 

“Wilbur,” replied Fern, dreamily. The pupils giggled. Fern blushed.

 

CHAPTER 2

 

Wilbur

 

Fern loved Wilbur more than anything. She loved to stroke him, to feed

him, to put him to bed. Every morning, as soon as she got up, she

warmed his milk, tied his bib on, and held the bottle for him. Every

 

 

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afternoon, when the school bus stopped in front of her house, she

jumped

out and ran to the kitchen to fix another bottle for him. She fed him

again at suppertime, and again just before going to bed. Mrs. Arable

gave him a feeding around noontime each day, when Fern was away

in

school. Wilbur loved his milk, and he was never happier than when

Fern

was warming up a bottle for him. He would stand and gaze up at her

with

adoring eyes.

 

For the first few days of his life, Wilbur was allowed to live in a box

near the stove in the kitchen. Then, when Mrs. Arable complained, he

was moved to a bigger box in the woodshed. At two weeks of age, he

was

moved outdoors. It was apple-blossom time, and the days were

getting

warmer. Mr. Arable fixed a small yard specially for Wilbur under an

apple tree, and gave him a large wooden box full of straw, with a

doorway cut in it so he could walk in and out as he pleased.

 

“Won’t he be cold at night?” asked Fern.

 

“No,” said her father. “You watch and see what he does.”

 

Carrying a bottle of milk, Fern sat down under the apple tree inside the

yard. Wilbur ran to her and she held the bottle for him while he

sucked. When he had finished the last drop, he grunted and walked

sleepily into the box. Fern peered through the door. Wilbur was poking

the straw with his snout. In a short time he had dug a tunnel in the

 

 

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straw. He crawled into the tunnel and disappeared from sight,

completely covered with straw.

 

Fern was enchanted. It relieved her mind to know that her baby would

sleep covered up, and would stay warm.

 

Every morning after breakfast, Wilbur walked out to the road with Fern

and waited with her till the bus came. She would wave good-bye to

him,

and he would stand and watch the bus until it vanished around a turn.

While Fern was in school, Wilbur was shut up inside his yard. But as

soon as she got home in the afternoon, she would take him out and he

would follow her around the place. If she went into the house, Wilbur

went, too. If she went upstairs, Wilbur would wait at the bottom step

until she came down again. If she took her doll for a walk in the doll

carriage, Wilbur followed along. Sometimes, on these journeys, Wilbur

would get tired, and Fern would pick him up and put him in the

carriage

alongside the doll. He liked this. And if he was very tired, he would

close his eyes and go to sleep under the doll’s blanket. He looked cute

when his eyes were closed, because his lashes were so long. The doll

would close her eyes, too, and Fern would wheel the carriage very

slowly

and smoothly so as not to wake her infants.

 

One warm afternoon, Fern and Avery put on bathing suits and went

down to

the brook for a swim. Wilbur tagged along at Fern’s heels. When she

waded into the brook, Wilbur waded in with her. He found the water

quite

cold – too cold for his liking. So while the children swam and played

 

 

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and splashed water at each other, Wilbur amused himself in the mud

along

the edge of the brook, where it was warm and moist and delightfully

sticky and oozy.

 

Every day was a happy day, and every night was peaceful.

 

Wilbur was what farmers call a spring pig, which simply means that he

was born in springtime. When he was five weeks old, Mr. Arable said

he

was now big enough to sell, and would have to be sold. Fern broke

down

and wept. But her father was firm about it. Wilbur’s appetite had

increased; he was beginning to eat scraps of food in addition to milk.

Mr. Arable was not willing to provide for him any longer. He had

already sold Wilbur’s ten brothers and sisters.

 

“He’s got to go, Fern,” he said. “You have had your fun raising a baby

pig, but Wilbur is not a baby any longer and he has got to be sold.”

 

“Call up the Zuckermans,” suggested Mrs. Arable to Fern. “Your Uncle

Homer sometimes raises a pig. And if Wilbur goes there to live, you can

walk down the road and visit him as often as you like.”

 

“How much money should I ask for him?” Fern wanted to know.

 

“Well,” said her father, “he’s a runt. Tell your Uncle Homer you’ve got

a pig you’ll sell for six dollars, and see what he says.”

 

It was soon arranged. Fern phoned and got her Aunt Edith, and her

Aunt

 

 

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Edith hollered for Uncle Homer, and Uncle Homer came in from the

barn

and talked to Fern. When he heard that the price was only six dollars,

he said he would buy the pig. Next day Wilbur was taken from his

home

under the apple tree and went to live in a manure pile in the cellar of

Zuckerman’s barn.

 

CHAPTER 3

 

Escape

 

The barn was very large. It was very old. It smelled of hay and it

smelled of manure. It smelled of the perspiration of tired horses and

the wonderful sweet breath of patient cows. It often had a sort of

peaceful smell – as though nothing bad could happen ever again in

the

world. It smelled of grain and of harness dressing and of axle grease

and of rubber boots and of new rope. And whenever the cat was

given a

fish-head to eat, the barn would smell of fish. But mostly it smelled

of hay, for there was always hay in the great loft up overhead. And

there was always hay being pitched down to the cows and the horses

and

the sheep.

 

The barn was pleasantly warm in winter when the animals spent most

of

their time indoors, and it was pleasantly cool in summer when the big

doors stood wide open to the breeze. The barn had stalls on the main

floor for the work horses, tie-ups on the main floor for the cows, a

 

 

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sheepfold down below for the sheep, a pigpen down below for Wilbur,

and

it was full of all sorts of things that you find in barns: ladders,

grindstones, pitch forks, monkey wrenches, scythes, lawn mowers, snow

shovels, ax handles, milk pails, water buckets, empty grain sacks, and

rusty rat traps. It was the kind of barn that swallows like to build

their nests in. It was the kind of barn that children like to play in.

And the whole thing was owned by Fern’s uncle, Mr. Homer L.

Zuckerman.

 

Wilbur’s new home was in the lower part of the barn, directly

underneath

the cows. Mr. Zuckerman knew that a manure pile is a good place to

keep a young pig. Pigs need warmth, and it was warm and

comfortable

down there in the barn cellar on the south side.

 

Fern came almost every day to visit him. She found an old milking stool

that had been discarded, and she placed the stool in the sheepfold

next

to Wilbur’s pen. Here she sat quietly during the long afternoons,

thinking and listening and watching Wilbur. The sheep soon got to

know

her and trust her. So did the geese, who lived with the sheep. All the

animals trusted her, she was so quiet and friendly. Mr. Zuckerman did

not allow her to take Wilbur out, and he did not allow her to get into

the pigpen. But he told Fern that she could sit on the stool and watch

Wilbur as long as she wanted to. It made her happy just to be near the

pig, and it made Wilbur happy to know that she was sitting there, right

outside his pen. But he never had any fun no walks, no rides, no swims.

 

 

 

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One afternoon in June, when Wilbur was almost two months old, he

wandered out into his small yard outside the barn. Fern had not arrived

for her usual visit. Wilbur stood in the sun feeling lonely and bored.

 

“There’s never anything to do around here,” he thought. He walked

slowly to his food trough and sniffed to see if anything had been

overlooked at lunch. He found a small strip of potato skin and ate it.

His back itched, so he leaned against the fence and rubbed against

the

boards. When he tired of this, he walked indoors, climbed to the top of

the manure pile, and sat down. He didn’t feel like going to sleep, he

didn’t feel like digging, he was tired of standing still, tired of lying

down. “I’m less than two months old and I’m tired of living,” he said.

He walked out to the yard again.

 

“When I’m out here,” he said, “there’s no place to go but in. When I’m

indoors, there’s no place to go but out in the yard.”

 

“That’s where you’re wrong, my friend, my friend,” said a voice.

 

Wilbur looked through the fence and saw the goose standing there.

 

“You don’t have to stay in that dirty-little dirty-little dirty-little

yard,” said the goose, who talked rather fast. “One of the boards is

loose. Push on it, push-push-push on it, and come on out!”

 

“What?” said Wilbur. “Say it slower!”

 

“At-at-at, at the risk of repeating myself,” said the goose, “I suggest

that you come on out. It’s wonderful out here.”

 

 

 

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“Did you say a board was loose?”

 

“That I did, that I did,” said the goose.

 

Wilbur walked up to the fence and saw that the goose was right – one

board was loose. He put his head down, shut his eyes, and pushed.

The

board gave way. In a minute he had squeezed through the fence and

was

standing in the long grass outside his yard. The goose chuckled.

 

“How does it feel to be free?” she asked.

 

“I like it,” said Wilbur. “That is, I _guess I like it.”

 

Actually, Wilbur felt queer to be outside his fence, with nothing

between him and the big world.

 

“Where do you think I’d better go?”

 

“Anywhere you like, anywhere you like,” said the goose. “Go down

through the orchard, root up the sod! Go down through the garden,

dig

up the radishes! Root up everything! Eat grass! Look for corn! Look

for oats! Run all over! Skip and dance, jump and prance! Go down

through the orchard and stroll in the woods! The world is a wonderful

place when you’re young.”

 

“I can see that,” replied Wilbur. He gave a jump in the air, twirled,

ran a few steps, stopped, looked all around, sniffed the smells of

 

 

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afternoon, and then set off walking down through the orchard.

Pausing

in the shade of an apple tree, he put his strong snout into the ground

and began pushing, digging, and rooting. He felt very happy. He had

plowed up quite a piece of ground before anyone noticed him. Mrs.

Zuckerman was the first to see him. She saw him from the kitchen

window, and she immediately shouted for the men.

 

“Ho-mer!” she cried. “Pig’s out! Lurvy! Pig’s out! Homer!

 

Lurvy! Pig’s out. He’s down there under that apple tree.”

 

“Now the trouble starts,” thought Wilbur. “Now I’ll catch it.”

 

The goose heard the racket and she, too, started hollering.

 

“Run-run-run downhill, make for the woods, the woods!” she shouted to

Wilbur. “They’ll never-never-never catch you in the woods.”

 

The cocker spaniel heard the commotion and he ran out from the barn

to

join the chase. Mr. Zuckerman heard, and he came out of the

machine

shed where he was mending a tool. Lurvy, the hired man, heard the

noise

and came up from the asparagus patch where he was pulling weeds.

Everybody walked toward Wilbur and Wilbur didn’t know what to do.

The

woods seemed a long way off, and anyway, he had never been down

there in

the woods and wasn’t sure he would like it.

 

 

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“Get around behind him, Lurvy,” said Mr. Zuckerman, “and drive him

toward the barn! And take it easy – don’t rush him!

 

I’ll go and get a bucket of slops.”

 

The news of Wilbur’s escape spread rapidly among the animals on the

place. Whenever any creature broke loose on Zuckerman’s farm, the

event

was of great interest to the others. The goose shouted to the nearest

cow that Wilbur was free, and soon all the cows knew. Then one of the

cows told one of the sheep, and soon all the sheep knew. The lambs

learned about it from their mothers. The horses, in their stalls in the

barn, pricked up their ears when they heard the goose hollering; and

soon the horses had caught on to what was happening. “Wilbur’s out,”

they said. Every animal stirred and lifted its head and became excited

to know that one of his friends had got free and was no longer penned

up

or tied fast.

 

Wilbur didn’t know what to do or which way to run. It seemed as

though

everybody was after him. “If this is what it’s like to be free,” he

thought, “I believe I’d rather be penned up in my own yard.”

 

The cocker spaniel was sneaking up on him from one side, Lurvy the

hired

man was sneaking up on him from the other side. Mrs. Zuckerman

stood

ready to head him off if he started for the garden, and now Mr.

Zuckerman was coming down toward him carrying a pail. “This is really

 

 

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awful,” thought Wilbur. “Why doesn’t Fern come?” He began to cry.

 

The goose took command and began to give orders.

 

“Don’t just stand there, Wilbur! Dodge about, dodge about!”

 

cried the goose. “Skip around, run toward me, slip in and out, in and

out, in and out! Make for the woods! Twist and turn!”

 

The cocker spaniel sprang for Wilbur’s hind leg. Wilbur jumped and ran.

Lurvy reached out and grabbed. Mrs. Zuckerman screamed at Lurvy.

The

goose cheered for Wilbur. Wilbur dodged between Lurvy’s legs. Lurvy

missed Wilbur and grabbed the spaniel instead.

 

“Nicely done, nicely done!” cried the goose. “Try it again, try it

again!”

 

“Run downhill!” suggested the cows.

 

“Run toward me!” yelled the gander.

 

“Run uphill!” cried the sheep.

 

“Turn and twist!” honked the goose.

 

“Jump and dance!” said the rooster.

 

“Look out for Lurvy!” called the cows.

 

“Look out for Zuckerman!” yelled the gander.

 

 

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“Watch out for the dog!” cried the sheep.

 

“Listen to me, listen to me!” screamed the goose.

 

Poor Wilbur was dazed and frightened by this hullabaloo. He didn’t like

being the center of all this fuss. He tried to follow the instructions

his friends were giving him, but he couldn’t run downhill and uphill at

the same time, and he couldn’t turn and twist when he was jumping

and

dancing, and he was crying so hard he could barely see anything that

was

happening.

 

After all, Wilbur was a very young pig – not much more than a baby,

really. He wished Fern were there to take him in her arms and comfort

him. When he looked up and saw Mr. Zuckerman standing quite close

to

him, holding a pail of warm slops, he felt relieved. He lifted his nose

and sniffed. The smell was delicious – warm milk, potato skins, wheat

middlings, Kellogg’s Corn Flakes, and a popover left from the

Zuckermans’ breakfast.

 

“Come, pig!” said Mr. Zuckerman, tapping the pail. “Come pig!”

 

Wilbur took a step toward the pail.

 

“No-no-no!” said the goose. “It’s the old pail trick, Wilbur. Don’t

fall for it, don’t fall for it! He’s trying to lure you back into

captivity-ivity. He’s appealing to your stomach.”

 

 

 

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Wilbur didn’t care. The food smelled appetizing. He took another step

toward the pail.

 

“Pig, pig!” said Mr. Zuckerman in a kind voice, and began walking

slowly toward the barnyard, looking all about him innocently, as he

didn’t know that a little white pig was following along behind him.

 

“You’ll be sorry-sorry-sorry,” called the goose.

 

Wilbur didn’t care. He kept walking toward the pail of slops.

 

“You’ll miss your freedom,” honked the goose. “An hour of freedom is

worth a barrel of slops.”

 

Wilbur didn’t care.

 

When Mr. Zuckerman reached the pigpen, he climbed over the fence

and

poured the slops into the trough. Then he pulled the loose board away

from the fence, so that there was a wide hole for Wilbur to walk

through.

 

“Reconsider, reconsider!” cried the goose.

 

Wilbur paid no attention. He stepped through the fence into his yard.

He walked to the trough and took a long drink of slops, sucking in the

milk hungrily and chewing the popover. It was good to be home again.

 

While Wilbur ate, Lurvy fetched a hammer and some 8-penny nails and

nailed the board in place. Then he and Mr. Zuckerman leaned lazily

on

 

 

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the fence and Mr. Zuckerman scratched Wilbur’s back with a stick.

 

“He’s quite a pig,” said Lurvy.

 

“Yes, he’ll make a good pig,” said Mr. Zuckerman.

 

Wilbur heard the words of praise. He felt the warm milk inside his

stomach. He felt the pleasant rubbing of the stick along his itchy

back. He felt peaceful and happy and sleepy. This had been a tiring

afternoon. It was still only about four o’clock but Wilbur was ready

for bed.

 

“I’m really too young to go out into the world alone,” he thought as he

lay down.

 

CHAPTER 4

 

Loneliness

 

The next day was rainy and dark. Rain fell on the roof of the barn and

dripped steadily from the eaves. Rain fell in the barnyard and ran in

crooked courses down into the lane where thistles and pigweed grew.

Rain

spattered against Mrs. Zuckerman’s kitchen windows and came

gushing out

of the downspouts. Rain fell on the backs of the sheep as they grazed

in the meadow. When the sheep tired of standing in the rain, they

walked slowly up the lane and into the fold.

 

Rain upset Wilbur’s plans. Wilbur had planned to go out, this day, and

dig a new hole in his yard. He had other plans, too. His plans for the

 

 

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day went something like this:

 

Breakfast at six-thirty. Skim milk, crusts, middlings, bits of

doughnuts, wheat cakes with drops of maple syrup sticking to them,

potato skins, leftover custard pudding with raisins, and bits of

Shredded Wheat.

 

Breakfast would be finished at seven.

 

From seven to eight, Wilbur planned to have a talk with Templeton, the

rat that lived under his trough. Talking with Templeton was not the

most interesting occupation in the world but it was better than nothing.

 

From eight to nine, Wilbur planned to take a nap outdoors in the sun.

 

From nine to eleven he planned to dig a hole, or trench, and possibly

find something good to eat buried in the dirt.

 

From eleven to twelve he planned to stand still and watch flies on the

boards, watch bees in the clover, and watch swallows in the air.

 

Twelve o’clock – lunchtime. Middlings, warm water, apple parings,

meat

gravy, carrot scrapings, meat scraps, stale hominy, and the wrapper

off

a package of cheese. Lunch would be over at one.

 

From one to two, Wilbur planned to sleep.

 

From two to three, he planned to scratch itchy places by rubbing

against

 

 

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the fence.

 

From three to four, he planned to stand perfectly still and think of

what it was like to be alive, and to wait for Fern.

 

At four would come supper. Skim milk, provender, leftover sandwich

from

Lurvy’s lunchbox, prune skins, a morsel of this, a bit of that, fried

potatoes, marmalade drippings, a little more of this, a little more of

that, a piece of baked apple, a scrap of upsidedown cake.

 

Wilbur had gone to sleep thinking about these plans. He awoke at six,

and saw the rain, and it seemed as though he couldn’t bear it.

 

“I get everything all beautifully planned out and it has to go and

rain,” he said.

 

For a while he stood gloomily indoors. Then he walked to the door and

looked out. Drops of rain struck his face. His yard was cold and wet.

His trough had an inch of rainwater in it. Templeton was nowhere to be

seen.

 

“Are you out there, Templeton?” called Wilbur. There was no answer.

Suddenly Wilbur felt lonely and friendless.

 

“One day just like another,” he groaned. “I’m very young, I have no

real friend here in the barn, it’s going to rain all morning and all

afternoon, and Fern won’t come in such bad weather. Oh, honestly!”

And

Wilbur was crying again, for the second time in two days.

 

 

 

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At six-thirty Wilbur heard the banging of a pail. Lurvy was standing

outside in the rain, stirring up breakfast.

 

“C’mon, pig!” said Lurvy.

 

Wilbur did not budge. Lurvy dumped the slops, scraped the pail, and

walked away. He noticed that something was wrong with the pig.

 

Wilbur didn’t want food, he wanted love. He wanted a friend –

someone

who would play with him. He mentioned this to the goose, who was

sitting quietly in a corner of the sheepfold.

 

“Will you come over and play with me?” he asked.

 

“Sorry, sonny, sorry,” said the goose. “I’m sitting-sitting on my eggs.

Eight of them. Got to keep them toasty-oasty-oasty warm. I have to

stay right here, I’m no flibberty-ibberty-gibbet. I do not play when

there are eggs to hatch. I’m expecting goslings.”

 

“Well, I didn’t think you were expecting woodpeckers,” said Wilbur,

bitterly.

 

Wilbur next tried one of the lambs.

 

“Will you please play with me?” he asked.

 

“Certainly not,” said the lamb. “In the first place, I cannot get into

your pen, as I am not old enough to jump over the fence. In the

second

place, I am not interested in pigs. Pigs mean less than nothing to me.”

 

 

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“What do you mean, less than nothing?” replied Wilbur. “I don’t think

there is any such thing as less than nothing. Nothing is absolutely the

limit of nothingness. It’s the lowest you can go. It’s the end of the

line. How can something be less than nothing? If there were

something

that was less than nothing, then nothing would not be nothing, it would

be something – even though it’s just a very little bit of something. But

if nothing is nothing, then nothing has nothing that is less than it

is.”

 

“Oh, be quiet! ” said the lamb. “Go play by yourself! I don’t play

with pigs.”

 

Sadly, Wilbur lay down and listened to the rain. Soon he saw the rat

climbing down a slanting board that he used as a stairway.

 

“Will you play with me, Templeton?” asked Wilbur.

 

“Play?” said Templeton, twirling his whiskers. “Play? I hardly know

the meaning of the word.”

 

“Well,” said Wilbur, “it means to have fun, to frolic, to run and skip

and make merry.”

 

“I never do those things if I can avoid them,” replied the rat, sourly.

“I prefer to spend my time eating, gnaw-ing, spying, and hiding. I am a

glutton but not a merry-maker. Right now I am on my way to your

trough

to eat your breakfast, since you haven’t got sense enough to eat it

yourself.” And Templeton, the rat, crept stealthily along the wall and

 

 

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disappeared into a private tunnel that he had dug between the door

and

the trough in Wilbur’s yard. Templeton was a crafty rat, and he had

things pretty much his own way. The tunnel was an example of his skill

and cunning. The tunnel enabled him to get from the barn to his hiding

place under the pig trough without coming out into the open. He had

tunnels and runways all over Mr. Zuckerman’s farm and could get from

one place to another without being seen. Usually he slept during the

daytime and was abroad only after dark.

 

Wilbur watched him disappear into his tunnel. In a moment he saw the

rat’s sharp nose poke out from underneath the wooden trough.

Cautiously

Templeton pulled himself up over the edge of the trough. This was

almost more than Wilbur could stand: on this dreary, rainy day to see

his breakfast being eaten by somebody else. He knew Templeton was

getting soaked, out there in the pouring rain, but even that didn’t

comfort him. Friendless, dejected, and hungry, he threw himself down

in

the manure and sobbed.

 

Late that afternoon, Lurvy went to Mr. Zuckerman. “I think there’s

something wrong with that pig of yours. He hasn’t touched his food.”

 

“Give him two spoonfuls of sulphur and a little molasses,” said Mr.

Zuckerman.

 

Wilbur couldn’t believe what was happening to him when Lurvy caught

him

and forced the medicine down his throat. This was certainly the worst

day of his life. He didn’t know whether he could endure the awful

 

 

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loneliness any more.

 

Darkness settled over ever thing. Soon there were only shadows and

the

noises of the sheep chewing their cuds, and occasionally the rattle of a

cow-chain up overhead. You can imagine Wilbur’s surprise when, out

of

the darkness, came a small voice he had never heard before. It

sounded

rather thin, but pleasant. “Do you want a friend, Wilbur?” it said.

“I’ll be a friend to you. I’ve watched you all day and I like you.”

 

“But I can’t see you,” said Wilbur, jumping to his feet.

 

“Where are you? And who are you?”

 

“I’m right up here,” said the voice. “Go to sleep. You’ll see me in

the morning.”

 

CHAPTER 5

 

Charlotte

 

The night seemed long. Wilbur’s stomach was empty and his mind was

full. And when your stomach is empty and your mind is full, it’s always

hard to sleep.

 

A dozen times during the night Wilbur woke and stared into the

blackness, listening to the sounds and trying to figure out what time it

was. A barn is never perfectly quiet. Even at midnight there is

usually something stirring.

 

 

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The first time he woke, he heard Templeton gnawing a hole in the grain

bin. Templeton’s teeth scraped loudly against the wood and made

quite a

racket. “That crazy rat!” thought Wilbur. “Why does he have to stay up

all night, grinding his clashers and destroying people’s property? Why

can’t he go to sleep, like any decent animal?”

 

The second time Wilbur woke, he heard the goose turning on her nest

and

chuckling to herself.

 

“What time is it?” whispered Wilbur to the goose.

 

“Probably-obably-obably about half-past eleven,” said the goose.

“Why

aren’t you asleep, Wilbur?”

 

“Too many things on my mind,” said Wilbur.

 

“Well,” said the goose, “that’s not my trouble. I have nothing at all

on my mind, but I’ve too many things under my behind. Have you ever

tried to sleep while sitting on eight eggs?”

 

“No,” replied Wilbur. “I suppose it is uncomfortable. How long does it

take a goose egg to hatch?”

 

“Approximately-oximately thirty days, all told,” answered the goose.

“But I cheat a little. On warm afternoons, I just pull a little straw

over the eggs and go out for a walk.”

 

 

 

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Wilbur yawned and went back to sleep. In his dreams he heard again

the

voice saying, “I’ll be a friend to you. Go to sleep – you’ll see me in

the morning.”

 

About half an hour before dawn, Wilbur woke and listened.

 

The barn was still dark. The sheep lay motionless. Even the goose was

quiet. Overhead, on the main floor, nothing stirred: the cows were

resting, the horses dozed. Templeton had quit work and gone off

somewhere on an errand. The only sound was a slight scraping noise

from

the rooftop, where the weather-vane swung back and forth. Wilbur

loved

the barn when it was like this calm and quiet, waiting for light.

 

“Day is almost here,” he thought. Through a small window, a faint

gleam

appeared. One by one the stars went out. Wilbur could see the goose

a

few feet away. She sat with head tucked under a wing. Then he could

see the sheep and the lambs. The sky lightened.

 

“Oh, beautiful day, it is here at last! Today I shall find my friend.”

 

Wilbur looked everywhere. He searched his pen thoroughly. He

examined

the window ledge, stared up at the ceiling. But he saw nothing new.

Finally he decided he would have to speak up. He hated to break the

lovely stillness of day by using his voice, but he couldn’t think of any

other way to locate the mysterious new friend who was nowhere to be

 

 

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seen. So Wilbur cleared his throat.

 

“Attention, please!” he said in a loud, firm voice. “Will the party who

addressed me at bedtime last night kindly make himself or herself

known

by giving an appropriate sign or signal!”

 

Wilbur paused and listened. All the other animals lifted their heads

and stared at him. Wilbur blushed. But he was determined to get in

touch with his unknown friend.

 

“Attention, please!” he said. “I will repeat the message.

 

Will the party who addressed me at bedtime last night kindly speak up.

Please tell me where you are, if you are my friend!”

 

The sheep looked at each other in disgust.

 

“Stop your nonsense, Wilbur!” said the oldest sheep. “If you have a new

friend here, you are probably disturbing his rest; and the quickest way

to spoil a friendship is to wake somebody up in the morning before he is

ready. How can you be sure your friend is an early riser?”

 

“I beg everyone’s pardon,” whispered Wilbur. “I didn’t mean to be

objectionable.”

 

He lay down meekly in the manure, facing the door. He did not know it,

but his friend was very near. And the old sheep was right – the friend

was still asleep.

 

Soon Lurvy appeared with slops for breakfast. Wilbur rushed out, ate

 

 

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everything in a hurry, and licked the trough. The sheep moved off

down

the lane, the gander waddled along behind them, pulling grass. And

then, just as Wilbur was settling down for his morning nap, he heard

again the thin voice that had addressed him the night before.

 

“Salutations!” said the voice.

 

Wilbur jumped to his feet. “Salu-what?” he cried.

 

“Salutations!” repeated the voice.

 

“What are they, and where are you?” screamed Wilbur. “Please, please,

tell me where you are. And what are salutations?”

 

“Salutations are greetings,” said the voice. “When I say ‘salutations,’

it’s just my fancy way of saying hello or good morning. Actually, it’s

a silly expression, and I am surprised that I used it at all. As for my

whereabouts, that’s easy. Look up here in the corner of the doorway!

Here I am. Look, I’m waving!”

 

At last Wilbur saw the creature that had spoken to him in such a kindly

way. Stretched across the upper part of the doorway was a big

spiderweb, and hanging from the top of the web, head down, was a

large

grey spider. She was about the size of a gumdrop. She had eight legs,

and she was waving one of them at Wilbur in friendly greeting. “See

me

now?” she asked.

 

“Oh, yes indeed,” said Wilbur. “Yes indeed! How are you?

 

 

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Good morning! Salutations! Very pleased to meet you. What is your

name, please? May I have your name?”

 

“My name,” said the spider, “is Charlotte.”

 

“Charlotte what?” asked Wilbur, eagerly.

 

“Charlotte A. Cavatica. But just call me Charlotte.”

 

“I think you’re beautiful,” said Wilbur.

 

“Well, I am pretty,” replied Charlotte. “There’s no denying that.

Almost all spiders are rather nice-looking. I’m not as flashy as some,

but I’ll do. I wish I could see you, Wilbur, as clearly as you can see

me.”

 

“Why can’t you?” asked the pig. “I’m right here.”

 

“Yes, but I’m near-sighted,” replied Charlotte. “I’ve always been

dreadfully near-sighted. It’s good in some ways, not so good in others.

Watch me wrap up this fly.”

 

A fly that had been crawling along Wilbur’s trough had flown up and

blundered into the lower part of Charlotte’s web and was tangled in

the

sticky threads. The fly was beating its wings furiously, trying to

break loose and free itself.

 

“First said Charlotte, “I dive at him.” She plunged headfirst toward the

fly. As she dropped, a tiny silken thread unwound from her rear end.

 

 

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“Next, I wrap him up.” She grabbed the fly, threw a few jets of silk

around it, and rolled it over and over, wrapping it so that it couldn’t

move. Wilbur watched in horror. He could hardly believe what he was

seeing, and although he detested flies, he was sorry for this one.

 

“There!” said Charlotte. “Now I knock him out, so he’ll be more

comfortable.” She bit the fly. “He can’t feel a thing now,” she

remarked. “He’ll make a perfect breakfast for me.”

 

“You mean you eat flies?” gasped Wilbur.

 

“Certainly. Flies, bugs, grasshoppers, choice beetles, moths,

butterflies, tasty cockroaches, gnats, midges, daddy longlegs,

centipedes, mosquitoes, crickets – anything that is careless enough to

get caught in my web. I have to live, don’t I?”

 

“Why, yes, of course,” said Wilbur. “Do they taste good?”

 

“Delicious. Of course, I don’t really eat them. I drink them – drink

their blood. I love blood,” said Charlotte, and her pleasant, thin

voice grew even thinner and more pleasant.

 

“Don’t say that!” groaned Wilbur. “Please don’t say things like that!”

 

“Why not? It’s true, and I have to say what is true. I am not entirely

happy about my diet of flies and bugs, but it’s the way I’m made. A

spider has to pick up a living somehow or other, and I happen to be a

trapper. I just naturally build a web and trap flies and other insects.

My mother was a trapper before me.

 

 

 

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Her mother was a trapper before her. All our family have been

trappers.

Way back for thousands and thousands of years we spiders have been

laying for flies and bugs.”

 

“It’s a miserable inheritance,” said Wilbur, gloomily. He was sad

because his new friend was so bloodthirsty.

 

“Yes, it is,” agreed Charlotte. “But I can’t help it. I don’t know how

the first spider in the early days of the world happened to think up

this fancy idea of spinning a web, but she did, and it was clever of

her, too. And since then, all of us spiders have had to work the same

trick. It’s not a bad pitch, on the whole.”

 

“It’s cruel,” replied Wilbur, who did not intend to be argued out of his

position.

 

“Well, you can’t talk ” said Charlotte. “You have your meals brought to

you in a pail. Nobody feeds me. I have to get in own living. I live

by my wits. I have to be sharp and clever, lest I go hungry. I have to

think things out, catch what I can, take what comes. And it just so

happens, my friend, that what comes is flies and insects and bugs. And

furthermore,” said Charlotte, shaking one of her legs, “do you realize

that if I didn’t catch bugs and eat them, bugs would increase and

multiply and get so numerous that they’d destroy the earth, wipe out

everything?”

 

“Really?” said Wilbur. “I wouldn’t want that to happen. Perhaps your

web is a good thing after all.”

 

The goose had been listening to this conversation and chuckling to

 

 

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