夏洛的网--英文版

2024年3月7日发(作者：画整个龙)

Charlotte's Web

By

I.

Before Breakfast

"Where's Papa going with the ax?" said Fern to her mother as they

were tting the table for breakfast.

"Out to the hothou," replied Mrs. Arable. "Some pigs were born

last night."

"I don't e 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 becau 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.

"Plea don't kill it!" she sobbed. "It's unfair."

Mr. Arable stopped walking.

"Fern," he said gently, "you will have to learn to control yourlf."

"Control mylf?" yelled Fern. "This is a matter of life and death, and

you talk about controlling mylf." 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 e no difference," replied Fern, still hanging on to the ax. "This is

the most terrible ca of injustice I ever heard of."

A queer look came over John Arable's face. He emed almost ready

to cry himlf.

"All right," he said.” You go back to the hou 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 e what trouble a pig can be."

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

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

kitchen table was t 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 t 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 noi. 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 clod the carton carefully. First she kisd her father, then she

kisd 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.

"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 e it!" said Avery, tting his gun down. "You call that

mirable 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 rirs," said Mr. Arable. "Fern was

up at daylight, trying to rid 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 ated 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

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, lecting the most beautiful name she could think

of.

"Its name is Wilbur," she whispered to herlf.

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.

II. 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

afternoon, when the school bus stopped in front of her hou, 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 plead.

"Won't he be cold at night?" asked Fern.

"No," said her father. "Your watch and e 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 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 hou,

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 the

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 clo his eyes and go to sleep under the doll's blanket.

He looked cute when his eyes were clod, becau his lashes were so

long. The doll would clo 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 and splashed water at each other, Wilbur amud

himlf 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 ll, and would have to be sold. Fern

broke down and wept. But her father was firm about it. Wilbur's

appetite had incread; 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 Zuckerman’s," suggested Mrs. Arable to Fern. "Your

Uncle Homer sometimes rais 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 ll for six dollars, and e what he says."

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

Aunt 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 Zuchkerman's barn.

III. Escape (1)

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 hors 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

grea 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 hors 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 hors, tie-ups on the main floor for the

cows, a 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, grindsones, pitch forks, monkey wrenches, scythes, lawn

mowers, snow shovels, ax handles, milk pails, water buchers, 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 gee, 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 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 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.

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 e 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 goo standing there.

"You don't have to stay in that dirty-little dirty-little dirty-little yard,"

said the goo, who talked rather fast. "One of the boards is loo.

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 mylf," said the goo, "I suggest

that you come on out. It's wonderful out here."

"Did you say a board was loo?"

"That I did, that I did," said the goo.

Wilbur walked up to the fence and saw that the goo was right--one

board was loo. He put his head sown, 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 goo

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 out side 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 goo. "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."

III. Escape(2)

"I can e that," replied Wilbur. He gave a jump in the air, twirled,

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

afternoon, and then t 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 e 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 goo 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 cha. Mr. Zuckerman heard, and he came out of the

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

heard the noi 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 emed a long way off, and anyway, he

had never been down there in the woods and wasn't sure he would

like it.

"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 loo on Zuckerman's farm,

the event was of great interest to the others. The goo 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 hors, in

their stalls in the barn, pricked up their ears when they heard the

goo hollering; and soon the hors 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 emed as

through 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 awful," thought Wilbur. "Why doesn't Fern come?"

He began to cry.

The goo took command and began to give orders.

"Don't just stand there, Wilbur! Dodge about, dodge about!" cried

the goo." 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 goo cheered for Wilbur. Wilbur dodged between Lurvy's

legs. Lurvy misd Wilbur and grabbed the spaniel instead. "Nicely

done, nicely done!" cried the goo." 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 goo.

"Jump and dance!" said the rooster.

"Look out for Lurvy!" called the cows.

"Look out for Zuckerman!" yelled the gander.

"Watch out for the dog!" cried the sheep.

"Listen to me, listen to me!" screamed the goo.

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 e 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 his

arms and comfort him. When he looked up and saw Mr. Zuckerman

standing quite clo to him, holding a pail of warm slops, he felt

relieved. He lifted his no and sniffed. The smell was delicious-warm

milk, potato skins, wheat middling’s, Kellogg's Corn Flakes, and a

popover left from the Zuckerman’s' breakfast.

"Come, pig!" said Mr. Zuckerman, tapping the pail. "Come pig!"

Wilbur took a step toward the pail.

"No-no-no!" said the goo. "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-invitee.

He's appealing to your stomach."

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 if he

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

"You'll be sorry-sorry-sorry," called the goo.

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

"You'll miss your freedom," honked the goo. "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 loo board

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

through.

"Reconsider, reconsider!" cried the goo.

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 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 prai. 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.

IV. 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 cours 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 upt 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 day went something like this:

Breakfast at six-thirty. Skim milk, crusts, middling’s, 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 ven.

From ven 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. Middling’s, warm water, apple parings,

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

wrapper off a package of chee. 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 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 morl 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 upside down cake.

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

and saw the rain, and it emed as though he couldn't bear it.

"I get every thing 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 and inch of rainwater in it. Templeton was

nowhere to be en.

"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 cond time in two days.

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

goo, 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 goo. "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 wood-peckers," said Wilbur,

bitterly.

Wilbur next tried one of the lambs.

"Will you plea 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

cond place, I am not interested in pigs. Pigs mean less than nothing

to me."

"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 yourlf! 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 ud 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 tho things if I can avoid them, " replied the rat, sourly.

"I prefer to spend my time eating, gnawing, 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 n enough to

eat it yourlf." And Templeton, the rat, crept stealthily along the wall

and 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 en. 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 no poke out from underneath the wooden trough.

Cautiously Templeton pulled himlf up over the edge of the trough.

This was almost more than Wilbur could stand: on this dreary, rainy

day to e his breakfast being eaten by somebody el. 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

himlf 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 molass," said Mr.

Zuckerman.

Wilbur couldn't believe what 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 loneliness any more.

Darkness ttled over everything. Soon there were only shadows

and the nois of the sheep chewing their cuds, and occasionally the

rattle of a cow-chain up overhead. You can imagine Wilbur's surpri

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 e 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 e me in the

morning."

V. Charlotte(1)

The night emed 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.

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 cond time Wilbur woke, he heard the goo turning on her nest

and chuckling to herlf.

"What time is it?" whispered Wilbur to the goo.

"Probably-obably-obably about half-past eleven," said the goo,

"Why aren't you asleep, Wilbur?"

"Too many things on my mind," said Wilbur.

"Well," said the goo, "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 suppo it is uncomfortable. How long does it

take a goo egg to hatch?"

"Approximately-oximately thirty days, all told," answered the goo.

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

the eggs and go out for a walk."

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 e 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 goo was quiet.

Overhead, on the main floor, nothing stirred: the cows were resting,

the hors dozed. Templeton had quit work and gone off somewhere

on an errand. The only sound was a slight scraping noi 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 e the goo a few feet

away. She sat with head tucked under a wing. Then he could e 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 arched 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 dawn by using his voice, but he couldn't

think of any other way to locate the mysterious new friend who was

nowhere to be en. So Wilbur cleared his throat.

"Attention, plea!" he said in a loud, firm voice. "Will the party who

addresd me at bedtime last night kindly make himlf or herlf

known by giving an appropriate sign or signal!"

Wilbur paud 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, plea!" he said. "I will repeat the message. Will the

party who addresd me at bedtime last night kindly speak up. Plea

tell me where you are, if you are my friend!"

The sheep looked at each other in disgust.

"Stop your nonn, Wilbur!" said the oldest sheep. "If you have a

new freind 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 rir?"

"I beg everyone's pardon," whispered Wilbur. "I didn't mean to be

objectionable."

He lay down meekly in the 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

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 ttling down for his morning nap, he

heard again the thin voice that had addresd him the night before.

"Salutations!" said the voice.

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

"Salutations!" said the voice.

"What are they, and where are you?" screamed Wilbur. "Plea,

plea, 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 surprid that I ud it at all. As for my

whereabouts, that's easy. Look up here in the corner of the dooway!

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.

V. Charlotte(2)

"Oh, yes indeed," said Wilbur. "Yes indeed! How are you? Good

morning! Salutations! Very plead to meet you. What is your name,

plea? 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 e you, Wilbur, as clearly as you can e

me."

"Why can't you?" asked the pig. "I'm right here."

鈥淵es, 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 loo and free itlf.

"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.

"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

eing, 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 cour," said Wilbur. "Do they taste good?"

"Delicious. Of cour, 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. "Plea 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 incts.

My mother was a trapper before me. 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 mirable inheritance," said Wilbur, gloomily. He was sad

becau 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 my 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. Ant it just so

happens, my friend, that what comes is flies and incts 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 increa

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 goo had been listening to this conversation and chuckling to

herlf. "There are a lot of things Wilbur doesn't know about life," she

thought. "He's really a very innocent little pig. He doesn't even know

what's going to happen to him around Christmastime; he has no idea

that Mr. Zuckerman and Lurvy are plotting to kill him." And the goo

raid herlf a bit and poked her eggs a little further under her so

that they would receive the full heat from her warm body and soft

feathers.

Charlotte stood quietly over the fly, preparing to eat it. Wilbur lay

down and clod his eyes. He was tired from his wakeful night and

from the excitement of meeting someone for the first time. A breeze

brought him the smell of clover--the sweet-smelling world beyond his

fence. "Well," he thought," I've got a new friend, all right. But what a

gamble friendship is! Charlotte is fierce, brutal, scheming,

bloodthirsty--everything I don't like. How can I learn to like her, even

though she is pretty and, of cour, clever?

Wilbur was merely suffering the doubts and fears that often go with

finding a new friend. In good time he was to discover that he was

mistaken about Charlotte. Underneath her rather bold and cruel

exterior, she had a kind heart, and she was to prove loyal and true to

the very end.

VI. Summer Days

The early summer days on a farm are the happiest and fairest days

of the year. Lilacs bloom and make the air sweet, and then fade. Apple

blossoms come with the lilacs, and the bees visit around among the

apple trees. The days grow warm and soft. School ends, and children

have time to play and to fish for trouts in the brook. Avery often

brought a trout home in his pocket, warm and stiff and ready to be

fried for supper.

Now that school was over, Fern visited the barn almost every day, to

sit quietly on her stool. The animals treated her as an equal. The

sheep lay calmly at her feet.

Around the first of July, the work hors were hitched to the mowing

machine, and Mr. Zuckerman climbed into the at and drove into the

field. All morning you could hear the rattle of the machine as it went

round and round, while the tall grass fell down behind the cutter bar in

long green swathes. Next day, if there was no thunder shower, all

hands would help rake and pitch and load, and the hay would be

hauled to barn in the high hay wagon, with Fern and Avery riding at

the top of the load. Then the hay would be hoisted, sweet and warm,

into the big loft, until the whole barn emed like a wonderful bed of

timothy and clover. It was fine to jump in, and perfect to hide in. And

sometimes Avery would find a little grass snake in the hay, and would

add it to the other things in his pocket.

Early summer days are a jubilee time for birds. In the fields, around

the hou, in the barn, in the woods, in the swamp--everywhere love

and songs and nests and eggs. From the edge of the woods, the

white-throated sparrow(which must come all the way from Boston)

calls, "Oh, Peabody, Peabody, Peabody!" On an apple bough, the

phoebe teeters and wags its tail and says, "Phoebe, phoe-bee!" The

song sparrow, who knows how brief and lovely life is, says, "Sweet,

sweet, sweet interlude; sweet, sweet, sweet interlude." If you enter

the barn, the swallows swoop down from their nests and scold.

"Cheeky, cheeky!" they say.

In early summer there are plenty of things for a child to eat and drink

and suck and chew. Dandelion stems are full of milk, clover heads are

loaded with nectar, the Frigidaire is full of ice-cold drinks. Everywhere

you look is life; even the little ball of spit on the weed stalk, if you poke

it apart, has a green worm inside it. And on the under side of the leaf

of the potato vine are the bright orange eggs of the potato bug.

It was on a day in early summer that the goo eggs hatched. This

was an important event in the barn cellar. Fern was there, sitting on

her stool, when it happened.

Except for the goo herlf, Charlotte was the first to know that the

goslings had at last arrived. The goo knew a day in advance that

they were coming--she could hear their weak voices calling from

inside the egg. She knew that they were coming. She knew that they

were in a desperately cramped position inside the shell and were most

anxious to break through and get out. So she sat quite still, and talked

less than usual.

When the first gosling poked its grey-green head through the

goo's feathers and looked around, Charlotte spied it and made the

announcement.

"I am sure," she said," that every one of us here will be gratified to

learn that after four weeks of unremitting effort and patience on the

part of our friend the goo, she now has something to show for it.

The goslings have arrived. May I offer my sincere congratulations!"

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" said the goo, nodding and

bowing shamelessly.

"Thank you," said the gander.

"Congratulations!" shouted Wilbur. "How many gosling s are there?"

I can only e one."

"There are ven," said the goo.

"Fine!" said Charlotte. "Seven is a lucky number."

"Luck had nothing to do with this," said the goo. "It was good

management and hard work."

At this point, Templeton showed his no from his hiding place under

Wilbur's trough. He glanced at Fern, then crept cautiously toward the

goo, keeping clo to the wall. Everyone watched him, for he was

not well liked, not trusted.

"Look," he began in his sharp voice, "you say you have ven

goslings. There were eight eggs. What happened to the other egg?

Why didn't it hatch?"

"It's a dud, I guess," said the goo.

"What are you going to do with it?" continued Templeton, his little

round beady eyes fixed on the goo.

"You can have it," replied the goo. "Roll it away and add it to that

nasty collection of yours." (Templeton had a habit of picking up

unusual objects around the farm and storing them in his home. He

saved everything.)

"Certainly-ertainly-ertainly," said the gander. "You may have the

egg. But I'll tell you one thing, Templeton, if I ever catch you

poking-oking-oking your ugly no around our goslings, I'll give you

the worst pounding a rat ever took." And the gander opened his

strong wings and beat the air with them to show his power. He was

strong and brave, but the truth is, both the goo and the gander

were worried about Templeton. And with good reason. The rat had no

morals, no conscience, no scruples, no consideration, no decency, no

milk of rodent kindness, no compunctions, no higher feeling, no

friendliness, no anything. He would kill a gosling if he could get away

with it--the goo knew that. Everybody knew it.

With her broad bill the goo pushed the unhatched egg out of the

nest, and the entire company watched in disgust while the rat rolled it

away. Even Wilbur, who could eat almost anything, was appalled.

"Imagine wanting a junky old rotten egg!" he muttered.

"A rat is a rat," said Charlotte. She laughed a tinkling little laugh.

"But, my friends, if that ancient egg ever breaks, this barn will be

untenable."

"What's that mean?" asked Wilbur.

"It means nobody will be able to live here on account of the smell. A

rotten egg is a regular stink bomb."

"I won't break it," snarled Templeton. "I know what I'm doing. I

handle stuff like this all the time."

He disappeared into his tunnel, pushing the goo egg in front of him.

He pushed and nudged till he succeeded in rolling it to his lair under

the trough.

That afternoon, when the wind had died down and the barnyard was

quiet and warm, the grey goo led her ven goslings off the nest

and out into the world. Mr. Zucherman spied them when he came with

Wilbur's supper.

"Well, hello there!" he said, smiling all over. "Let', two,

three, four, five, six, ven. Seven baby gee. Now isn't that lovely!"

VII. Bad News

Wilbur liked Charlotte better and better each day. Her campaign

against incts emed nsible and uful. Hardly anybody around

the farm had a good word to say for a fly. Flies spent their time

pestering others. The cows hated them. The hors detested them.

The sheep loathed them. Mr. and Mrs. Zukerman were always

complaining about them, and putting up screens.

Wilbur admired the way Charlotte managed. He was particularly glad

that she always put her victim to sleep before eating it.

"It's real thoughtful of you to do that, Charlotte," he said.

"Yes," she replied in her sweet, musical voice, "I always give them

an anaesthetic so they won't feel pain. It's a little rvice I throw in."

As the days went by, Wilbur grew and grew. He ate three big meals

a day. He spent long hours lying on his side, half asleep, dreaming

pleasant dreams. He enjoyed good health and he gained a lot of

weight. One afternoon, when Fern was sitting on her stool, the oldest

sheep walked into the barn, and stopped to pay a call on Wilbur.

"Hello!" she said. "Seems to me you're putting on weight."

"Yes, I guess I am," replied Wilbur. "At my age it's a good idea to

keep gaining."

"Just the same, I don't envy you," said the old sheep." You know why

they're fattening you up, don't you?"

"No," said Wilbur.

"Well, I don't like to spread bad news," said the sheep, "but they're

fattening you up becau they're going to kill you, that's why."

"They're going to what?" screamed Wilbur. Fern grew rigid on her

stool.

"Kill you. Turn you into smoked bacon and ham," continued the old

sheep. "Almost all young pigs get murdered by the farmer as soon as

the real cold weather ts in. There's regular conspiracy around here

to kill you at Christmastime. Everybody is in the plog--Lurvy,

Zuckerman, even John Arable."

"Mr. Arable?" sobbed Wilbur. "Fern's father?"

"Certainly. When a pig is to be butchered, everybody helps. I'm an

old sheep and I e the same thing, same old business, year after

year. Arable arrives with hi .22, "

"Stop!" screamed Wilbur. "I don't want to die! Save me, somebody!

Save me!" Fern was just about to jump up when a voice was heard.

"Be quiet, Wilbur!" said Charlotte, who had been listening to this

awful conversation.

"I can't be quiet," screamed Wilbur, racing up and down. "I don't

want to be killed. I don't want to die. Is it true what the old sheep says,

Charlotte? Is it true they are going to kill me when the cold weather

comes?"

"Well," said the spider, plucking thoughtfully at her web, "the old

sheep has been around this barn a long time. She has en many a

spring pig come and go. If she says they plan to kill you, I'm sure it's

true. It's also the dirtiest trick I ever heard of. What people don't think

of!"

Wilbur burst into tears. "I don't want to die," he moaned. "I want to

stay alive, right here in my comfortable manure pile with all my

friends. I want to breathe the beautiful air and lie in the beautiful sun."

"You're certainly making a beautiful noi," snapped the old sheep.

"I don't want to die!" screamed Wilbur, throwing himlf to the

ground.

"You shall not die," said Charlotte, briskly.

"What? Really?" cried Wilbur. "Who's going to save me?"

"I am," said Charlotte.

"How?" asked Wilbur.

"That remains to be en. But I am going to save you, and I want

you to quiet down immediately. You're carrying on in a childish way.

Stop your crying! I can't stand hysterics."

VIII. A Talk at Home

On Sunday morning Mr. and Mrs. Arable and Fern were sitting at

breakfast in the kitchen. Avery had finished and was upstairs looking

for his slingshot.

"Did you know that Uncle Homer's goslings had hatched?" asked

Fern.

"How many?" asked Mr. Arable.

"Seven," replied Fern. "There were eight eggs but one egg didn't

hatch and the goo told Templeton she didn't want it any more, so he

took it away."

"The goo did what?" asked Mrs. Arable, gazing at her daughter

with a queer, worried look.

"Told Templeton she didn't want the egg any more," repeated Fern.

"Who is Templeton?" asked Mrs. Arable.

"He's the rat," replied Fern. "None of us like him much."

"Who is 'us'?" asked Mr. Arable.

"Oh, everybody in the barn cellar. Wilbur and the sheep and the

lambs and the goo and the gander and the goslings and Charlotte

and me."

"Charlotte?" said Mrs. Arable. "Who's Charlotte?

"She's Wilbur's best friend. She's terribly clever."

"What does she look like?" asked Mrs. Arable.

"Well-l," said Fern, thoughtfully," she has eight legs. All spiders do,

I guess."

"Charlotte is a spider?" asked Fern's mother.

Fern nodded. "A big grey one. She has a web across the top of

Wilbur's doorway. She catches flies and sucks their blood. Wilbur

adores her."

"Does he really?" said Mrs. Arable, rather vaguely. She was staring

at Fern with a worried expression on her face.

"Oh, yes, Wilbur adores Charlotte," said Fern. "Do you know what

Charlotte said when the goslings hatched?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," said Mr. Arable. "Tell us."

"Well, when the first gosling stuck its little head out from under the

goo, I was sitting on my stool in the corner and Charlotte was on her

web. She made a speech. She said:" I am sure that every one of us

here in the barn cellar will be gratified to learn that after four weeks of

unremitting effort and patience on the part of the goo, she now has

something to show for it.' Don't you think that was a pleasant thing for

her to say?"

"Yes, I do," said Mrs. Arable. "And now, Fern, it's time to get ready

for Sunday School And tell Avery to get ready. And this afternoon you

can tell me more about what goes on in Uncle Homer's barn. Aren't

you spending quite a lot of time there? You go there almost every

afternoon, don't you?"

"I like it there," replied Fern. She wiped her mouth and ran upstairs.

After she had left the room, Mrs. Arable spoke in a low voice to her

husband.

"I worry about Fern," she said. "Did you hear the way she rambled

on about the animals, pretending that they talked?"

Mr. Arable chuckled. "Maybe they do talk," he said. "I've sometimes

wondered. At any rate, don't worry about Fern--she's just got a lively

imagination. Kids think they hear all sorts of things."

"Just the same, I do worry about her," replied Mrs. Arable. "I think I

shall ask Dr. Dorian about her the next time I e him. He loves Fern

almost as much as we do, and I want him to know how queerly she is

acting about that pig and everything. I don't think it's normal. You

know perfectly well animals don't talk."

Mr. Arable grinned. "Maybe our ears aren't as sharp as Fern's," he

said.

IX. Wilbur’s Boast

A spider's web is stronger than it looks. Although it is made of thin,

delicate strands, the web is not easily broken. However, a web gets

torn every day by the incts that kick around in it, and a spider must

rebuild it when it gets full of holes. Charlotte liked to do her weaving

during the late afternoon, and Fern liked to sit nearby and watch. One

afternoon she heard a most interesting conversation and witnesd a

strange event.

“You have awfully hairy legs, Charlotte,” said Wilbur, as the spider

busily worked at her task.

“My legs are hairy for a good reason,” replied Charlotte.

“Furthermore, each leg of mine has ven ctions—the coxa, the

trochanter, the femur, the patella, the tibia, the metatarsus, and the

tarsus.”

Wilbur sat bolt upright, “You’re kidding,” he said.

“No, I’m not, either.”

“Say tho names again, I didn't catch them the first time.”

“Coxa, trochanter, femur, patella, tibia, metatarsus, and tarsus.”

“Goodness!” said Wilbur, looking down at his own chubby legs. “I

don’t think my legs have ven ctions.”

“Well,” said Charlotte, “you and I lead different lives. You don't have

to spin a web. That takes real leg work.”

“I could spin a web if I tried,” said Wilbur, boasting. “I've just never

tried.”

“Let’s e you do it,” said Charlotte. Fern chuckled softly, and her

eyes grew wide with love for the pig.

“O.K.,” replied Wilbur. “You coach me and I'll spin one. It must be a

lot of fun to spin a web. How do I start?”

“Take a deep breath!” said Charlotte, smiling. Wilbur breathed

deeply. “Now climb to the highest place you can get to, like this.”

Charlotte raced up to the top of the doorway. Wilbur scrambled to the

top of the manure pile.

“Very good!” said Charlotte. “Now make an attachment with your

spinnerets, hurl yourlf into space, and let out a dragline as you go

down!”

Wilbur hesitated a moment, then jumped out into the air. He glanced

hastily behind to e if a piece of rope was following him to check his

fall, but nothing emed to be happening in his rear, and the next

thing he knew he landed with a thump. “Ooomp!” he grunted.

Charlotte laughed so hard her web began to sway.

“What did I do wrong?” asked the pig, when he recovered from his

bump.

“Nothing,” said Charlotte. “It was a nice try.”

“I think I’ll try again,” said Wilbur, cheerfully. “I believe what I

need is a little piece of string to hold me.”

The pig walked out to his yard. “You there, Templeton?” he called.

The rat poked his head out from under the trough.

“Got a little piece of string I could borrow?” asked Wilbur. “I need

it to spin a web.”

“Yes, indeed,” replied Templeton, who saved string. “No trouble at

all. Any thing to oblige.” He crept down into his hole, pushed the goo

egg out of the way, and returned with an old piece of dirty white string.

Wilbur examined it.

“That’s just the thin,” he said. “Tie one end to my tail, will you,

Templeton?”

Wilbur crouched low, with his thin, curly tail toward the rat.

Templeton ized the string, pasd it around the end of the pig's tail,

and tied two half hitches. Charlotte watched in delight. Like Fern, she

was truly fond of Wilbur, who smelly pen and stale food attracted

the flies that she needed, and she was proud to e that he was not a

quitter and was willing to try again to spin a web.

While the rat and the spider and the little girl watched, Wilbur

climbed again to the top of the manure pile, full of energy and hope.

“Everybody watch!” he cried. And summoning all his strength, he

threw himlf into the air, headfirst. The string trailed behind him. But

as he had neglected to fasten the other end to anything, it didn't really

do any good, and Wilbur landed with a thud, crushed and hurt. Tears

came to his eyes. Templeton grinned. Charlotte just sat quietly. After

a bit she spoke.

“You can’t spin a web, Wilbur, and I advi you to put the idea out

of your mind. You lack two things needed for spinning a web.”

“What are they?” asked Wilbur, sadly.

“You lack a t of spinnerets, and you lack know-how. But cheer

up, you don't need a web. Zucherman supplies you with three big

meals a day. Why should you worry about trapping food?”

Wilbur sighed. “You're ever so much cleverer and brighter than I

am, Charlotte. I guess I was just trying to show off. Serves me right.”

Templeton untied his string and took it back to his home. Charlotte

returned to her weaving.

“You needn't feel too badly, Wilbur,” she said. “Not many creatures

can spin webs. Even men aren't as good at it as spiders, although they

think they're pretty good, and they'll try anything. Did you ever hear

of the Queensborough Bridge?”

Wilbur shook his head. “Is it a web?”

“Sort of,” replied Charlotte. “But do you know how long it took

men to build it? Eight whole years. My goodness, I would have starved

to death waiting that long. I can make a web in a single evening.”

“What do people catch in the Queensborough Bridge—bug?”

asked Wilbur.

“No,” said Charlotte. “They don’t catch anything. They just keep

trotting back and forth across the bridge thinking there is something

better on the other side. If they’d hang head-down at the top of the

thing and wait quietly, maybe something good would come along. But

no—with men it’s rush, rush, rush, every minute. I’m glad I’m a

dentary spider.”

“What does dentary mean?” asked Wilbur.

“Means I sit still a good part of the time and don’t go wandering all

over creation. I know a good thing when I e it, and my web is a good

thing. I stay put and wait for what comes. Gives me a chance to think.”

“Well, I’m sort of dentary mylf, I guess,” said the pig. “I have

to hang around here whether I want to or not. You know where I'd

really like to be this evening?”

“Where?”

“In a forest looking for beechnuts and truffles and delectable roots,

pushing leaves aside with my wonderful strong no, arching and

sniffing along the ground, smelling, smelling, smelling…”

“You smell just the way you are,” remarked a lamb who had just

walked in. I can smell you from here. You're the smelliest creature in

the place.”

Wilbur hung his head. His eyes grew wet with tears. Charlotte

noticed his embarrassment and she spoke sharply to the lamb.

“Leave Wilbur alone!” she said. “he has a perfect right to smell,

considering his surroundings. You're no bundle of sweet peas yourlf.

Furthermore, you are interrupting a very pleasant conversation. What

were we talking about, Wilbur, when we were so rudely interrupted?”

“Oh, I don't remember,” said Wilbur. “It doesn't make any

difference.. Let's not talk any more for a while, Charlotte. I'm getting

sleepy. You go ahead and finish fixing your web and I'll just lie here

and watch you. It's a lovely evening.” Wilbur stretched out on his side.

Twilight ttled over Zuckerman's barn, and a feeling of peace.

Fern knew it was almost suppertime but she couldn't bear to leave.

Swallows pasd on silent wings, in and out of the doorways, bringing

food to their young ones. From across the road a bird sang

“Whippoorwill, whippoorwill!” Lurvy sat down under and apple tree

and lit his pipe; the animals sniffed the familiar smell of strong

tobacco. Wilbur heard the trill of the tree toad and the occasional

slamming of the kitchen door. All the sounds made him feel

comfortable and happy, for he loved life and loved to be a part of the

world on a summer evening. But as he lay there he remembered what

the old sheep had told him. The thought of death came to him and he

began to tremble with fear.

“Charlotte?” he said, softly.

“Yes, Wilbur?”

“I don’t want to die.”

“Of cour you don’t,” said Charlotte in a comforting voice.

“I just love it here in the barn,” said Wilbur. “I love everything

about this place.”

“Of cour you do,” said Charlotte. “We all do.”

The goo appeared, followed by her ven goslings. They thrust

their little necks out and kept up a musical whistling, like a tiny troupe

of pipers. Wilbur listened to the sound with love in his heart.

“Charlotte?” he said.

“Yes?” said the spider.

“Were you rious when you promid you would keep them from

killing me?”

“I was never more rious in my life. I am not going to let you die,

Wilbur.”

“How are you going to save me?” asked Wilbur, who curiosity

was very strong on this point.

“Well,” said Charlotte, vaguely, “I don't really know. But I'm

working on a plan.”

“ That's wonderful,” said Wilbur. “How is the plan coming,

Charlotte? Have you got very far with it? Is it coming along pretty

well?” Wilbur was trembling again, but Charlotte was cool and

collected.

“Oh, it's coming all right,” she said, lightly. “The plan is still in its

early stages had hasn't completely shaped up yet, but I'm working on

it.

“When do you work on it?” begged Wilbur.

“When I'm hanging head-down at the top of my web. That’s when

I do my thinking, becau then all the blood is in my head.”

“I'd be only too glad to help in any way I can.”

“Oh, I'll work it out alone,” said Charlotte. “I can think better if I

think alone.”

“All right,” said Wilbur. “But don't fail to let me know if there's

anything I can do to help, no matter how slight.

“Well,” replied Charlotte, “you must try to build yourlf up. I want

you to get plenty of sleep, and stop worrying. Never hurry and never

worry! Chew your food thoroughly and eat every bit of it, except you

must leave just enough for Templeton. Gain weight and stay

well—that’s the way you can help. Keep fit, and don’t lo your nerve.

Do you think you understand?

"Yes, I understand,” said Wilbur.

“Go along to bed, then,” said Charlotte. “Sleep is important.”

Wilbur trotted over to the darkest corner of his pen and threw himlf

down. He clod his eyes. In another minute he spoke.

“Charlotte?” he said.

“Yes, Wilbur?”

“May I go out to my trough and e if I left any of my supper? I

think I left just a tiny bit of mashed potato.”

“Very well,” said Charlotte. “But I want you in bed again without

delay.”

Wilbur started to race out to his yard.

“Slowly, slowly!” said Charlotte. “Never hurry and never worry!”

Wilbur checked himlf and crept slowly to his trough. He found a

bit of potato, chewed it carefully, swallowed it, and walked back to bed.

He clod his eyes and was silent for a while.

“Charlotte?” he said, in a whisper.

“Yes?”

“May I get a drink of milk?” I think there are a few drops of milk

left in my trough.”

“No, the trough is dry, and I want you to go to sleep. No more

talking! Clo your eyes and go to sleep!”

Wilbur shut his eyes. Fern got up from her stool and started for

home, her mind full of everything she had en and heard.

“Good night, Charlotte!” said Wilbur.

“Good night, Wilbur!”

There was a pau.

“Good night, Charlotte!”

“Good night, Wilbur!”

“Good night!”

“Good night!”

X. An Explosion

Day after day the spider waited, head-down, for an idea to come to

her. Hour by hour she sat motionless, deep in thought. Having

promid Wilbur that she would save his life, she was determined to

keep her promi.

Charlotte was naturally patient. She knew from experience that if

she waited long enough, a fly would come to her web; and she felt

sure that if she thought long enough about Wilbur’s problem, and idea

would come to her mind.

Finally, one morning toward the middle of July, the idea came.

“Why, how perfectly simple!” she said to herlf. “The way to save

Wilbur’s life is to play a trick on Zuckerman. If I can fool a bug,”

thought Charlotte, “I can surely fool a man. People are not as smart as

bugs.”

Wilbur walked into his yard just at that moment.

“What are you thinking about, Charlotte?” he asked.

“I was just thinking,” said the spider, “that people are very

gullible.”

“What does ‘gullible’ mean?”

“Easy to fool,” said Charlotte.

“That’s a mercy,” replied Wilbur, and he lay down in the shade of

his fence and went fast asleep. The spider, however, stayed wide

awake, gazing affectionately at him and making plans for his future.

Summer was half gone. She knew she didn’t have much time.

That morning, just as Wilbur fell asleep, Avery Arable wandered

into the Zuckerman’s front yard, followed by Fern. Avery carried a live

frog in his hand. Fern had a crown of daisies in her hair. The children

ran for the kitchen.

“Just in time for a piece of blueberry pie,” said Mrs. Zuckerman.

“Look at my frog!” said Avery, placing the frog on the drainboard

and holding out his hand for pie.

“Take that thing out of here!” said Mrs. Zuckerman.

“He’s hot,” said Fern. “He’s almost dead, that frog.”

“He is not,” said Avery. “He lets me scratch him between the

eyes.” The frog jumped and landed in Mrs. Zuckerman’s dishpan full of

soapy water.

“You’re getting your pie on you,” said Fern. “Can I look for eggs in

the henhou, Aunt Edith?”

“Run outdoors, both of you! And don’t bother the hens!”

“It’s getting all over everything,” shouted Fern. “His pie is all over

his front.”

“Come on, frog!” cried Avery. He scooped up his frog. The fog

kicked, splashing soapy water onto the blueberry pie.

“Another crisis!” groaned Fern.

“Let’s swing in the swing!” said Avery.

The children ran to the barn.

Mr. Zuckerman had the best swing in the county. It was a single

long piece of heavy rope tied to the beam over the north doorway. At

the bottom end of the rope was a fat knot to sit on. It was arranged so

that you could swing without being pushed. You climbed a ladder to

the hayloft. Then, holding the rope, you stood at the edge and looked

down, and were scared and dizzy. Then you straddled the knot, so

that it acted as a at. Then you got up all your nerve, took a deep

breath, and jumped. For a cond you emed to be falling to the barn

floor far below, but then suddenly the rope would begin to catch you,

and you would sail through the barn door going a mile a minute, with

the wind whistling in your eyes and ears and hair. Then you would

zoom upward into the sky, and look up at the clouds, and the rope

would twist and you would twist and turn with the rope. Then you

would drop down, down, down out of the sky and come sailing back

into the barn almost into the hayloft, then sail out again (not quite so

far this time), then in again (not quite so high), then out again, then

in again, then out, then in; and then you’d jump off and fall down and

let somebody el try it.

Mothers for miles around worried about Zuckerman’s swing. They

feared some child would fall off. But no child ever did. Children almost

always hang onto things tighter than their parents think they will.

Avery put the frog in his pocket and climbed to the hayloft. “The

last time I swang in this swing, I almost crashed into a barn swallow,”

he yelled.

“Take that frog out!” ordered Fern.

Avery straddled the rope and jumped. He sailed out through the

door, frog and all, and into the sky, frog and all. Then he sailed back

into the barn.

“Your tongue is purple!” screamed Fern.

“So is yours!” cried Avery, sailing out again with the frog.

“I have hay inside my dress! It itches!” called Fern.

“Scratch it!” yelled Avery, as he sailed back.

“It’s my turn,” said Fern. “Jump off!”

“Fern’s got the itch1” sang Avery.

When he jumped off, he threw the swing up to his sister. She shut

her eyes tight and jumped. She felt the dizzy drop, then the

supporting lift of the swing. When she opened her eyes she was

looking up into the blue sky and was about to fly back through the

door.

They took turns for and hour.

When the children grew tired of swinging, they went down toward

the pasture and picked wild raspberries and ate them. Their tongues

turned from purple to red. Fern bit into a raspberry that had a

bad-tasting bug inside it, and got discouraged. Avery found and

empty candy box and put his frog in it. The frog emed tired after his

morning in the swing. The children walked slowly up toward the barn.

They, too, were tired and hardly had energy enough to walk.

“Let’s build a tree hou,” suggested Avery. “I want to live in a tree,

with my frog.”

“I’m going to visit Wilbur,” Fern announced.

They climbed the fence into the lane and walked lazily toward the

pigpen. Wilbur heard them coming and got up.

Avery noticed the spider web, and , coming clor, he saw

Charlotte.

“Hey, look at that big spider!” he said. “It’s tremendous.”

“Leave it alone!” commanded Fern. “You’ve got a frog—isn’t that

enough?”

“That’s a fine spider and I’m going to capture it,” said Avery. He

took the cover off the candy box. Then he picked up a stick. “I’m going

to knock that old spider into this box,” he said.

Wilbur’s heart almost stopped when he saw what was going on.

This might be the end of Charlotte if the boy succeeded in catching her.

“You stop it, Avery!” cried Fern.

Avery put one leg over the fence of the pigpen. He was just about

to rai his stick to hit Charlotte when he lost his balance. He swayed

and toppled and landed on the edge of Wilbur’s trough. The trough

tipped up and then came down with a slap. The goo egg was right

underneath. There was a dull explosion as the egg broke, and then a

horrible smell.

Fern screamed. Avery jumped to his feet. The air was filled with

the terrible gas and smells from the rotten egg. Templeton, who had

been resting in his home, scuttled away into the barn.

“Good night!” screamed Avery. “Good night! What a stink! Let’s

get out of here!”

Fern was crying. She held her no and ran toward the hou.

Avery ran after her, holding his no. Charlotte felt greatly relieved to

e him go. It had been a narrow escape.

Later on that morning, the animals came up from the

pasture—the sheep, the lambs, the gander, the goo, and the ven

goslings. There were many complaints about the awful smell, and

Wilbur had to tell the story over and over again, of how the Arable boy

had tried to capture Charlotte, and how the smell of the broken egg

drove him away just in time. “It was that rotten goo egg that saved

charlotte’s life,” said Wilbur.

The goo was proud of her share in the adventure. “I’m delighted

that the egg never hatched,” she gabbled.

Templeton, of cour, was mirable over the loss of his beloved

egg. But he couldn’t resist boasting. “It pays to save things,” he said

in his surly voice. “A rat never knows when something is going to

come in handy. I never throw anything away.

“Well,” said one of the lambs, “this whole business is all well and

good for Charlotte, but what about the rest of us? The smell is

unbearable. Who wants to live in a barn that is perfumed with rotten

egg?”

“Don’t worry, you’ll get ud to it,” said Templeton. He sat up and

pulled wily at his long whiskers, then crept away to pay a visit to the

dump.

When Lurvy showed up at lunchtime carrying a pail of food for Wilbur,

he stopped short a few paces from the pigpen. He sniffed the air and

made a face.

“What in thunder?” he said. Setting the pail down, he picked up

the stick that Avery had dropped and pried the trough up. “Rats!” he

said. “Fhew! I might a’known a rat would make a nest under this

trough. How I hate a rat!”

And Lurvy dragged Wilbur’s trough across the yard and kicked

some dirt into the rat’s nest, burying the broken egg and all

Templeton’s other posssions. Then he picked up the pail. Wilbur

stood in the trough, drooling with hunger. Lurvy poured. The slops ran

creamily down around the pig’s eyes and ears. Wilbur grunted. He

gulped and sucked, making swishing and swooshing nois, anxious

to get everything at once. It was a delicious meal—skim milk, wheat

middlings, leftover pancakes, half a doughnut, the rind of a summer

squash, two pieces of stale toast, a third of a gingersnap, a fish tail,

one orange peel, veral noodles from a noodle soup, the scum off a

cup of cocoa, an ancient jelly roll, a strip of paper from the lining of the

garbage pail, and a spoonful of raspberry jello.

Wilbur ate heartily. He planned to leave half a noodle and a few

drops of milk for Templeton. Then he remembered that the rat had

been uful in saving Charlotte’s life, and that Charlotte was trying

to save his life. So he left a whole noodle, instead of a half.

Now that the broken egg was buried, the air cleared and the barn

smelled good again. The afternoon pasd, and evening came.

Shadows lengthened. The cool and kindly breath of evening entered

through doors and windows. Astride her web, Charlotte sat moodily

eating a horfly and thinking about the future. After a while she

bestirred herlf.

She descended to the center of the web and there she began to

cut some of her lines. She worked slowly but steadily while the other

creatures drowd. None of the others, not even the goo, noticed

that she was at work. Deep in his soft bed, Wilbur snoozed. Over in

their favorite corner, the goslings whistled a night song.

Charlotte tore quite a ction out of her web, leaving an open

space in the middle. Then she started weaving something to take the

place of the threads she had removed. When Templeton got back from

the dump, around midnight, the spider was still at work.

XI. The Miracle

The next day was foggy. Everything on the farm was dripping wet.

The grass looked like a magic carpet. The asparagus patch looked like

a silver forest.

On foggy mornings, Charlotte's web was truly a thing of beauty. This

morning each thin strand was decorated with dozens of tiny beads of

water. The web glistened in the light and made a pattern of loveliness

and mystery, like a delicate veil. Even Lurvy, who wasn't particularly

interested in beauty, noticed the web when he came with the pig's

breakfast. He noted how clearly it showed up and he noted how big

and carefully built it was. And then he took another look and he saw

something that made him t his pail down. There, in the center of the

web, neatly woven in block letters, was a message. It said:

SOME PIG!

Lurvy felt weak. He brushed his hand across his eyes and stared

harder at Charlotte's web. "I'm eing things," he whispered. He

dropped to his knees and uttered a short prayer. Then, forgetting all

about Wilbur's breakfast, he walked back to the hou and called Mr.

Zuckerman.

"I think you'd better come down to the pigpen, he said.

"What’s the trouble?” asked Mr. Zuckerman. “Anything wrong with

the pig?"

"N-not exactly," said Lurvy. "Come and e for yourlf."

The two men walked silently down to Wilbur's yard. Lurvy pointed

to the spider's web. "Do you e what I e?" he asked.

Zuckerman stared at the writing on the web. Then he murmured

the words "Some Pig." Then he looked at Lurvy. Then they both began

to tremble. Charlotte, sleepy after her night's exertions, smiled as she

watched. Wilbur came and stood directly under the web.

"Some pig!" muttered Lurvy in a low voice.

"Some pig!" Whispered Mr. Zuckerman. They stared and stared

for a long time at Wilbur. Then they stared at Charlotte.

"You don't suppo that that spider . . . " began Mr.

Zuckerman--but he shook his head and didn't finish the ntence.

Instead, he walked solemnly back up to the hou and spoke to his

wife. "Edith, something has happened," he said, in a weak voice. He

went into the living room and sat down and Mrs. Zuckerman followed.

"I've got something to tell you, Edith," he said. "You better sit

down."

Mrs. Zuckerman sank into a chair. She looked pale and frightened.

"Edith," he said, trying to keep his voice steady, "I think you had

best be told that we have a very unusual pig."

A look of complete bewilderment came over Mrs. Zuckerman's

face . "Homer Zuckerman, what in the world are you talking about?"

she said.

"This is a very rious thing, Edith," he replied.

"Our pig is completely out of the ordinary."

"What’s unusual about the pig?” asked Mrs. Zuckerman, who was

beginning to recover from her scare.

"Well, I don't really know yet," said Mr. Zuckerman. "But we have

received a sign, Edith--a mysterious sign. A miracle has happened on

this farm. There is a large spider's web in the doorway of the barn

cellar, right over the pigpen, and when Lurvy went to feed the pig this

morning, he noticed the web becau it was foggy, and you know how

a spider's web looks very distinct in a fog. And right spang in the

middle of the web there were the words 'Some Pig.' The words were

woven right into the web. They were actually part of the web, Edith. I

know, becau I have been down there and en them. It says, 'Some

Pig,' just as clear as clear can be. There can be no mistake about it. A

miracle has happened and a sign has occurred hereon earths right on

our farm, and we have no ordinary pig."

"Well," said Mrs. Zuckerman, "it ems to me you're a little off. It

ems to me we have no ordinary spider."

“Oh, no,” said Zuckerman. “It’s the pig that’s unusual. It says so,

right there in the middle of the web.”

“Maybe so,” said Mrs. Zuckerman. “Just the same, I intend to have

a look at that spider.”

“It’s just a common grey spider,” said Zuckerman.

They got up, and together they walked down to Wilbur’s yard.

“You e, Edith? It’s just a common grey spider.”

Wilbur was plead to receive so much attention. Lurvy was still

standing there, and Mr. And Mrs. Zuckerman, all three, stood for

about an hour, reading the words on the web over and over, and

watching Wilbur.

Charlotte was delighted with the way her trick was working. She

sat without moving a muscle, and listened to the conversation of the

people. When a small fly blundered into the web, just beyond the word

“pig,” Charlotte dropped quickly down, rolled the fly up, and carried it

out of the way.

After a while the fog lifted. The web dried off and the words didn’t

show up so plainly. The Zuckermans and Lurvy walked back to the

hou. Just before they left the pigpen, Mr. Zuckerman took one last

look at Wilbur.

“You know,” he said, in an important voice, “I’ve thought all along

that that pig of ours was an extra good one. He’s a solid pig. That pig

is as solid as they come. You notice how solid he is around the

shoulders, Lurvy?”

“Sure, Sure I do,” said Lurvy. “I’ve always noticed that pig. He’s

quite a pig.”

“He’s long, and he’s smooth,” said Zuckerman.

“That’s right,” agreed Lurvy. “he’s as smooth as they come. He’s

some pig.”

When Mr. Zuckerman got back to the hou, he took off his work

clothes and put on his best suit. Then he got into his car and drove to

the minister’s hou. He stayed for an hour and explained to the

minister that a miracle had happened on the farm.

“So far,” said Zuckerman, “only four people on earth know about

this miracle—mylf, my wife Edith, my hired man Lurvy, and you.”

“Don’t tell anybody el,” said the minister. “We don’t know what

it means yet, but perhaps if I give thought to it, I can explain it in my

rmon next Sunday. There can be no doubt that you have a most

unusual pig. I intend to speak about it in my rmon and point out the

fact that this community has been visited with a wondrous animal. By

the way, does the pig have a name?”

“Why, yes,” said Mr. Zuckerman. “My little niece calls him Wilbur.

She’s rather queer child—full of notions. She raid the pig on a bottle

and I bought him from her when he was a month old.”

He shook hands with the minister, and left.

Secrets are hard to keep. Long before Sunday came, the news

spread all over the county. Everybody knew that a sign had appeared

in a spider’s web on the Zuckerman place. Everybody knew that the

Zuckermans had a wondrous pig. People came from miles around to

look at Wilbur and to read the words on Charlotte’s web. The

Zuckermans’ driveway was full of cars and trucks from morning till

night—Fords and Chevvies and Buick roadmasters and GMC pickups

and Plymouths and Studebakers and Packards and De Sotos with

gyromatic transmissions and Oldsmobiles with rocket engines and

Jeep station wagons and Pontiacs. The news of the wonderful pig

spread clear up into the hills, and farmers came rattling down in

buggies and buckboards, to stand hour after hour at Wilbur’s pen