夏洛的网.英文版

2024年3月7日发(作者：川端康成花未眠)

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Charlotte's Web

By E. B. White

Copyright 1952

CHAPTER 1

Before Breakfast

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

the table for breakfast.

"Out to the hog hou," 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

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and tried to pull it out of her father's hand.

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"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

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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 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!"

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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.

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

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his

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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. "You 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.

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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

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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 瞻养 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 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 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 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

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of harness dressing and of axle grea

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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〔美sl.〕拴系牲畜的地方 on the main floor for the cows, a sheepfold 羊栏 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 长柄的大镰刀, 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

gee, who lived with the sheep. All the

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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.

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

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on it, and come on out!"

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"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 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 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 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 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."

"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

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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芦笋 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

(food for pigs)."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

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mothers. The hors, in their stalls in the

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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 didn't know

what to do or which way to run. It emed 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 阻止, 拦截 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 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

(male goo)."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 Wilbur was dazed

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and frightened by this

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hullabaloo (ruckus, uproar, confusion). 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 her 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 middlings (小麦的)粗粉, 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 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-ivity. He's appealing to your

stomach."

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

the pail.

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"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.

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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.

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 cours

down into the lane where thistles and pigweed grew. Rain spattered against Mrs.

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Zuckerman's kitchen windows and came gushing out

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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脱脂乳, 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 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.

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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 削下的皮, 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 (fodder, hay or grain ud as

animal feed), 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 upsidedown 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 everything all beautifully planned out and it has to go and

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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 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

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

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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 (baby goo)."

"Well, I didn't think you were expecting woodpeckers," 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

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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,

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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 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硫磺 and a little molass (dark thick syrup

produced during the refining of sugar糖蜜)," said Mr. Zuckerman.

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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 loneliness any more.

Darkness ttled over ever thing. 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."

CHAPTER 5

Charlotte

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.

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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

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sitting on eight eggs?"

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"No," replied Wilbur. "I suppo it is uncomfortable. How long does it take a

goo egg to hatch?"

"Approximately-oximately thirty days, all told (on the whole)," 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

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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 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 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!"

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The sheep looked at each other in disgust.

"Stop your nonn, 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 rir?"

"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 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!" repeated the voice.

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"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 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一种水果糖. 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? 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.

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"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."

"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 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

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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 (type of spider that has a tiny body

and very long thin legs), centipedes蜈蚣, 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!"

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"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 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

incts and bugs. And furthermore," said Charlotte, shaking one of her legs, "do

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you realize

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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

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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.

CHAPTER 6

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

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morning you could hear the rattle of the machine as it went

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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 the 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 of celebration and rejoicing) 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

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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 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!"

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

shamelessly.

"Thank you," said the gander.

"Congratulations!" shouted Wilbur. "How many goslings 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.

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"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 (uneasiness of conscience, remor), 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

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egg!" he muttered.