Wilbur liked Charlotte better and better each day.
Her campaign against insects seemed sensible and useful. 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 horses 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 service 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 because 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 sets 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 see the same thing, same old business, year after year.
Arable arrives with hi .22, shoots the...""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 seen
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 noise," snapped the old sheep.
"I
don't want to die!" screamed Wilbur, throwing himself 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 seen. 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."
Chapter 8 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
goose told Templeton she didn't want it any more, so he took it
away.""The goose 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 goose
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 goose, 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
goose, 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 see 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.