Charlotte's Web (10 page)

“Run around!” commanded Charlotte. “I want to see you in action, to see if you are radiant.”

Wilbur raced to the end of his yard.

“Now back again, faster!” said Charlotte.

Wilbur galloped back. His skin shone. His tail had a fine, tight curl in it.

“Jump into the air!” cried Charlotte.

Wilbur jumped as high as he could.

“Keep your knees straight and touch the ground with your ears!” called Charlotte.

Wilbur obeyed.

“Do a back flip with a half twist in it!” cried Charlotte.

Wilbur went over backwards, writhing and twisting as he went.

“O.K., Wilbur,” said Charlotte. “You can go back to sleep. O.K., Templeton, the soap ad will do, I guess. I'm not sure Wilbur's action is exactly radiant, but it's interesting.”

“Actually,” said Wilbur, “I
feel
radiant.”

“Do you?” said Charlotte, looking at him with affection. “Well, you're a good little pig, and radiant you shall be. I'm in this thing pretty deep now—I might as well go the limit.”

Tired from his romp, Wilbur lay down in the clean straw. He closed his eyes. The straw seemed scratchy—not as comfortable as the cow manure, which was always delightfully soft to lie in. So he pushed the straw to one side and stretched out in the manure. Wilbur sighed. It had been a busy day—his first day of being terrific. Dozens of people had visited his yard during the afternoon, and he had had to stand and pose, looking as terrific as he could. Now he was tired. Fern had arrived and seated herself quietly on her stool in the corner.

“Tell me a story, Charlotte!” said Wilbur, as he lay waiting for sleep to come. “Tell me a story!”

So Charlotte, although she, too, was tired, did what Wilbur wanted.

“Once upon a time,” she began, “I had a beautiful cousin who managed to build her web across a small stream. One day a tiny fish leaped into the air and got tangled in the web. My cousin was very much surprised, of course. The fish was thrashing wildly. My cousin hardly dared tackle it. But she did. She swooped down and threw great masses of wrapping material around the fish and fought bravely to capture it.”

“Did she succeed?” asked Wilbur.

“It was a never-to-be-forgotten battle,” said Charlotte. “There was the fish, caught only by one fin, and its tail wildly thrashing and shining in the sun. There
was the web, sagging dangerously under the weight of the fish.”

“How much did the fish weigh?” asked Wilbur eagerly.

“I don't know,” said Charlotte. “There was my cousin, slipping in, dodging out, beaten mercilessly over the head by the wildly thrashing fish, dancing in, dancing out, throwing her threads and fighting hard. First she threw a left around the tail. The fish lashed back. Then a left to the tail and a right to the midsection. The fish lashed back. Then she dodged to one side and threw a right, and another right to the fin. Then a hard left to the head, while the web swayed and stretched.”

“Then what happened?” asked Wilbur.

“Nothing,” said Charlotte. “The fish lost the fight. My cousin wrapped it up so tight it couldn't budge.”

“Then what happened?” asked Wilbur.

“Nothing,” said Charlotte. “My cousin kept the fish for a while, and then, when she got good and ready, she ate it.”

“Tell me another story!” begged Wilbur.

So Charlotte told him about another cousin of hers who was an aeronaut.

“What is an aeronaut?” asked Wilbur.

“A balloonist,” said Charlotte. “My cousin used to stand on her head and let out enough thread to form a
balloon. Then she'd let go and be lifted into the air and carried upward on the warm wind.”

“Is that true?” asked Wilbur. “Or are you just making it up?”

“It's true,” replied Charlotte. “I have some very remarkable cousins. And now, Wilbur, it's time you went to sleep.”

“Sing something!” begged Wilbur, closing his eyes.

So Charlotte sang a lullaby, while crickets chirped in the grass and the barn grew dark. This was the song she sang.

“Sleep, sleep, my love, my only,

Deep, deep, in the dung and the dark;

Be not afraid and be not lonely!

This is the hour when frogs and thrushes

Praise the world from the woods and the rushes.

Rest from care, my one and only,

Deep in the dung and the dark!”

But Wilbur was already asleep. When the song ended, Fern got up and went home.

T
HE NEXT day was Saturday. Fern stood at the kitchen sink drying the breakfast dishes as her mother washed them. Mrs. Arable worked silently. She hoped Fern would go out and play with other children, instead of heading for the Zuckermans' barn to sit and watch animals.

“Charlotte is the best storyteller I ever heard,” said Fern, poking her dish towel into a cereal bowl.

“Fern,” said her mother sternly, “you must not invent things. You know spiders don't tell stories. Spiders can't talk.”

“Charlotte can,” replied Fern. “She doesn't talk very loud, but she talks.”

“What kind of story did she tell?” asked Mrs. Arable.

“Well,” began Fern, “she told us about a cousin of hers who caught a fish in her web. Don't you think that's fascinating?”

“Fern, dear, how would a fish get in a spider's web?” said Mrs. Arable. “You know it couldn't happen. You're making this up.”

“Oh, it happened all right,” replied Fern. “Charlotte never fibs. This cousin of hers built a web across a stream. One day she was hanging around on the web and a tiny fish leaped into the air and got tangled in the web. The fish was caught by one fin, Mother; its tail was wildly thrashing and shining in the sun. Can't you just see the web, sagging dangerously under the weight of the fish? Charlotte's cousin kept slipping in, dodging out, and she was beaten mercilessly over the head by the wildly thrashing fish, dancing in, dancing out, throwing . . .”

“Fern!” snapped her mother. “Stop it! Stop inventing these wild tales!”

“I'm not inventing,” said Fern. “I'm just telling you the facts.”

“What finally happened?” asked her mother, whose curiosity began to get the better of her.

“Charlotte's cousin won. She wrapped the fish up, then she ate him when she got good and ready. Spiders have to eat, the same as the rest of us.”

“Yes, I suppose they do,” said Mrs. Arable, vaguely.

“Charlotte has another cousin who is a balloonist. She stands on her head, lets out a lot of line, and is carried aloft on the wind. Mother, wouldn't you simply love to do that?”

“Yes, I would, come to think of it,” replied Mrs. Arable. “But Fern, darling, I wish you would play outdoors
today instead of going to Uncle Homer's barn. Find some of your playmates and do something nice outdoors. You're spending too much time in that barn—it isn't good for you to be alone so much.”

“Alone?” said Fern. “Alone? My best friends are in the barn cellar. It is a very sociable place. Not at all lonely.”

Fern disappeared after a while, walking down the road toward Zuckermans'. Her mother dusted the sitting room. As she worked she kept thinking about Fern. It didn't seem natural for a little girl to be so interested in animals. Finally Mrs. Arable made up her mind she would pay a call on old Doctor Dorian and ask his advice. She got in the car and drove to his office in the village.

Dr. Dorian had a thick beard. He was glad to see Mrs. Arable and gave her a comfortable chair.

“It's about Fern,” she explained. “Fern spends entirely too much time in the Zuckermans' barn. It doesn't seem normal. She sits on a milk stool in a corner of the barn cellar, near the pigpen, and watches animals, hour after hour. She just sits and listens.”

Dr. Dorian leaned back and closed his eyes.

“How enchanting!” he said. “It must be real nice and quiet down there. Homer has some sheep, hasn't he?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Arable. “But it all started with that
pig we let Fern raise on a bottle. She calls him Wilbur. Homer bought the pig, and ever since it left our place Fern has been going to her uncle's to be near it.”

“I've been hearing things about that pig,” said Dr. Dorian, opening his eyes. “They say he's quite a pig.”

“Have you heard about the words that appeared in the spider's web?” asked Mrs. Arable nervously.

“Yes,” replied the doctor.

“Well, do you understand it?” asked Mrs. Arable.

“Understand what?”

“Do you understand how there could be any writing in a spider's web?”

“Oh, no,” said Dr. Dorian. “I don't understand it.
But for that matter I don't understand how a spider learned to spin a web in the first place. When the words appeared, everyone said they were a miracle. But nobody pointed out that the web itself is a miracle.”

“What's miraculous about a spider's web?” said Mrs. Arable. “I don't see why you say a web is a miracle—it's just a web.”

“Ever try to spin one?” asked Dr. Dorian.

Mrs. Arable shifted uneasily in her chair. “No,” she replied. “But I can crochet a doily and I can knit a sock.”

“Sure,” said the doctor. “But somebody taught you, didn't they?”

“My mother taught me.”

“Well, who taught a spider? A young spider knows how to spin a web without any instructions from anybody. Don't you regard that as a miracle?”

“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Arable. “I never looked at it that way before. Still, I don't understand how those words got into the web. I don't understand it, and I don't like what I can't understand.”

“None of us do,” said Dr. Dorian, sighing. “I'm a doctor. Doctors are supposed to understand everything. But I don't understand everything, and I don't intend to let it worry me.”

Mrs. Arable fidgeted. “Fern says the animals talk to each other. Dr. Dorian, do you believe animals talk?”