Charlotte's Web (5 page)

The goose had been listening to this conversation and chuckling to herself. “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 goose raised herself 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 closed 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 course, 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.

T
HE 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 horses were hitched to the mowing machine, and Mr. Zuckerman climbed into the seat 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 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 seemed 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 house, 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 goose eggs hatched. This was an important event in the barn cellar. Fern was there, sitting on her stool, when it happened.

Except for the goose herself, Charlotte was the first to know that the goslings had at last arrived. The goose 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 goose'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 goose, 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 goose, nodding and bowing shamelessly.

“Thank you,” said the gander.

“Congratulations!” shouted Wilbur. “How many goslings are there? I can only see one.”

“There are seven,” said the goose.

“Fine!” said Charlotte. “Seven is a lucky number.”

“Luck had nothing to do with this,” said the goose. “It was good management and hard work.”

At this point, Templeton showed his nose from his hiding place under Wilbur's trough. He glanced at Fern, then crept cautiously toward the goose, keeping close 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 seven goslings. There were eight eggs. What happened to the other egg? Why didn't it hatch?”

“It's a dud, I guess,” said the goose.

“What are you going to do with it?” continued Templeton, his little round beady eyes fixed on the goose.

“You can have it,” replied the goose. “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 nose 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
goose 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 goose knew that. Everybody knew it.

With her broad bill the goose 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 goose 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 goose led her seven goslings off the nest and out into the world. Mr. Zuckerman spied them when he came with Wilbur's supper.

“Well, hello there!” he said, smiling all over. “Let's see . . . one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Seven baby geese. Now isn't that lovely!”

W
ILBUR 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. Zuckerman 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 a regular conspiracy around here to kill you at Christmastime. Everybody is in the plot—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 his .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.”

O
N 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.”