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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 courses 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 upset 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, middlings, bits of doughnuts, wheat cakes with drops of maple syrup sticking to them, potato skins, left-over custard pudding with raisins, and bits of Shredded Wheat.

Breakfast would be finished at seven.

From seven 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. Middlings, warm water, apple parings, meat gravy, carrot scrapings, meat scraps, stale hominy, and the wrapper off a package of cheese. 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, left-over sandwich from Lurvy’s lunchbox, prune skins, a morsel 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 these plans. He awoke at six and saw the rain, and it seemed as though he couldn’t bear it.

‘I get everything 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 an inch of rain water in it. Templeton was nowhere to be seen.

‘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 second 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 goose, 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 goose. ‘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 woodpeckers,’ said Wilbur bitterly.

Wilbur next tried one of the lambs.

‘Will you please 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 second 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 yourself! 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 used 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 those 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 merrymaker. Right now I am on my way to your trough to eat your breakfast, since you haven’t got sense enough to eat it yourself.’ 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 seen. 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 nose poke out from underneath the wooden trough. Cautiously Templeton pulled himself up over the edge of the trough. This was almost more than Wilbur could stand: on this dreary, rainy day to see his breakfast being eaten by somebody else. 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 himself 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 molasses,’ said Mr Zuckerman.

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 settled over everything. Soon there were only shadows and the noises of the sheep chewing their cuds, and occasionally the rattle of a cow-chain up overhead. You can imagine Wilbur’s surprise 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 see 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 see me in the morning.’

5. Charlotte

THE NIGHT seemed 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 second time Wilbur woke, he heard the goose turning on her nest and chuckling to herself.

‘What time is it?’ whispered Wilbur to the goose.

‘Probably-obably-obably about half-past eleven,’ said the goose. ‘Why aren’t you asleep, Wilbur?’

‘Too many things on my mind,’ said Wilbur.

‘Well,’ said the goose, ‘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 suppose it is uncomfortable. How long does it take a goose egg to hatch?’

‘Approximately-oximately thirty days, all told,’ answered the goose. ‘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 see 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 goose was quiet. Overhead, on the main floor, nothing stirred: the cows were resting, the horses dozed. Templeton had quit work and gone off somewhere on an errand. The only sound was a slight scraping noise 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 see the goose a few feet away. She sat with head tucked under a wing. Then he could see 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 searched 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 seen. So Wilbur cleared his throat.

‘Attention, please!’ he said in a loud, firm voice. ‘Will the party who addressed me at bedtime last night kindly make himself or herself known by giving an appropriate sign or signal!’

Wilbur paused 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, please!’ he said. ‘I will repeat the message. Will the party who addressed me at bedtime last night kindly speak up. Please tell me where you are, if you are my friend!’

The sheep looked at each other in disgust.

‘Stop your nonsense, 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 riser?’

‘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 settling down for his morning nap, he heard again the thin voice that had addressed him the night before.

‘Salutations!’ said the voice.

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

‘Salutations!’ repeated the voice.

‘What are they, and where are you?’ screamed Wilbur. ‘Please, please, 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 surprised that I used 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 spider’s web, 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.

‘Oh, yes indeed,’ said Wilbur. ‘Yes indeed! How are you? Good morning! Salutations! Very pleased to meet you. What is your name, please? 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 see you, Wilbur, as clearly as you can see 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 loose and free itself.

‘First,’ said Charlotte, ‘I dive at him.’ She plunged head first towards 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 round 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 seeing, 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-long-legs, centipedes, mosquitoes, crickets – anything that is careless enough to get caught in my web. I have to live, don’t I?’

‘Why, yes, of course,’ said Wilbur. ‘Do they taste good?’

‘Delicious. Of course, 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. ‘Please 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 insects. 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 miserable inheritance,’ said Wilbur, gloomily. He was sad because 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. And it just so happens, my friend, that what comes is flies and insects 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 increase 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 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.

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 round among the apple trees. The days grow warm and soft. School ends, and children have time to play and to fish for trout 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 carried 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 underside 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 towards 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 round 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!’