Charlotte's Web

by E. B. White

"They should say Zuckerman's Famous Pig."

  Lurvy picked up a pitchfork and walked away to get some clean straw. Having such an important pig was going to mean plenty of extra work, he could see that.

  Below the apple orchard, at the end of a path, was the dump where Mr. Zuckerman threw all sorts of trash and stuff that nobody wanted any more. Here, in a small clearing hidden by young alders and wild raspberry bushes, was an astonishing pile of old bottles and empty tin cans and dirty rags and bits of metal and broken bottles and broken hinges and broken springs and dead batteries and last month's magazines and old discarded dishmops and tattered overalls and rusty spikes and leaky pails and forgotten stoppers and useless junk of all kinds, including a wrong-size crank for a broken ice-cream freezer.

  Templeton knew the dump and liked it. There were good hiding places there--excellent cover for a rat. And there was usually a tin can with food still clinging to the inside.

  Templeton was down there now, rummaging around. When he returned to the barn, he carried in his mouth an advertisement he had torn from a crumpled magazine.

  "How's this?" he asked, showing the ad to Charlotte. "It says 'Crunchy.' 'Crunchy' would be a good word to write in your web."

  "Just the wrong idea," replied Charlotte. "Couldn't be worse. We don't want Zuckerman to think Wilbur is crunchy. He might start thinking about crisp, crunchy bacon and tasty ham. That would put ideas into his head. We must advertise Wilbur's noble qualities, not his tastiness. Go get another word, please, Templeton!"

  The rat looked disgusted. But he sneaked away to the dump and was back in a while with a strip of cotton cloth. "How's this?" he asked. "It's a label off an old shirt."

  Charlotte examined the label. It said PRE-SHRUNK.

  "I'm sorry, Templeton," she said, "but 'Pre-shrunk' is out of the question. We want Zuckerman to think Wilbur is nicely filled out, not all shrunk up. I'll have to ask you to try again."

  "What do you think I am, a messenger boy?" grumbled the rat. "I'm not going to spend all my time chasing down to the dump after advertising material."

  "Just once more--please!" said Charlotte.

  "I'll tell you what I'll do," said Templeton. "I know where there's a package of soap flakes in the woodshed. It has writing on it. I'll bring you a piece of the package."

  He climbed the rope that hung on the wall and disappeared through a hole in the ceiling. When he came back he had a strip of blue-and-white cardboard in his teeth.

  "There!" he said, triumphantly. "How's that?"

  Charlotte read the words: "With New Radiant Action."

  "What does it mean?" asked Charlotte, who had never used any soap flakes in her life.

  "How should I know?" said Templeton. "You asked for words and I brought them. I suppose the next thing you'll want me to fetch is a dictionary."

  Together they studied the soap ad. "'With new radiant action,'" repeated Charlotte, slowly. "Wilbur!" she called.

  Wilbur, who was asleep in the straw, jumped up.

  "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.

  XIV. Dr. Dorian

  THE 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 ta
lk 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?"

  "I never heard one say anything," he replied. "But that proves nothing. It is quite possible that an animal has spoken civilly to me and that I didn't catch the remark because I wasn't paying attention. Children pay better attention than grownups. If Fern says that the animals in Zuckerman's barn talk, I'm quite ready to believe her. Perhaps if people talked less, animals would talk more. People are incessant talkers--I can give you my word on that."

  "Well, I feel better about Fern," said Mrs. Arable. "You don't think I need worry about her?"

  "Does she look well?" asked the doctor.

  "Oh, yes."

  "Appetite good?"

  "Oh, yes, she's always hungry."

  "Sleep well at night?"

  "Oh, yes."

  "Then don't worry," said the doctor.

  "Do you think she'll ever start thinking about something besides pigs and sheep and geese and spiders?"

  "How old is Fern?"

  "She's eight."

  "Well," said Dr. Dorian, "I think she will always love animals. But I doubt that she spends her entire life in Homer Zuckerman's barn cellar. How about boys--does she know any boys?"

  "She knows Henry Fussy," said Mrs. Arable brightly.

  Dr. Dorian closed his eyes again and went into deep thought. "Henry Fussy," he mumbled. "Hmm. Remarkable. Well, I don't think you have anything to worry about. Let Fern associate with her friends in the barn if she wants to. I would say, offhand, that spiders and pigs were fully as interesting as Henry Fussy. Yet I predict that the day will come when even Henry will drop some chance remark that catches Fern's attention. It's amazing how children change from year to year. How's Avery?" he asked, opening his eyes wide.

  "Oh, Avery," chuckled Mrs. Arable. "Avery is always fine. Of course, he gets into poison ivy and gets stung by wasps and bees and brings frogs and snakes home and breaks everything he lays his hands on. He's fine."

  "Good!" said the doctor.

  Mrs. Arable said goodbye and thanked Dr. Dorian very much for his advice. She felt greatly relieved.

  XV. The Crickets

  THE CRICKETS sang in the grasses. They sang the song of summer's ending, a sad, monotonous song. "Summer is over and gone," they sang. "Over and gone, over and gone. Summer is dying, dying."

  The crickets felt it was their duty to warn everybody that summertime cannot last forever. Even on the most beautiful days in the whole year--the days when summer is changing into fall--the crickets spread the rumor of sadness and change.

  Everybody heard the song of the crickets. Avery and Fern Arable heard it as they walked the dusty road. They knew that school would soon begin again. The young geese heard it and knew that they would never be little goslings again. Charlotte heard it and knew that she hadn't much time left. Mrs. Zuckerman, at work in the kitchen, heard the crickets, and a sadness came over her, too. "Another summer gone," she sighed. Lurvy, at work building a crate for Wilbur, heard the song and knew it was time to dig potatoes.

  "Summer is over and gone," repeated the crickets. "How many nights till frost?" sang the crickets. "Good-bye, summer, good-bye, good-bye!"

  The sheep heard the crickets, and they felt so uneasy they broke a hole in the pasture fence and wandered up into the field across the road. The gander discovered the hole and led his f
amily through, and they walked to the orchard and ate the apples that were lying on the ground. A little maple tree in the swamp heard the cricket song and turned bright red with anxiety.

  Wilbur was now the center of attraction on the farm. Good food and regular hours were showing results: Wilbur was a pig any man would be proud of. One day more than a hundred people came to stand at his yard and admire him. Charlotte had written the word RADIANT, and Wilbur really looked radiant as he stood in the golden sunlight. Ever since the spider had befriended him, he had done his best to live up to his reputation. When Charlotte's web said SOME PIG, Wilbur had tried hard to look like some pig. When Charlotte's web said TERRIFIC, Wilbur had tried to look terrific. And now that the web said RADIANT, he did everything possible to make himself glow.

  It is not easy to look radiant, but Wilbur threw himself into it with a will. He would turn his head slightly and blink his long eye-lashes. Then he would breathe deeply. And when his audience grew bored, he would spring into the air and do a back flip with a half twist. At this the crowd would yell and cheer. "How's that for a pig?" Mr. Zuckerman would ask, well pleased with himself. "That pig is radiant."

  Some of Wilbur's friends in the barn worried for fear all this attention would go to his head and make him stuck up. But it never did. Wilbur was modest; fame did not spoil him. He still worried some about the future, as he could hardly believe that a mere spider would be able to save his life. Sometimes at night he would have a bad dream. He would dream that men were coming to get him with knives and guns. But that was only a dream. In the daytime, Wilbur usually felt happy and confident. No pig ever had truer friends, and he realized that friendship is one of the most satisfying things in the world. Even the song of the crickets did not make Wilbur too sad. He knew it was almost time for the County Fair, and he was looking forward to the trip. If he could distinguish himself at the Fair, and maybe win some prize money, he was sure Zuckerman would let him live.

  Charlotte had worries of her own, but she kept quiet about them. One morning Wilbur asked her about the Fair.

  "You're going with me, aren't you, Charlotte?" he said.

  "Well, I don't know," replied Charlotte. "The Fair comes at a bad time for me. I shall find it inconvenient to leave home, even for a few days."

  "Why?" asked Wilbur.

  "Oh, I just don't feel like leaving my web. Too much going on around here."