Charlotte's Web: Chapters 13–17

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 was down there now, rummaging around.

“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!”

“What do you think I am, a messenger boy?” grumbled the rat.

“‘With new radiant action,’” repeated Charlotte, slowly.

“Do a back flip with a half twist in it!” cried Charlotte.
Wilbur went over backwards, writhing and twisting as he went.

Tired from his romp, Wilbur lay down in the clean straw.

“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.”

“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.”

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

“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...."

“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?”

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

Mrs. Arable shifted uneasily in her chair.

“No,” she replied. “But I can crochet a doily and I can knit a sock.”

“No,” she replied. “But I can crochet a doily and I can knit a sock.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.

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.”

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.

If he could distinguish himself at the Fair, and maybe win some prize money, he was sure Zuckerman would let him live.

“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.”

“Egg laying. It’s time I made an egg sac and filled it with eggs.”

“I didn’t know you could lay eggs,” said Wilbur in amazement.
“Oh, sure,” said the spider. “I’m versatile.”

“Oh, good!” said Wilbur. “I knew you wouldn’t forsake me just when I need you most.”

In the hard-packed dirt of the midway, after the glaring lights are out and the people have gone home to bed, you will find a veritable treasure of popcorn fragments, frozen custard dribblings, candied apples abandoned by tired children, sugar fluff crystals, salted almonds, popsicles, partially gnawed ice cream cones, and the wooden sticks of lollypops.

In the hard-packed dirt of the midway, after the glaring lights are out and the people have gone home to bed, you will find a veritable treasure of popcorn fragments, frozen custard dribblings, candied apples abandoned by tired children, sugar fluff crystals, salted almonds, popsicles, partially gnawed ice cream cones, and the wooden sticks of lollypops.

Templeton’s eyes were blazing.
“Is this true?” he asked. “Is this appetizing yarn of yours true? I like high living, and what you say tempts me.”

“Go to the Fair, Templeton. You will find that the conditions at a fair will surpass your wildest dreams....”

The rat didn’t waste a minute. He scampered over to the crate, crawled between the slats, and pulled straw up over him so he was hidden from sight.

“Listen to me,” whispered the old sheep to Wilbur. “When they open the crate and try to put you in, struggle! Don’t go without a tussle. Pigs always resist when they are being loaded.”

“Never mind that—do as I say! Struggle! If you were to walk into the crate without resisting, Zuckerman might think you were bewitched. He’d be scared to go to the Fair.”

“Struggle if you must,” said he, “but kindly remember that I’m hiding down here in this crate and I don’t want to be stepped on, or kicked in the face, or pummeled, or crushed in any way, or squashed, or buffeted about, or bruised, or lacerated, or scarred, or biffed. Just watch what you’re doing, Mr. Radiant, when they get shoving you in!”

“Struggle if you must,” said he, “but kindly remember that I’m hiding down here in this crate and I don’t want to be stepped on, or kicked in the face, or pummeled, or crushed in any way, or squashed, or buffeted about, or bruised, or lacerated, or scarred, or biffed. Just watch what you’re doing, Mr. Radiant, when they get shoving you in!”

“Struggle if you must,” said he, “but kindly remember that I’m hiding down here in this crate and I don’t want to be stepped on, or kicked in the face, or pummeled, or crushed in any way, or squashed, or buffeted about, or bruised, or lacerated, or scarred, or biffed. Just watch what you’re doing, Mr. Radiant, when they get shoving you in!”

With a final heave they jammed him into the crate.

Wilbur looked at his friend. She looked rather swollen and she seemed listless.

“Perhaps,” she said, wearily. “But I feel like the end of a long day.”

Wilbur heard several people make favorable remarks about Uncle’s great size.