Charlotte's Web: Chapters 5–7

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.

“I beg everyone’s pardon,” whispered Wilbur. “I didn’t mean to be objectionable.”

He lay down meekly in the manure, facing the door.

“Salutations!” repeated the voice.
“What are they, and where are you?” screamed Wilbur. “Please, please, tell me where you are. And what are salutations?”

"...As for my whereabouts, that’s easy. Look up here in the corner of the doorway! Here I am. Look, I’m waving!”

“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.”

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.

She plunged headfirst toward the fly.

He could hardly believe what he was seeing, and although he detested flies, he was sorry for this one.

He was sad because his new friend was so bloodthirsty.

“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...."

“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?”

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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!”

“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!”

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.”

He pushed and nudged till he succeeded in rolling it to his lair under the trough.

Wilbur liked Charlotte better and better each day. Her campaign against insects seemed sensible and useful.

Flies spent their time pestering others. The cows hated them. The horses detested them. The sheep loathed them.

Flies spent their time pestering others. The cows hated them. The horses detested them. The sheep loathed them.

“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.”

“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?”

Fern grew rigid on her stool.

“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.”

“You shall not die,” said Charlotte, briskly.