LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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