Charlotte’s Web and other classic animal stories: Charlotte’s Web, The Trumpet of the Swan, Stuart Little

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!’

7. Bad News (#ulink_7743069f-9a5c-530e-81ea-e1f6de10e00f)

WILBUR liked Charlotte better and better each day. Her campaign against insects seemed sensible and useful. Hardly anybody around the farm had a good word to say for a fly. Flies spent their time pestering others. The cows hated them. The horses detested them. The sheep loathed them. Mr and Mrs Zuckerman were always complaining about them, and putting up screens.

Wilbur admired the way Charlotte managed. He was particularly glad that she always put her victim to sleep before eating it.

‘It’s real thoughtful of you to do that, Charlotte,’ he said.

‘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.’

As the days went by, Wilbur grew and grew. He ate three big meals a day. He spent long hours lying on his side, half asleep, dreaming pleasant dreams. He enjoyed good health and he gained a lot of weight. One afternoon, when Fern was sitting on her stool, the oldest sheep walked into the barn, and stopped to pay a call on Wilbur.

‘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?’

‘No,’ said Wilbur.

‘Well, I don’t like to spread bad news,’ said the sheep, ‘but they’re fattening you up because they’re going to kill you, that’s why.’

‘They’re going to what?’ screamed Wilbur. Fern grew rigid on her stool.

‘Kill you. Turn you into smoked bacon and ham,’ continued the old sheep. ‘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.’

‘Mr Arable?’ sobbed Wilbur. ‘Fern’s father?’

‘Certainly. When a pig is to be butchered, everybody helps. I’m an old sheep and I see the same thing, same old business, year after year. Arable arrives with his .22, shoots the …’

‘Stop!’ screamed Wilbur. ‘I don’t want to die! Save me, somebody! Save me!’ Fern was just about to jump up when a voice was heard.

‘Be quiet, Wilbur!’ said Charlotte, who had been listening to this awful conversation.

‘I can’t be quiet,’ screamed Wilbur, racing up and down. ‘I don’t want to be killed. I don’t want to die. Is it true what the old sheep says, Charlotte? Is it true they are going to kill me when the cold weather comes?’

‘Well,’ said the spider, plucking thoughtfully at her web, ‘the old sheep has been around this barn a long time. She has seen many a spring pig come and go. If she says they plan to kill you, I’m sure it’s true. It’s also the dirtiest trick I ever heard of. What people don’t think of!’

Wilbur burst into tears. ‘I don’t want to die,’ he moaned. ‘I want to stay alive, right here in my comfortable manure pile with all my friends. I want to breathe the beautiful air and lie in the beautiful sun.’

‘You’re certainly making a beautiful noise,’ snapped the old sheep.

‘I don’t want to die!’ screamed Wilbur, throwing himself to the ground.

‘You shall not die,’ said Charlotte, briskly.

‘What? Really?’ cried Wilbur. ‘Who’s going to save me?’

‘I am,’ said Charlotte.

‘How?’ asked Wilbur.

‘That remains to be seen. But I am going to save you, and I want you to quiet down immediately. You’re carrying on in a childish way. Stop your crying! I can’t stand hysterics.’

8. A Talk at Home (#ulink_ae4e24c6-4b91-538d-97e3-ddd1ccfb21d0)

ON SUNDAY morning Mr and Mrs Arable and Fern were sitting at breakfast in the kitchen. Avery had finished and was upstairs looking for his sling shot.

‘Did you know that Uncle Homer’s goslings had hatched?’ asked Fern.

‘How many?’ asked Mr Arable.

‘Seven,’ replied Fern. ‘There were eight eggs but one egg didn’t hatch and the goose told Templeton he didn’t want it any more, so he took it away.’

‘The goose did what?’ asked Mrs Arable, gazing at her daughter with a queer, worried look.

‘Told Templeton she didn’t want the egg any more,’ repeated Fern.

‘Who is Templeton?’ asked Mrs Arable.

‘He’s the rat,’ replied Fern. ‘None of us like him much.’

‘Who’s ‘us’?’ asked Mr Arable.

‘Oh, everybody in the barn cellar. Wilbur and the sheep and the lambs and the goose and the gander and the goslings and Charlotte and me.’

‘Charlotte?’ said Mrs Arable. ‘Who’s Charlotte?’

‘She’s Wilbur’s best friend. She’s terribly clever.’

‘What does she look like?’ asked Mrs Arable.

‘Well-l,’ said Fern, thoughtfully, ‘she has eight legs. All spiders do, I guess.’