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

Wilbur did not budge. Lurvy dumped the slops, scraped the pail, and walked away. He noticed that something was wrong with the pig.

Wilbur didn’t want food, he wanted love. He wanted a friend – someone who would play with him. He mentioned this to the goose, who was sitting quietly in a corner of the sheepfold.

‘Will you come over and play with me?’ he asked.

‘Sorry, sonny, sorry,’ said the goose. ‘I’m sitting-sitting on my eggs. Eight of them. Got to keep them toasty-oasty-oasty warm. I have to stay right here, I’m no flibberty-ibberty-gibbet. I do not play when there are eggs to hatch. I’m expecting goslings.’

‘Well, I didn’t think you were expecting woodpeckers,’ said Wilbur bitterly.

Wilbur next tried one of the lambs.

‘Will you please play with me?’ he asked.

‘Certainly not,’ said the lamb. ‘In the first place, I cannot get into your pen, as I am not old enough to jump over the fence. In the second place, I am not interested in pigs. Pigs mean less than nothing to me.’

‘What do you mean, less than nothing?’ replied Wilbur. ‘I don’t think there is any such thing as less than nothing. Nothing is absolutely the limit of nothingness. It’s the lowest you can go. It’s the end of the line. How can something be less than nothing? If there were something that was less than nothing, then nothing would not be nothing, it would be something – even though it’s just a very little bit of something. But if nothing is nothing , then nothing has nothing that is less than it is.’

‘Oh, be quiet!’ said the lamb. ‘Go play by yourself! I don’t play with pigs.’

Sadly, Wilbur lay down and listened to the rain. Soon he saw the rat climbing down a slanting board that he used as a stairway.

‘Will you play with me, Templeton?’ asked Wilbur.

‘Play?’ said Templeton, twirling his whiskers. ‘Play? I hardly know the meaning of the word.’

‘Well,’ said Wilbur, ‘it means to have fun, to frolic, to run and skip and make merry.’

‘I never do those things if I can avoid them,’ replied the rat, sourly. ‘I prefer to spend my time eating, gnawing, spying, and hiding. I am a glutton but not a merrymaker. Right now I am on my way to your trough to eat your breakfast, since you haven’t got sense enough to eat it yourself.’ And Templeton, the rat, crept stealthily along the wall and disappeared into a private tunnel that he had dug between the door and the trough in Wilbur’s yard. Templeton was a crafty rat, and he had things pretty much his own way. The tunnel was an example of his skill and cunning. The tunnel enabled him to get from the barn to his hiding-place under the pig trough without coming out into the open. He had tunnels and runways all over Mr Zuckerman’s farm and could get from one place to another without being seen. Usually he slept during the daytime and was abroad only after dark.

Wilbur watched him disappear into his tunnel. In a moment he saw the rat’s sharp nose poke out from underneath the wooden trough. Cautiously Templeton pulled himself up over the edge of the trough. This was almost more than Wilbur could stand: on this dreary, rainy day to see his breakfast being eaten by somebody else. He knew Templeton was getting soaked, out there in the pouring rain, but even that didn’t comfort him. Friendless, dejected, and hungry, he threw himself down in the manure and sobbed.

Late that afternoon, Lurvy went to Mr Zuckerman. ‘I think there’s something wrong with that pig of yours. He hasn’t touched his food.’

‘Give him two spoonfuls of sulphur and a little molasses,’ said Mr Zuckerman.

Wilbur couldn’t believe what was happening to him when Lurvy caught him and forced the medicine down his throat. This was certainly the worst day of his life. He didn’t know whether he could endure the awful loneliness any more.

Darkness settled over everything. Soon there were only shadows and the noises of the sheep chewing their cuds, and occasionally the rattle of a cow-chain up overhead. You can imagine Wilbur’s surprise when, out of the darkness, came a small voice he had never heard before. It sounded rather thin, but pleasant. ‘Do you want a friend, Wilbur?’ it said. ‘I’ll be a friend to you. I’ve watched you all day and I like you.’

‘But I can’t see you,’ said Wilbur, jumping to his feet. ‘Where are you? And who are you?’

‘I’m right up here,’ said the voice. ‘Go to sleep. You’ll see me in the morning.’

THE NIGHT seemed long. Wilbur’s stomach was empty and his mind was full. And when your stomach is empty and your mind is full, it’s always hard to sleep.

A dozen times during the night Wilbur woke and stared into the blackness, listening to the sounds and trying to figure out what time it was. A barn is never perfectly quiet. Even at midnight there is usually something stirring.

The first time he woke, he heard Templeton gnawing a hole in the grain bin. Templeton’s teeth scraped loudly against the wood and 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.