gemahrv0309 <夏洛的网>-XVI
The night before the County Fair, everybody went to bed early. Fern and Avery were in bed by eight. Avery lay dreaming that the Ferris wheel had stopped and that he was in the top car. Fern lay dreaming that she was getting sick in the swings.
Lurvy was in bed by eight-thirty. He lay dreaming that he was throwing baseballs at a cloth cat and winning a genuine Navajo blanket. Mr. and Mrs. Zuckerman were in bed by nine. Mrs. Zuckerman lay dreaming about a deep freeze unit. Mr. Zuckerman lay dreaming about Wilbur. He dreamt that Wilbur had grown until he was one hundred and sixteen feet long and ninety-tow feet high and that he had won all the prizes at the Fair and was covered with blue ribbons and even had a blue ribbon tied to the end of his tail.
Down in the barn cellar, the animals, too, went to sleep early, all except Charlotte. Tomorrow would be Fair Day. Every creature planned to get up early to see Wilbur off on his great adventure.
When morning came, everybody got up at daylight. The day was hot. Up the road at the Arables’ house, Fern lugged a pail of hot water to her room and took a sponge bath. Then she put on her prettiest dress because she knew she would see boys at the Fair. Mrs. Arablescrubbed the back of Avery’s neck, and wet his hair, and parted it, and brushed it down hard till it stuck to the top of his head–all but about six hairs that stood straight up. Avery put on clean underwear, clean blue jeans, and a clean shirt. Mr. Arable dressed, ate breakfast, and then went out and polished his truck. He had offered to drive everybody to the Fair, including Wilbur.
Bright and early, Lurvy put clean straw in Wilbur’s crate and lifted it into the pigpen. The crate was green. In gold letters it said:
ZUCKERMAN’S FAMOUS PIG
Charlotte had her web looking fine for the occasion. Wilbur ate his breakfast slowly. He tried to look radiant without getting food in his ears.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Zuckerman suddenly made an announcement.
“Homer,” she said to her husband, “I am going to give that pig a buttermilk bath.”
“A what?” said Mr. Zuckerman.
“A buttermilk bath. My grandmother used to bathe her pig with buttermilk when it got dirty–I just remembered.”
“Wilbur’s not dirty,” said Mr. Zuckerman proudly.
“He’s filthy behind the ears,” said Mrs. Zuckerman. “Every time Lurvy slops him, the food runs down around the ears. Then it dries and forms a crust. He also has a smudge on one side where he lays in the manure.”
“He lays in clean straw,” corrected Mr. Zuckerman.
“Well, he’s dirty, and he’s going to have a bath.”
Mr. Zuckerman sat down weakly and ate a doughnut. His wife went to the woodshed. When she returned, she wore rubber boots and an old raincoat, and she carried a bucket of buttermilk and a small wooden paddle.
“Edith, you’re crazy,” mumbled Zuckerman.
But she paid no attention to him. Together they walked to the pigpen. Mrs. Zuckerman wasted no time. She climbed in with Wilbur and went to work. Dipping her paddle in the buttermilk, she rubbed him all over. The geese gathered around to see the fun, and so did the sheep and lambs. Even Templeton poked his head out cautiously, to watch Wilbur get a buttermilk bath. Charlotte got so interested, she lowered herself on a dragline so she could see better. Wilbur stood still and closed his eyes. He could feel the buttermilk trickling down his sides. he opened his mouth and some buttermilk ran in. it was delicious. He felt radiant and happy. When Mrs. Zuckerman got through and rubbed him dry, he was the cleanest, prettiest pig you ever saw. He was pure white, pink around the ears and snout, and smooth as silk.
The Zuckermans went up to change into their best clothes. Lurvy went to shave and put on his plaid shirt and his purple necktie. The animals were left to themselves in the barn.
The seven goslings paraded round and round their mother.
“Please, please, please take us to the Fair!” begged a gosling. Then all seven began teasing to go.
“Please, Please, Please, Please, Please, Please…” They made quite a racket.
“Children!” snapped the goose. “We’re staying quietly-ietly-ietly at home. Only Wilbur-ilbur-ilbur is going to the Fair.”
Just then Charlotte interrupted.
“I shall go, too,” she said, softly. “I have decided to go with Wilbur. He may need me. We can’t tell what may happen at the Fair Grounds. Somebody’s got to go along who knows how to write. And I think Templeton better come, too–I might need somebody to run errands and do general work.”
“I’m staying right here,” grumbled the rat. “I haven’t the slightest interest in fairs.”
“That’s because you’ve never been to one,” remarked the old sheep. “A fair is a rat’s paradise. Everybody spills food at a fair. A rat can creep out late at night and have a feast. In the horse barn you will find oats that the trotters and pacers have spilled. In the trampled grass of the infield you will find old discarded lunch boxes containing the foul remains of peanut butter sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, cracker crumbs, bits of doughnuts, and particles of cheese. 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. Everywhere is loot for a rat–in tents, in booths, in hay lofts–why, a fair has enough disgusting leftover food to satisfy a whole army of rats.”
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.”
“It is true,” said the old sheep. “Go to the Fair, Templeton. You will find that the conditions at a fair will surpass your wildest dreams. Buckets with sour mash sticking to them, tin cans containing particles of tuna fish, greasy paper bags stuffed with rotten…”
“That’s enough!” cried Templeton. “Don’t tell me any more. I’m going.”
“Good,” said Charlotte, winking at the old sheep. “Now then–there is no time to be lost. Wilbur will soon be put into the crate. Templeton and I must get in the Gucci handbags crate right now and hide ourselves.”
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.
“All right,” said Charlotte, “I’m next.” She sailed into the air, let out a dragline, and dropped gently to the ground. then she climbed the side of the crate and hid herslef inside a knothole in the top board.
The old sheep nodded. “What a cargo!” she said. “That sign ought to say ‘Zuckerman’s Famous Pig and Two Stowaways’.”
“Look out, the people are coming-oming-oming!” shouted the gander. “Cheese it, cheese it, cheese it!”
The big truck with Mr. Arable at the wheel backed slowly down toward the barnyard. Lurvy and Mr. Zuckerman walked alongside. Fern and Avery were standing in the body of the truck hanging on to the sideboards.
“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.”
“If I struggle I’ll get dirty,” said Wilbur.
“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.”
Templeton poked his head up through the straw. “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!”
“Be quiet, Templeton!” said the sheep. “Pull in you head–they’re coming. Look radiant, Wilbur! Lay low, Charlotte! Talk it up, geese!”
The truck backed slowly to the pigpen and stopped. Mr. arable cut the motor, got out, walked around to the rear, and lowered the tailgate. The geese cheered. Mrs. Arable got out of the truck. Fern and Avery jumped to the ground. Mrs. Zuckerman came walking down from the house. Everybody lined up at the fence and stood for a moment admiring Wilbur and the beautiful green crate. Nobody realized that the crate already contained a rat and a spider.
“That’s some pig!” said Mrs. Arable.
“He’s terrific,” said Lurvy.
“He’s very radiant,” said Fern, remembering the day he was born.
“Well,” said Mrs. Zuckerman, “he’s clean, anyway. The buttermilk certainly hepled.”
Mr. Arable studied Wilbur carefully. “Yes, he’s a wonderful pig,” he said. “It’s hard to believe that he was the runt of the litter. You’ll get some extra good ham and bacon, Homer, when it comes time to kill that pig.”
Wilbur heard these words and his heart almost stopped. “I think I’m going to faint,” he whispered to the old sheep, who was watching.
“Kneel down.” whispered the old sheep. “Let the blood rush to you head!”
Wilbur sank to his knees, all radiance gone. His eyes closed.
“Look!” screamed Fern. “He’s fading away!”
“Hey, watch me!” yelled Avery, crawling on all fours into the crate. “I’m a pig! I’m a pig!”
Avery’s foot touched Templeton under the straw. “What a mess!” thought the rat. “What fantastic creatures boys are! why did I let myself in for this?”
The geese saw Avery in the crate and cheered.
“Avery, you get out of that crate this instant!” commanded his mother. “What do you think you are?”
“I’m a pig1″ cried Avery, tossing handfuls of straw into the air. “Oink, oink, oink!”
“The truck is rolling away, Papa,” said Fern.
The truck, with no one at the wheel, had started to roll downhill. Mr. Arable dashed to the driver’s seat and pulled on the emergency brake. The truck stopped. The geese cheered. Charlotte crouched and made herself as small as possible in the knothole, so Avery wouldn’t see her.
“Come out at once!” cried Mrs. Arable. Avery crawled out of the crate on hands and knees, making faces at Wilbur. Wilbur fainted away.
“The pig has passed out,” said Mrs. Zuckerman. “Throw water on him!”
“Throw buttermilk!” suggested Avery.
The geese cheered.
Lurvy ran for a pail of water. Fern climbed into the pen and knelt by Wilbur’s side.
“It’s sunstroke,” said Zuckerman. “The heat is too much for him.”
“Maybe he’s dead,” said Avery.
“Come out of that pigpen immediately1″ cried Mrs. Arable. Avery obeyed his mother and climbed into the back of the truck so he could see better. Lurvy returned with cold water and dashed it on Wilbur.
“Throw some on me!” cried Avery. “I’m hot, too.”
“Oh, keep quiet!” hollered Fern. “Keep qui-ut!” Her eyes were brimming with tears.
Wilbur, feeling the cold water, came to. He rose slowly to his feet, while the geese cheered.
He’s up!” said Mr. Arable. “I guess there’s nothing wrong with him.”
“I’m hungry,” said Avery. “I want a candied apple.”
“Wilbur’s all right now,” said Fern. “We can start. I want to take a ride in the Ferris wheel.”
Mr. Zuckerman and Mr. Arable and Lurvy grabbed the pig and pushed him headfirst toward the crate. Wilbur began to struggle. The harder the men pushed, the harder he held back. Avery jumped down and joined the men. Wilbur kicked and thrashed and grunted. “Nothing wrong with this pig,” said Mr. Zuckerman cheerfully, pressing his knee against Wilbur’s behind. “All together, now, boys! Shove!”
With a final heave they jammed him into the crate. The geese cheered. Lurvy nailed some boards across the end, so Wilbur couldn’t back out. Then, using all their strength, the men picked up the crate and heaved it aboard the truck. They did not know that under the straw was a rat, and inside a knothole was a big grey spider. They saw only a pig.
“Everybody in!” called Mr. Arable. He started the motor. The ladies climbed in beside him. Mr. Zuckerman and Lurvy and Fern and Avery rode in back, hanging onto the sideboards. The truck began to move ahead. The geese cheered. The children answered their cheer, and away went everybody to the Fair.