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A spider's web is stronger than it looks. Although it is made of thin, delicate strands, the web is not easily broken. However, a web gets torn every day by the insects that kick around in it, and a spider must rebuild it when it gets full of holes. Charlotte liked to do her weaving during the late afternoon, and Fern liked to sit nearby and watch. One afternoon she heard a most interesting conversation and witnessed a strange event. 　　“You have awfully hairy legs, Charlotte,” said Wilbur, as the spider busily worked at her task. 　　“My legs are hairy for a good reason,” replied Charlotte. “Furthermore, each leg of mine has seven sections—the coxa, the trochanter, the femur, the patella, the tibia, the metatarsus, and the tarsus.” Wilbur sat bolt upright, “You’re kidding,” he said. 　　“No, I’m not, either.” 　　“Say those names again, I didn't catch them the first time.” 　　“Coxa, trochanter, femur, patella, tibia, metatarsus, and tarsus.” 　　“Goodness!” said Wilbur, looking down at his own chubby legs. “I don’t think my legs have seven sections.” 　　“Well,” said Charlotte, “you and I lead different lives. You don't have to spin a web. That takes real leg work.” 　　“I could spin a web if I tried,” said Wilbur, boasting. “I've just never tried.” 　　“Let’s see you do it,” said Charlotte. Fern chuckled softly, and her eyes grew wide with love for the pig. 　　“O.K.,” replied Wilbur. “You coach me and I'll spin one. It must be a lot of fun to spin a web. How do I start?” 　　“Take a deep breath!” said Charlotte, smiling. Wilbur breathed deeply. 　　“Now climb to the highest place you can get to, like this.” Charlotte raced up to the top of the doorway. Wilbur scrambled to the top of the manure pile. 　　“Very good!” said Charlotte. “Now make an attachment with your spinnerets, hurl yourself into space, and let out a dragline as you go down!” Wilbur hesitated a moment, then jumped out into the air. He glanced hastily behind to see if a piece of rope was following him to check his fall, but nothing seemed to be happening in his rear, and the next thing he knew he landed with a thump. “Ooomp!” he grunted. The pig walked out to his yard. “You there, Templeton?” he called. The rat poked his head out from under the trough. 　　“Got a little piece of string I could borrow?” asked Wilbur. “I need it to spin a web.” 　　“Yes, indeed,” replied Templeton, who saved string. “No trouble at all. Any thing to oblige.” He crept down into his hole, pushed the goose egg out of the way, and returned with an old piece of dirty white string. Wilbur examined it. 　　“That’s just the thin,” he said. “Tie one end to my tail, will you, Templeton?” 　　Wilbur crouched low, with his thin, curly tail toward the rat. Templeton seized the string, passed it around the end of the pig's tail, and tied two half hitches. Charlotte watched in delight. Like Fern, she was truly fond of Wilbur, whose smelly pen and stale food attracted the flies that she needed, and she was proud to see that he was not a quitter and was willing to try again to spin a web. 　　While the rat and the spider and the little girl watched, Wilbur climbed again to the top of the manure pile, full of energy and hope. 　　“Everybody watch!” he cried. And summoning all his strength, he threw himself into the air, headfirst. The string trailed behind him. But as he had neglected to fasten the other end to anything, it didn't really do any good, and Wilbur landed with a thud, crushed and hurt. Tears came to his eyes. Templeton grinned. Charlotte just sat quietly. After a bit she spoke. 　　“You can’t spin a web, Wilbur, and I advise you to put the idea out of your mind. You lack two things needed for spinning a web.” 　　“What are they?” asked Wilbur, sadly. 　　“You lack a set of spinnerets, and you lack know-how. But cheer up, you don't need a web. Zucherman supplies you with three big meals a day. Why should you worry about trapping food?” 　　Wilbur sighed. “You're ever so much cleverer and brighter than I am, Charlotte. I guess I was just trying to show off. Serves me right.” Templeton untied his string and took it back to his home. Charlotte returned to her weaving. 　　“You needn't feel too badly, Wilbur,” she said. “Not many creatures can spin webs. Even men aren't as good at it as spiders, although they think they're pretty good, and they'll try anything. Did you ever hear of the Queensborough Bridge?” 　　Wilbur shook his head. “Is it a web?” 　　“Sort of,” replied Charlotte. “But do you know how long it took men to build it? Eight whole years. My goodness, I would have starved to death waiting that long. I can make a web in a single evening.” 　　“What do people catch in the Queensborough Bridge—bug?” asked Wilbur. 　　“No,” said Charlotte. “They don’t catch anything. They just keep trotting back and forth across the bridge thinking there is something better on the other side. If they’d hang head-down at the top of the thing and wait quietly, maybe something good would come along. But no—with men it’s rush, rush, rush, every minute. I’m glad I’m a sedentary spider.”

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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 slingshot. 　　"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 she 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 is '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." 　　"Charlotte is a spider?" asked Fern's mother. 　　Fern nodded. "A big grey one. She has a web across the top of Wilbur's doorway. She catches flies and sucks their blood. Wilbur adores her." 　　"Does he really?" said Mrs. Arable, rather vaguely. She was staring at Fern with a worried expression on her face. 　　"Oh, yes, Wilbur adores Charlotte," said Fern. "Do you know what Charlotte said when the goslings hatched?" 　　"I haven't the faintest idea," said Mr. Arable. "Tell us." 　　"Well, when the first gosling stuck its little head out from under the goose, I was sitting on my stool in the corner and Charlotte was on her web. She made a speech. She said:" I am sure that every one of us here in the barn cellar will be gratified to learn that after four weeks of unremitting effort and patience on the part of the goose, she now has something to show for it.' Don't you think that was a pleasant thing for her to say?" 　　"Yes, I do," said Mrs. Arable. "And now, Fern, it's time to get ready for Sunday School And tell Avery to get ready. And this afternoon you can tell me more about what goes on in Uncle Homer's barn. Aren't you spending quite a lot of time there? You go there almost every afternoon, don't you?" 　　"I like it there," replied Fern. She wiped her mouth and ran upstairs. After she had left the room, Mrs. Arable spoke in a low voice to her husband. 　　"I worry about Fern," she said. "Did you hear the way she rambled on about the animals, pretending that they talked?" 　　Mr. Arable chuckled. "Maybe they do talk," he said. "I've sometimes wondered. At any rate, don't worry about Fern--she's just got a lively imagination. Kids think they hear all sorts of things." 　　"Just the same, I do worry about her," replied Mrs. Arable. "I think I shall ask Dr. Dorian about her the next time I see him. He loves Fern almost as much as we do, and I want him to know how queerly she is acting about that pig and everything. I don't think it's normal. You know perfectly well animals don't talk." 　　Mr. Arable grinned. "Maybe our ears aren't as sharp as Fern's," he said. "Now, I tried to pretend I liked Frank and Lulu tried to pretend she liked Lucy, but Lulu gave up pretending a lot sooner than I did. I guess maybe neither one of them, the cat or the woman, could stand being a hypocrite. I don't think Lucy was the only reason Lulu left hell, I know it wasn't - but I'm sure Lucy helped Lulubelle make her final decision. Pets can live a long time, you know. So the present I got her for our second was really the straw that broke the camel's back. Tell that to 'Dear Abby'! "The cat's talking was maybe the worst, as far as Lulu was concerned. She couldn't stand it. One night Lulubelle says to me, 'If that cat doesn't stop yowling, L.T., I think I'm going to hit it with an encyclopedia.' " 'That's not yowling,' I said, 'that's chatting.' " 'Well,' Lulu says, - 'I wish it would stop chatting.' "And right about then, Lucy jumped up into my lap and she did shut up. She always did, except for a little low purring, way back in her throat. Purring that really was purring. I scratched her between her ears like she likes, and I happened to look up. Lulu turned her eyes back down on her book, but before she did, what I saw was real hate. Not for me. For Screwlucy. Throw an encyclopedia at it? She looked like she'd like to stick the cat between two encyclopedias and just kind of clap it to death. Sometimes Lulu would come into the kitchen and catch the cat up on the table and swat it off. I asked her once if she'd ever seen me swat Frank off the bed that way - he'd get up on it, you know, always on her side, and leave these nasty tangles of white hair. When I said that, Lulu gave me a kind of grin. Her teeth were showing, anyway. 'If you ever tried, you'd find yourself a finger or three shy, most likely,' she says. "Sometimes Lucy really was Screwlucy. Cats are moody, and sometimes they get manic; anyone who's ever had one will tell you that. Their eyes get big and kind of glary, their tails bush out, they go racing around the house; sometimes they'll rear right up on their back legs and prance, boxing at the air, like they're fighting with something they can see but human beings can't. Lucy got into a mood like that one night when she was about a year old - couldn't have been more than three weeks from the day when I come home and found Lulubelle gone. "Anyway, Lucy came pelting in from the kitchen, did a kind of racing slide on the wood floor, jumped over Frank, and went skittering up the living room drapes, paw over paw. Left some pretty good holes in them, with threads hanging down. Then she just perched at the top on the rod, staring around the room with her blue eyes all big and wild and the tip of her tail snapping back and forth. "Frank only jumped a little and then put his muzzle back on Lulubelle's shoe, but the cat scared the hell out of Lulubelle, who was deep in her book, and when she looked up at the cat, I could see that outright hate in her eyes again. All right,' she said, 'that's enough. Everybody out of the goddam pool. We're going to find a good home for that little blue-eyed bitch, and if we're not smart enough to find a home for a purebred Siamese, we're going to take her to the animal shelter. I've had enough.' " 'What do you mean?' I ask her. " 'Are you blind?' she asks. 'Look what she did to my drapes I They're full of holes!' 'You want to see drapes with holes in them,' I say, 'why don't you go upstairs and look at the ones on my side of the bed. The bottoms are all ragged. Because he chews them.' 'That's different,' she says, glaring at me. 'That's different and you know it.' "Well, I wasn't going to let that lie. No way I was going to let that one lie. 'The only reason you think it's different is because you like the dog you gave me and you don't like the cat I gave you,' I says. 'But I'll tell you one thing, Mrs. DeWitt: you take the cat to the animal shelter for clawing the living room drapes on Tuesday, I guarantee you I'll take the dog to the animal shelter for chewing the bedroom drapes on Wednesday. You got that?' "She looked at me and started to cry. She threw her book at me and called me a bastard. A mean bastard. I tried to grab hold of her, make her stay long enough for me to at least try to make up - if there was a way to make up without backing down, which I didn't mean to do that time - but she pulled her arm out of my hand and ran out of the room. Frank ran out after her. They went upstairs and the bedroom door slammed.