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I had always been very careful to stay completely clear of any personal closeness with any of theMuslim sisters. My total commitment to Islam demanded having no other interests, especially, I felt,no women. In almost every temple at least one single sister had let out some broad hint that shethought I needed a wife. So I always made it clear that marriage had no interest for me whatsoever; Iwas too busyEvery month, when I went to Chicago, I would find that some sister had written complaining to Mr.Muhammad that I talked so hard against women when I taught our special classes about the differentnatures of the two sexes. Now, Islam has very strict laws and teachings about women, the core of thembeing that the true nature of a man is to be strong, and a woman's true nature is to be weak, and whilea man must at all times respect his woman, at the same time he needs to understand that he mustcontrol her if he expects to get her respect. But in those days I had my own personal reasons. I wouldn't have considered it possible for me to loveany woman. I'd had too much experience that women were only tricky, deceitful, untrustworthy flesh.I had seen too many men ruined, or at least tied down, or in some other way messed up by women.　Women talked too much. To tell a woman not to talk too much was like telling Jesse James not to carrya gun, or telling a hen not to cackle. Can you imagine Jesse James without a gun, or a hen that didn'tcackle? And for anyone in any kind of a leadership position, such as I was, the worst thing in theworld that he could have was the wrong woman. Even Samson, the world's strongest man, wasdestroyed by the woman who slept in his arms. She was the one whose words hurt him.　I mean, I'd had so much experience. I had talked to too many prostitutes and mistresses. They knewmore about a whole lot of husbands than the wives of those husbands did. The wives always filledtheir husbands' ears so full of wife complaints that it wasn't the wives, it was the prostitutes and mistresses who heard the husbands' innermost problems and secrets. They thought of him, andcomforted him, and that included listening to him, and so he would tell them everything.

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"You saw them all crying over their physical dead," I told our group when we got inside. "But theNation of Islam is rejoicing over you, our mentally dead. That may shock you, but, oh, yes, you justdon't realize how our whole black race in America is mentally dead. We are here today with Mr. ElijahMuhammad's teachings which resurrect the black man from the dead . . . ." And, speaking of funerals, I should mention that we never failed to get some new Muslims when non-Muslims, family and friends of a Muslim deceased, attended our short, moving ceremony thatillustrated Mr. Muhammad's teaching, "Christians have their funerals for the living, ours are for ourdeparted."As the minister of several temples, conducting the Muslim ceremony had occasionally fallen to my lot.As Mr. Muhammad had taught me, I would start by reading over the casket of the departed brother orsister a prayer to Allah. Next I read a simple obituary record of his or her life. Then I usually read fromJob; two passages, in the seventh and fourteenth chapters, where Job speaks of no life after death.Then another passage where David, when his son died, spoke also of no life after death.To the audience before me, I explained why no tears were to be shed, and why we had no flowers, orsinging, or organ-playing. "We shed tears for our brother, and gave him our music and our tears whilehe was alive. If he wasn't wept for and given our music and flowers then, well, now there is no need,because he is no longer aware. We now will give his family any money we might have spent."Appointed Muslim Sisters quickly passed small trays from which everyone took a thin, round patty ofpeppermint candy. At my signal, the candy was put into mouths. "We will file by now for a last lookat our brother. We won't cry-just as we don't cry over candy. Just as this sweet candy will dissolve, sowill our brother's sweetness that we have enjoyed when he lived now dissolve into a sweetness in ourmemories."I have had probably a couple of hundred Muslims tell me that it was attending one of our funerals fora departed brother or sister that first turned them toward Allah. But I was to learn later that Mr.Muhammad's teaching about death and the Muslim funeral service was in drastic contradiction towhat Islam taught in the East.　We had grown, by 1956-well, sizable. Every temple had "fished" with enough success that there werefar more Muslims, especially in the major cities of Detroit, Chicago, and New York than anyone wouldhave guessed from the outside. In fact, as you know, in the really big cities, you can have a very bigorganization and, if it makes no public show, or noise, no one will necessarily be aware that it isaround.But more than just increasing in numbers, Mr. Muhammad's version of Islam now had been getting insome other types of black people. We began now getting those with some education, both academic,and vocations and trades, and even some with "positions" in the white world, and all of this wasstarting to bring us closer to the desired fast car for Mr. Muhammad to drive. We had, for instance,some civil servants, some nurses, clerical workers, salesmen from the department stores. And one ofthe best things was that some brothers of this type were developing into smart, fine, aggressive youngministers for Mr. Muhammad.　I went without a lot of sleep trying to merit his increasing evidences of trust and confidence in myefforts to help build our Nation of Islam. It was in 1956 that Mr. Muhammad was able to authorize Temple Seven to buy and assign for my use a new Chevrolet. (The car was the Nation's, not mine. Ihad nothing that was mine but my clothes, wrist watch, and suitcase. As in the case of all of theNation's ministers, my living expenses were paid and I had some pocket money. Where once youcouldn't have named anything I wouldn't have done for money, now money was the last thing to crossmy mind.) Anyway, in letting me know about the car, Mr. Muhammad told me he knew how I lovedto roam, planting seeds for new Muslims, or more temples, so he didn't want me to be tied down.In five months, I put about 30, 000 miles of "fishing" on that car before I had an accident. Late onenight a brother and I were coming through Weathersfield, Connecticut, when I stopped for a red lightand a car smashed into me from behind. I was just shook up, not hurt. That excited devil had a womanwith him, hiding her face, so I knew she wasn't his wife. We were exchanging our identification (helived in Meriden, Connecticut) when the police arrived, and their actions told me he was somebodyimportant. I later found out he was one of Connecticut's most prominent politicians; I won't call hisname. Anyway, Temple Seven settled on a lawyer's advice, and that money went down on anOldsmobile, the make of car I've been driving ever since.

　It was when we got this little mosque that my sister Ella first began to come to hear me. She sat,staring, as though she couldn't believe it was me. Ella never moved, even when I had only asked allwho believed what they had heard to stand up. She contributed when our collection was held. Itdidn't bother or challenge me at all about Ella. I never even thought about converting her, astoughminded and cautious about joining anything as I personally knew her to be. I wouldn't haveexpected anyone short of Allah Himself to have been able to convert Ella.I would close the meeting as Mr. Muhammad had taught me: "In the name of Allah, the beneficent, themerciful, all praise is due to Allah, the Lord of all the worlds, the beneficent, merciful master of theday of judgment in which we now live -Thee alone do we serve, and Thee alone do we beseech forThine aid. Guide us on the right path, the path of those upon whom Thou has bestowed favors -not ofthose upon whom Thy wrath is brought down, nor the path of those who go astray after they haveheard Thy teaching. I bear witness that there is no God but Thee and The Honorable ElijahMuhammad is Thy Servant and Apostle. "I believed he had been divinely sent to our people by AllahHimself.I would raise my hand, for them to be dismissed: "Do nothing unto anyone that you would not like tohave done unto yourself. Seek peace, and never be the aggressor-but if anyone attacks you, we do notteach you to turn the other cheek. May Allah bless you to be successful and victorious in all that youdo."Except for that one day when I had stayed with Ella on the way to Detroit after prison, I had not been in the old Roxbury streets for seven years. I went to have a reunion with Shorty.　Shorty, when I found him, acted uncertain. The wire had told him I was in town, and on some"religious kick." He didn't know if I was serious, or if I was another of the hustling preacher-pimps tobe found in every black ghetto, the ones with some little storefront churches of mostly hardworking,older women, who kept their "pretty boy" young preacher dressed in "sharp" clothes and driving afancy car. I quickly let Shorty know how serious I was with Islam, but then, talking the old street talk,I quickly put him at his ease, and we had a great reunion. We laughed until we cried at Shorty'sdramatization of his reactions when he heard that judge keep saying "Count one, ten years . . . counttwo, ten years -" We talked about how having those white girls with us had gotten as tea years wherewe had seen in prison plenty of worse offenders with far less time to serve.

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My adoration of Mr. Muhammad grew, in the sense of the Latin root word _adorare_. It means muchmore than our "adoration" or "adore." It means that my worship of him was so awesome that he wasthe first man whom I had ever feared-not fear such as of a man with a gun, but the fear such as onehas of the power of the sun.Mr. Muhammad, when he felt me able, permitted me to go to Boston. Brother Lloyd X lived there. Heinvited people whom he had gotten interested in Islam to hear me in his living room.I quote what I said when I was just starting out, and then later on in other places, as I can bestremember the general pattern that I used, in successive phases, in those days. I know that then Ialways liked to start off with my favorite analogy of Mr. Muhammad."God has given Mr. Muhammad some sharp truth," I told them. "It is like a two-edged sword. It cutsinto you. It causes you great pain, but if you can take the truth, it will cure you and save you fromwhat otherwise would be certain death."Then I wouldn't waste any time to start opening their eyes about the devil white man. "I know youdon't realize the enormity, the horrors, of the so-called _Christian_ white man's crime. . . ."Not even in the _Bible_ is there such a crime! God in His wrath struck down with _fire_ theperpetrators of _lesser_ crimes! _One hundred million_ of us black people! Your grandparents! Mine!_Murdered_ by this white man. To get fifteen million of us here to make us his slaves, on the way hemurdered one hundred million! I wish it was possible for me to show you the sea bottom in thosedays-the black bodies, the blood, the bones broken by boots and clubs! The pregnant black womenwho were thrown overboard if they got too sick! Thrown overboard to the sharks that had learnedthat following these slave ships was the way to grow fat!"Why, the white man's raping of the black race's woman began right on those slave ships! The blue-eyed devil could not even wait until he got them here! Why, brothers and sisters, civilized mankindhas never known such an orgy of greed and lust and murder. . . ."The dramatization of slavery never failed intensely to arouse Negroes hearing its horrors spelled outfor the first time. It's unbelievable how many black men and women have let the white man fool theminto holding an almost romantic idea of what slave days were like. And once I had them fired up withslavery, I would shift the scene to themselves. "I want you, when you leave this room, to start to _see_ all this whenever you see this devil whiteman. Oh, yes, he's a devil! I just want you to start watching him, in his places where he doesn't wantyou around; watch him reveling in his precious-ness, and his exclusiveness, and his vanity, while hecontinues to subjugate you and me."Every time you see a white man, think about the devil you're seeing! Think of how it was on _your_slave foreparents' bloody, sweaty backs that he _built_ this empire that's today the richest of allnations-where his evil and his greed cause him to be hated around the world!"Every meeting, the people who had been there before returned, bringing friends. None of them everhad heard the wraps taken off the white man. I can't remember any black man ever in those living-room audiences in Brother Lloyd X's home at 5 Wellington Street who didn't stand up immediatelywhen I asked after each lecture, "Will all stand who believe what you have heard?" And each Sundaynight, some of them stood, while I could see others not quite ready, when I asked, "How many of youwant to _follow_ The Honorable Elijah Muhammad?"Enough had stood up after about three months that we were able to open a little temple. I rememberwith what pleasure we rented some folding chairs. I was beside myself with joy when I could report toMr. Muhammad a new temple address.

Schopenhauer, Kant, Nietzsche, naturally, I read all of those. I don't respect them; I am just trying toremember some of those whose theories I soaked up in those years. These three, it's said, laid thegroundwork on which the Fascist and Nazi philosophy was built. I don't respect them because itseems to me that most of their time was spent arguing about things that are not really important. They remind me of so many of the Negro "intellectuals," so-called, with whom I have come in contact-theyare always arguing about something useless.Spinoza impressed me for a while when I found out that he was black. A black Spanish Jew. The Jewsexcommunicated him because he advocated a pantheistic doctrine, something like the "allness ofGod," or "God in everything." The Jews read their burial services for Spinoza, meaning that he wasdead as far as they were concerned; his family was run out of Spain, they ended up in Holland, Ithink.I'll tell you something. The whole stream of Western philosophy has now wound up in a cul-de-sac.The white man has perpetrated upon himself, as well as upon the black man, so gigantic a fraud thathe has put himself into a crack. He did it through his elaborate, neurotic necessity to hide the blackman's true role in history.And today the white man is faced head on with what is happening on the Black Continent, Africa.Look at the artifacts being discovered there, that are proving over and over again, how the black manhad great, fine, sensitive civilizations before the white man was out of the caves. Below the Sahara, inthe places where most of America's Negroes' foreparents were kidnapped, there is being unearthedsome of the finest craftsmanship, sculpture and other objects, that has ever been seen by modern man.Some of these things now are on view in such places as New York City's Metropolitan Museum of Art.Gold work of such fine tolerance and workmanship that it has no rival. Ancient objects produced byblack hands. . . refined by those black hands with results that no human hand today can equal.History has been so "whitened" by the white man that even the black professors have known littlemore than the most ignorant black man about the talents and rich civilizations and cultures of theblack man of millenniums ago. I have lectured in Negro colleges and some of these brainwashed blackPh.D.'s, with their suspenders dragging the ground with degrees, have run to the white man'snewspapers calling me a "black fanatic." Why, a lot of them are fifty years behind the times. If I werepresident of one of these black colleges, I'd hock the campus if I had to, to send a bunch of blackstudents off digging in Africa for more, more and more proof of the black race's historical greatness.The white man now is in Africa digging and searching. An African elephant can't stumble withoutfalling on some white man with a shovel. Practically every week, we read about some great new findfrom Africa's lost civilizations. All that's new is white science's attitude. The ancient civilizations of theblack man have been buried on the Black Continent all the time.

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Let us face reality. We can see in the United Nations a new world order being shaped, along colorlines-an alliance among the non-white nations. America's U. N. Ambassador Adlai Stevensoncomplained not long ago that in the United Nations "a skin game" was being played. He was right. Hewas facing reality. A "skin game" _is_ being played. But Ambassador Stevenson sounded like JesseJames accusing the marshal of carrying a gun. Because who in the world's history ever has played aworse "skin game" than the white man?Mr. Muhammad, to whom I was writing daily, had no idea of what a new world had opened up to methrough my efforts to document his teachings in books.　When I discovered philosophy, I tried to touch all the landmarks of philosophical development. Gradually, I read most of the old philosophers, Occidental and Oriental. The Oriental philosopherswere the ones I came to prefer; finally, my impression was that most Occidental philosophy hadlargely been borrowed from the Oriental thinkers. Socrates, for instance, traveled in Egypt. Somesources even say that Socrates was initiated into some of the Egyptian mysteries. Obviously Socratesgot some of his wisdom among the East's wise men.I have often reflected upon the new vistas that reading opened to me. I knew right there in prison thatreading had changed forever the course of my life. As I see it today, the ability to read awoke insideme some long dormant craving to be mentally alive. I certainly wasn't seeking any degree, the way acollege confers a status symbol upon its students. My homemade education gave me, with everyadditional book that I read, a little bit more sensitivity to the deafness, dumbness, and blindness thatwas afflicting the black race in America. Not long ago, an English writer telephoned me from London,asking questions. One was, "What's your alma mater?" I told him, "Books." You will never catch mewith a free fifteen minutes in which I'm not studying something I feel might be able to help the blackman.Yesterday I spoke in London, and both ways on the plane across the Atlantic I was studying adocument about how the United Nations proposes to insure the human rights of the oppressedminorities of the world. The American black man is the world's most shameful case of minorityoppression. What makes the black man think of himself as only an internal United States issue is just acatch-phrase, two words, "civil rights." How is the black man going to get "civil rights" before first hewins his _human_ rights? If the American black man will start thinking about his _human_ rights, andthen start thinking of himself as part of one of the world's great peoples, he will see he has a case forthe United Nations.I can't think of a better case! Four hundred years of black blood and sweat invested here in America,and the white man still has the black man begging for what every immigrant fresh off the ship cantake for granted the minute he walks down the gangplank.But I'm digressing. I told the Englishman that my alma mater was books, a good library. Every time Icatch a plane, I have with me a book that I want to read-and that's a lot of books these days. If Iweren't out here every day battling the white man, I could spend the rest of my life reading, justsatisfying my curiosity-because you can hardly mention anything I'm not curious about. I don't thinkanybody ever got more out of going to prison than I did. In fact, prison enabled me to study far moreintensively than I would have if my life had gone differently and I had attended some college. Iimagine that one of the biggest troubles with colleges is there are too many distractions, too muchpanty-raiding, fraternities, and boola-boola and all of that. Where else but in a prison could I haveattacked my ignorance by being able to study intensely sometimes as much as fifteen hours a day?

At one-hour intervals the night guards paced past every room. Each time I heard the approachingfootsteps, I jumped into bed and feigned sleep. And as soon as the guard passed, I got back out of bedonto the floor area of that light-glow, where I would read for another fifty-eight minutes-until theguard approached again. That went on until three or four every morning. Three or four hours of sleepa night was enough for me. Often in the years in the streets I had slept less than that.The teachings of Mr. Muhammad stressed how history had been "whitened"-when white men hadwritten history books, the black man simply had been left out. Mr. Muhammad couldn't have saidanything that would have struck me much harder. I had never forgotten how when my class, me andall of those whites, had studied seventh-grade United States history back in Mason, the history of theNegro had been covered in one paragraph, and the teacher had gotten a big laugh with his joke,"Negroes' feet are so big that when they walk, they leave a hole in the ground."This is one reason why Mr. Muhammad's teachings spread so swiftly all over the United States,among _all_ Negroes, whether or not they became followers of Mr. Muhammad. The teachings ringtrue-to every Negro. You can hardly show me a black adult in America-or a white one, for that matter-who knows from the history books anything like the truth about the black man's role. In my own case,once I heard of the "glorious history of the black man," I took special pains to hunt in the library forbooks that would inform me on details about black history.I can remember accurately the very first set of books that really impressed me. I have since bought thatset of books and have it at home for my children to read as they grow up. It's called _Wonders of the World_. It's full of pictures of archaeological finds, statues that depict, usually, non-European people.

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It was because of my letters that I happened to stumble upon starting to acquire some kind of ahomemade education.I became increasingly frustrated at not being able to express what I wanted to convey in letters that Iwrote, especially those to Mr. Elijah Muhammad. In the street, I had been the most articulate hustlerout there-I had commanded attention when I said something. But now, trying to write simple English,I not only wasn't articulate, I wasn't even functional. How would I sound writing in slang, the way Iwould say it, something such as, "Look, daddy, let me pull your coat about a cat, Elijah Muhammad-"Many who today hear me somewhere in person, or on television, or those who read something I'vesaid, will think I went to school far beyond the eighth grade. This impression is due entirely to myprison studies.It had really begun back in the Charlestown Prison, when Bimbi first made me feel envy of his stock ofknowledge. Bimbi had always taken charge of any conversation he was in, and I had tried to emulatehim. But every book I picked up had few sentences which didn't contain anywhere from one to nearlyall of the words that might as well have been in Chinese. When I just skipped those words, of course, Ireally ended up with little idea of what the book said. So I had come to the Norfolk Prison Colony stillgoing through only book-reading motions. Pretty soon, I would have quit even these motions, unless Ihad received the motivation that I did.I saw that the best thing I could do was get hold of a dictionary-to study, to learn some words. I waslucky enough to reason also that I should try to improve my penmanship. It was sad. I couldn't evenwrite in a straight line. It was both ideas together that moved me to request a dictionary along withsome tablets and pencils from the Norfolk Prison Colony school.I spent two days just riffling uncertainly through the dictionary's pages. I'd never realized so manywords existed! I didn't know _which_ words I needed to learn. Finally, just to start some kind of action, I began copying.I was so fascinated that I went on-I copied the dictionary's next page. And the same experience camewhen I studied that. With every succeeding page, I also learned of people and places and events fromhistory. Actually the dictionary is like a miniature encyclopedia. Finally the dictionary's A section hadfilled a whole tablet-and I went on into the B's. That was the way I started copying what eventuallybecame the entire dictionary. It went a lot faster after so much practice helped me to pick uphandwriting speed. Between what I wrote in my tablet, and writing letters, during the rest of my timein prison I would guess I wrote a million words.I suppose it was inevitable that as my word-base broadened, I could for the first time pick up a bookand read and now begin to understand what the book was saying. Anyone who has read a great dealcan imagine the new world that opened. Let me tell you something: from then until I left that prison,in every free moment I had, if I was not reading in the library, I was reading on my bunk. You couldn'thave gotten me out of books with a wedge. Between Mr. Muhammad's teachings, my correspondence,my visitors-usually Ella and Reginald-and my reading of books, months passed without my eventhinking about being imprisoned. In fact, up to then, I never had been so truly free in my life.The Norfolk Prison Colony's library was in the school building. A variety of classes was taught thereby instructors who came from such places as Harvard and Boston universities. The weekly debatesbetween inmate teams were also held in the school building. You would be astonished to know howworked up convict debaters and audiences would get over subjects like "Should Babies Be Fed Milk?"Available on the prison library's shelves were books on just about every general subject. Much of thebig private collection that Parkhurst had willed to the prison was still in crates and boxes in the backof the library-thousands of old books. Some of them looked ancient: covers faded, old-timeparchment-looking binding. Parkhurst, I've mentioned, seemed to have been principally interested inhistory and religion. He had the money and the special interest to have a lot of books that youwouldn't have in general circulation. Any college library would have been lucky to get that collection.

Oh, I just don't feel like leaving my web. Too much going on around here.""Please come with me!" begged Wilbur. "I need you, Charlotte. I can't stand going to the Fair without you. You've just got to come.""No," said charlotte, "I believe I'd better stay home and see if I can't get some work done.""What kind of work?" asked Wilbur."Egg laying. It's time I made an egg sac and filled it with eggs.""I didn't know you could lay eggs," said Wilbur in amazement.Oh, sure," said the spider. "I'm versatile.""What does 'versatile' mean--full of eggs?" asked Wilbur.Certainly not," said Charlotte. "'Versatile' means I can turn with ease from one thing to another. I can turn with ease from one thing to another. It means I don't have to limit my activities to spinning and trapping and stunts like that.""Why don't you come with me to the Fair Grounds and lay your eggs there?" pleaded Wilbur. "It would be wonderful fun."Charlotte gave her web a twitch and moodily watched it sway. "I'm afraid not," she said. "You don't know the first thing about egg laying, Wilbur. I can't arrange my family duties to suit the management of the County Fair. When I get ready to lay eggs, I have to lay eggs, Fair or no Fair. However, I don't want you to worry about it--you might lose weight. We'll leave it this way: I'll come to the Fair if I possibly can.""Oh, good!" said Wilbur. "I knew you wouldn't forsake me just when I need you most."All that day Wilbur stayed inside, taking life easy in the straw. Charlotte rested and ate a grasshopper. She knew that she couldn't help Wilbur much longer. In a few days she would have to drop everything and build the beautiful little sac that would hold her eggs.

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The crickets sang in the grasses. They sang the song of summer's ending, a sad, monotonous song. "Summer is over and gone," they sang. "Over and gone, over and gone. Summer is dying, dying."The crickets felt it was their duty to warn everybody that summertime cannot last forever. Even on the most beautiful days in the whole year--the days when summer is changing into fall--the crickets spread the rumor of sadness and change.Everybody heard the song of the crickets. Avery and Fern Arable heard it as they walked the dusty road. They knew that school would soon begin again. The young geese heard it and knew that they would never be little goslings again. Charlotte heard it and knew that she hadn't much time left. Mrs. Zuckerman, at work in the kitchen, heard the crickets, and a sadness came over her, too. "Another summer gone," she sighed. Lurvy, at work building a crate for Wilbur, heard the song and knew it was time to dig potatoes.Summer is over and gone," repeated the crickets. "How many nights till frost?" sang the crickets. "good-bye, summer, good-bye, good-bye."The sheep heard the crickets, and they felt so uneasy they broke a hole in the pasture fence and wandered up into the field across the road. The gander discovered the hole and led his family through, and they walked to the orchard and ate the apples that were lying on the ground. A little maple tree in the swamp heard the cricket song and turned bright red with anxiety.Wilbur was now the center of attraction on the farm. good food and regular hours were showing results: Wilbur was a pig any man would be proud of . One day more than a hundred people came to stand at his yard and admire him. Charlotte had written the word RADIANT, and Wilbur really looked radiant as he stood in the golden sunlight. Ever since the spider had befriended him, he had done his best to live up to his reputation. When Charlotte's web said SOME PIG, Wilbur had tried hard to look like some pig. When Charlotte's web said TERRIFIC, Wilbur had tried to look terrific. And now that the web said RADIANT, he did everything possible to make himself glow.It is not easy to look radiant, but Wilbur threw himself into it with a will. He would turn his head slightly and blink his long eyelashes. Then he would breathe deeply. And when his audience grew bored, he would spring into the air and do a back flip with a half twist. At this the crowd would yell and cheer. "How's that for a pig?" Mr. Zuckerman would ask, well pleased with himself. "That pig is radiant."Some of Wilbur's friends in the barn worried for fear all this attention would go to his head and make him stuck up. But it never did. Wilbur was modest; fame did not spoil him. He still worried some about the future, as he could hardly believe that a mere spider would be able to save his life. Sometimes at night he would have a bad dream. He would dream that men were coming to get him with knives and guns. But that was only a dream. In the daytime, Wilbur usually felt happy and confident. No pig ever had truer friends and he realized that friendship is one of the most satisfying things in the world. Even the song of the crickets did not make Wilbur too sad. He knew it was almost time for the County Fair, and he was looking forward to the trip. If he distinguish himself at the Fair, and maybe win some prize money, he was sure Zuckerman would let him live.Charlotte had worries of her own, but she kept quiet about them. One morning Wilbur asked her about the Fair."You're going with me, aren't you, charlotte?" he said."Well, I don't know," replied Charlotte. "The Fair comes at a bad time for me. I shall find it inconvenient to leave home, even for a few days.""Why?" asked Wilbur.

Charlotte stood quietly over the fly, preparing to eat it. Wilbur lay down and closed his eyes. He was tired from his wakeful night and from the excitement of meeting someone for the first time. A breeze brought him the smell of clover--the sweet-smelling world beyond his fence. "Well," he thought," I've got a new friend, all right. But what a gamble friendship is! Charlotte is fierce, brutal, scheming, bloodthirsty--everything I don't like. How can I learn to like her, even though she is pretty and, of course, clever?Wilbur was merely suffering the doubts and fears that often go with finding a new friend. In good time he was to discover that he was mistaken about Charlotte. Underneath her rather bold and cruel exterior, she had a kind heart, and she was to prove loyal and true to the very end.

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Poor Wilbur was dazed and frightened by this hullabaloo. He didn't like being the center of all this fuss. He tried to follow the instructions his friends were giving him, but he couldn't run downhill and uphill at the same time, and he couldn't turn and twist when he was jumping and dancing, and he was crying so hard he could barely see anything that was happening. After all, Wilbur was a very young pig-not much more than a baby, really. He wished Fern were there to take him in his arms and comfort him. When he looked up and saw Mr. Zuckerman standing quite close to him, holding a pail of warm slops, he felt relieved. He lifted his nose and sniffed. The smell was delicious-warm milk, potato skins, wheat middlings, Kellogg's Corn Flakes, and a popover left from the Zuckermans' breakfast.Come, pig!" said Mr. Zuckerman, tapping the pail. "Come pig!"Wilbur took a step toward the pail.No-no-no!" said the goose. "It's the old pail trick, Wilbur. Don't fall for it, don't fall for it ! He's trying to lure you back into captivity-ivity. He's appealing to your stomach."Wilbur didn't care. The food smelled appetizing. He took another step toward the pail.Pig, pig!" said Mr. Zuckerman in a kind voice, and began walking slowly toward the barnyard, looking all about him innocently, as if he didn't know that a little white pig was following along behind him.Certainly. Flies, bugs, grasshoppers, choice beetles, moths, butterflies, tasty cockroaches, gnats, midges, daddy longlegs, 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 about my diet of flies and bugs, but it's the way I'm made. A spider has to pick up a living somehow or other, and I happen to be a trapper. I just naturally build a web and trap flies and other insects. My mother was a trapper before me. Her mother was a trapper before her. All our family have been trappers. Way back for thousands and thousands of years we spiders have been laying for flies and bugs.""It's a miserable inheritance," said Wilbur, gloomily. He was sad because his new friend was so bloodthirsty.Yes, it is," agreed charlotte. "But I can't help it. I don't know how the first spider in the early days of the world happened to think up this fancy idea of spinning a web, but she did, and it was clever of her, too. And since then, all of us spiders have had to work the same trick. It's not a bad pitch, on the whole.""It's cruel," replied Wilbur, who did not intend to be argued out of his position.Well, you can't talk," said Charlotte. "You have your meals brought to you in a pail. Nobody feeds me. I have to get my own living. I live by my wits. I have to be sharp and clever, lest I go hungry. I have to think things out, catch what I can, take what comes. Ant it just so happens, my friend, that what comes is flies and insects and bugs. And furthermore," said Charlotte, shaking one of her legs, "do you realize that if I didn't catch bugs and eat them, bugs would increase and multiply and get so numerous that they'd destroy the earth, wipe out everything?""Really?" said Wilbur. "I wouldn't want that to happen. Perhaps your web is a good thing after all."The goose had been listening to this conversation and chuckling to herself. "There are a lot of things Wilbur doesn't know about life," she thought. "He's really a very innocent little pig. He doesn't even know what's going to happen to him around Christmastime; he has no idea that Mr. Zuckerman and Lurvy are plotting to kill him." And the goose raised herself a bit and poked her eggs a little further under her so that they would receive the full heat from her warm body and soft feathers.