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 her 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-iviry. 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.
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