Then he walked to the door and looked out. Drops of rain struck his face. His yard was cold and wet.
His trough had an inch of rainwater in it. Templeton was nowhere to be seen. “Are you out there, Templeton?” called Wilbur.
There was no answer. Suddenly Wilbur felt lonely and friendless. “One day just like another,” he groaned.
“I’m very young, I have no real friend here in the barn, it’s going to rain all morning and all afternoon,
and Fern won’t come in such bad weather. Oh, honestly!” And Wilbur was crying again, for the second time in two days.
At six-thirty Wilbur heard the banging of a pail. Lurvy was standing outside in the rain, stirring up breakfast.
“C’mon, pig!” said Lurvy. 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.”
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