“I beg everyone’s pardon,” whispered Wilbur. “I didn’t mean to be objectionable.”
He lay down meekly in the manure, facing the door. He did not know it, but his friend was very near.
And the old sheep was right—the friend was still asleep. Soon Lurvy appeared with slops for breakfast.
Wilbur rushed out, ate everything in a hurry, and licked the trough.
The sheep moved off down the lane, the gander waddled along behind them, pulling grass.
And then, just as Wilbur was settling down for his morning nap, he heard again the thin voice that had addressed him the night before.
“Salutations!” said the voice. Wilbur jumped to his feet. “Salu-what?” he cried.
“Salutations!” repeated the voice. “What are they, and where are you?” screamed Wilbur.
“Please, please, tell me where you are. And what are salutations?”
“Salutations are greetings,” said the voice. “When I say ‘salutations,’ it’s just my fancy way of saying hello or good morning.
Actually, it’s a silly expression, and I am surprised that I used it at all.
As for my whereabouts, that’s easy. Look up here in the corner of the doorway! Here I am. Look, I’m waving!”
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