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.
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