He looked cute when his eyes were closed, because his lashes were so long.
The doll would close her eyes, too, and Fern would wheel the carriage very slowly and smoothly so as not to wake her infants.
One warm afternoon, Fern and Avery put on bathing suits and went down to the brook for a swim.
Wilbur tagged along at Fern’s heels. When she waded into the brook, Wilbur waded in with her.
He found the water quite cold—too cold for his liking. So while the children swam and played and splashed water at each other,
Wilbur amused himself in the mud along the edge of the brook, where it was warm and moist and delightfully sticky and oozy.
Every day was a happy day, and every night was peaceful. Wilbur was what farmers call a spring pig, which simply means that he was born in springtime.
When he was five weeks old, Mr. Arable said he was now big enough to sell, and would have to be sold.
Fern broke down and wept. But her father was firm about it. Wilbur’s appetite had increased; he was beginning to eat scraps of food in addition to milk.
Mr. Arable was not willing to provide for him any longer. He had already sold Wilbur’s ten brothers and sisters.
“He’s got to go, Fern,” he said. “You have had your fun raising a baby pig, but Wilbur is not a baby any longer and he has got to be sold.”
“Call up the Zuckermans,” suggested Mrs. Arable to Fern. “Your Uncle Homer sometimes raises a pig.”
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