“Lurvy!” he called. “There is to be no more cow manure thrown down into that pigpen.”
“I have a terrific pig. I want that pig to have clean, bright straw every day for his bedding. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Lurvy. “Furthermore,” said Mr. Zuckerman, “I want you to start building a crate for Wilbur.”
“I have decided to take the pig to the County Fair on September sixth.”
Make the crate large and paint it green with gold letters!
“What will the letters say?” asked Lurvy. “They should say Zuckerman’s Famous Pig.”
Lurvy picked up a pitchfork and walked away to get some clean straw.
Having such an important pig was going to mean plenty of extra work, he could see that.
Below the apple orchard, at the end of a path, was the dump where Mr. Zuckerman threw all sorts of trash and stuff that nobody wanted any more.
Here, in a small clearing hidden by young alders and wild raspberry bushes,
was an astonishing pile of old bottles and empty tin cans and dirty rags and bits of metal
and broken bottles and broken hinges and broken springs and dead batteries and last month’s magazines
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