一个寂静的早晨，当祖克曼先生打开北边的门时，有件事情发生了。从谷仓地窖里轻轻吹出一股温暖的上升气流。空气中满是泥土的清芬，树木的香味，甘甜的春天气息。小蜘蛛们感受到了这温暖的上升气流。一只蜘蛛爬到了栅栏上面，然后他做了件令威伯非常惊奇的事。这只蜘蛛把腿放到头上，把身后的丝囊对向天空，开始放出云一样的游丝。这些丝线形成了一个大汽球。就在威伯看着的时候，这只蜘蛛让自己离开栅栏往天空飞去。
"再-见！"当它飞过门口时说。
"等一等！"威伯尖叫。"你想去哪里？"
但是这只蜘蛛已经远得看不见了。然后另一只蜘蛛也爬上了栅栏，站在头上，做了一个汽球，向天空飞去。然后是又一只。又是一只。空中不久就充满了无数的小汽球，每个汽球下都挂着一只蜘蛛。
威伯已经发狂了。夏洛的宝宝们都以惊人的速度消失了。
"回来吧，孩子们！"他哭喊。
"再-见！"他们回答。"再-见，再-见！"
最后一只飞去的小蜘蛛在造它的汽球之前和威伯谈了一会儿。
"我们要随着这温暖的上升气流离开这里了。这是我们起航的时刻。我们是汽球驾驶员，我们要到世界各地，为我们自己织网。"
"可你们去哪里呢？"威伯问。
"风把我们带到的任何地方。不管是高处，矮处，近处，远处，东边，西边，北边还是南边。我们乘着微风，我们开心地离去。"
"你们都要走吗？"威伯问。"你们不能都走，我一个人在这里，会没有朋友的，你们的妈妈不想发生这种事，我能肯定。"
空中满是汽球驾驶员，谷仓的地窖里现在看起来就像起了一层大雾。汽球们一个接一个地升起，盘旋，从门口飘远，在和畅的蕙风里航行着。无数声的"再- 见，再-见，再-见！"轻轻地不断传进威伯的耳朵。他受不了再这么看下去了。他悲痛地沉到地上，闭上了眼。被夏洛的孩子们遗弃之后，威伯感觉就像到了世界的末日。威伯孤独地痛哭着睡了过去。
当他醒来时，已经快到傍晚了。他看看卵囊，它已经空了。他朝空中望去，汽球驾驶员们也都走了。他凄伤地走到门口，来到夏洛的网曾经存在过的地方。他正站在那里，追怀着她时，他听到了一个细小的声音。
"致敬！"那声音说。"我在这上面。"
"我也是，"另一个细微的声音说。
"我也是，"第三种声音说。"我们三个留下来了。我们喜欢这里，我们也喜欢你。"
威伯抬头望去。在门框的上方有三个小蜘蛛正在那里职网呢。每一个网里，都有一个正在忙碌地工作着的夏洛的女儿。
"我可以这么想，"威伯问，"你们决定住在这谷仓地窖里，而我也将有了三个新朋友了吗？"
"你可以这么想，"蜘蛛们说。
"请问，你们都叫什么？"威伯带着狂喜问。
"我将把我的名字告诉你，"第一只小蜘蛛回答，"如果你告诉我你为何颤抖的话。"
"我在颤抖是因为极度的快乐（Joy），威伯说。
"那么我的名字就叫乔利（Joy）吧，"第一只小蜘蛛说。
"我妈妈的中间名字是什么？" 第二只小蜘蛛问。
"A，"威伯说。
"那么我的名字就叫阿兰娜吧（Aranea），" 这只小蜘蛛说。
"那么我呢？" 第三只小蜘蛛问。"你能给我一个好名字吗--不太长，不太夸张，也不要太沉闷的？"
威伯使劲儿想起来。
"内利（Nellie）？"他建议。
"很好，我非常喜欢，" 第三只蜘蛛说。"你可以叫我内利。"她动作优雅地把她的一根圆线织到了身边的网里。
威伯的心里盛满了幸福。他感到应该为这个重要时刻发表一场简短的演说。
"乔利！阿兰娜！内利！"他开始说。"欢迎你们到谷仓地窖来。你们已经选择了在一个神圣的门口拉你们的网。我只想告诉你们，我非常热爱你们的母亲。我的生命就是她挽救的。她是卓越的，美丽的，对朋友的忠诚直到生命的最后一刻。我将永远珍藏着对她的回忆。对你们，她的女儿们，我要发誓，我们的友谊，将永远不变。"
"我发誓。"乔利说。
"我也发誓，"阿兰娜说。
"我也是。"刚设法捉到了一只小咬儿的内利说。
对威伯来说，这是个幸福的一天。以后，也是一连串幸福，宁静的日子。
随着时间的推移，很多月，很多年过去了，威伯再没缺少过朋友。芬不再定期来看他了。她正在长大，不再让自己去做那些诸如坐在猪圈旁的挤奶凳上一类的孩子气的事情了。但是夏洛的孩子们和孙女们，重孙女们，都年复一年地生活在地窖门口。每年春天都有一些新的小蜘蛛被孵出来，代替那些老去的蜘蛛，他们中的大多数都乘着他们的汽球飞去了，但总有两三只会留下来，在这门口安家。
祖克曼先生在威伯的余生里对他照顾得很好。他经常被朋友们和崇拜者参观，因为没有人会忘记他取得胜利的那一年和那些蜘蛛网里的奇迹，谷仓里的生活总是非常愉快的--不管是在白天黑夜，冬夏春秋，还是阴天晴天。它是最好的地方，威伯想，这个温暖宜人的地窖里，有絮叨的鹅们，变幻的季节，温暖的阳光，迁徙的燕子，自私的老鼠，固执的绵羊，可爱的蜘蛛，好闻的牛粪，还有一切值得赞美的东西。
威伯从来没有忘记过夏洛。尽管他是那么的爱她的孩子们和孙女们，但没有一只新来的蜘蛛能代替夏洛在他心中的位置。她是独一无二的。很少有人能同时既是真正的朋友，又是天才的织网家。而夏洛却是。
英文版
Charlotte's Web
By E.B.White
I. Before Breakfast
"Where's Papa going with the ax?" said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast.
"Out to the hoghouse," replied Mrs. Arable. "Some pigs were born last night."
"I don't see why he needs an ax," continued Fern, who was only eight.
"Well," said her mother,"one of the pigs is a runt. It's very small and weak, and it will never amount to anything. So your father has decided to do away with it."
"Do away with it?" shrieked Fern. "You mean kill it? Just because it's smaller than the others?"
Mrs. Arable put a pitcher of cream on the table. "Don't yell, Fern!"she said. "Your father is right. The pig would probably die anyway."
Fern pushed a chair out of the way and ran outdoors. The grass was wet and the earth smelled of springtime. Fern's sneakers were sopping by the time she caught up with her father.
"Please don't kill it!" she sobbed. "It's unfair."
Mr. Arable stopped walking.
"Fer," he said gently, "you will have to learn to control yourself."
"Control myself?" yelled Fern. "This is a matter of life and death, and you talk about controlling myself." Tears ran down her cheeks and she took hold of the ax and tried to pull it out of her father's hand.
"Fern," said Mr. Arable, "I know more about raising a litter of pigs than you do. A weakling makes trouble. Now run along!"
"But it's unfair," cried Fern. "The pig couldn't help being born small, could it? If I had been very small at birth, would you have killed me?"
Mr. Arable smiled. "Certainly not," he said, looking down at his daughter with love. "But this is different. A little girl is one thing, a little runty pig is another."
"I see no difference," replied Fern, still hanging on to the ax. "This is the most terrible case of injustice I ever heard of."
A queer look came over John Arable's face. He seemed almost ready to cry himself.
"All right," he said."You go back to the house and I will bring the runt when I come in. I'll let you start it on a bottle, like a baby. Then you'll see what trouble a pig can be."
When Mr. Arable returned to the house half an hour later, he carried a carton under his arm. Fern was upstairs changing her sneakers. The kitchen table was set for breakfast, and the room smelled of coffee, bacon, damp plaster, and wood smoke from the stove.
"Put it on her chair!" said Mrs. Arable. Mr. Arable set the carton down at Fern's place. Then he walked to the sink and washed his hands and dried them on the roller towel.
Fern came slowly down the stairs. Her eyes were red from crying. As she approached her chair, the carton wobbled, and there was a scratching noise.. Fern looked at her father. Then she lifted the lid of the carton. There, inside, looking up at her, was the newborn pig. It was a white one. The morning light shone through its ears, turning them pink.
"He's yours," said Mr. Arable. "Saved from an untimely death. And may the good Lord forgive me for this foolishness."
Fern couldn't take her eyes off the tiny pig. "Oh," she whispered. "Oh, look at him! He's absolutely perfect."
She closed the carton carefully. First she kissed her father, then she kissed her mother. Then she opened the lid again, lifted the pig out, and held it against her cheek. At this moment her brother Avery came into the room. Avery was ten. He was heavily armed--an air rifle in one hand, a wooden dagger in the other.
"What's that?" he demanded. "What's Fern got?"
"She's got a guest for breakfast," said Mrs. Arable. "Wash your hands and face, Avery!"
"Let's see it!" said Avery, setting his gun down. "You call that miserable thing a pig? That's a fine specimen of a pig--it's no bigger than a white rat."
"Wash up and eat your breakfast, Avery!" said his mother. "The school bus will be along in half an hour."
"Can I have a pig, too, Pop?" asked Avery.
"No, I only distribute pigs to early risers," said Mr. Arable. "Fern was up at daylight, trying to rid world of injustice. As a result, she now has a pig. A small one, to be sure, but nevertheless a pig. It just shows what can happen if a person gets out of bed promptly. Let's eat!"
But Fern couldn't eat until her pig had had a drink of milk. Mrs. Arable found a baby's nursing bottle and a rubber nipple. She poured warm milk into the bottle, fitted the nipple over the top, and handed it to Fern. "Give him his breakfast!" she said.
A minute later, Fern was seated on the floor in the corner of the kitchen with her infant between her knees, teaching it to suck from the bottle. The pig, although tiny, had a good appetite and caught on quickly.
The school bus honked from the road.
"Run!" commanded Mrs. Arable, taking the pig from Fern and slipping a doughnut into her hand. Avery grabbed his gun and another doughnut.
The children ran out to the road and climbed into the bus. Fern took no notice of the others in the bus. She just sat and stared out of the window, thinking what a blissful world it was and how lucky she was to have entire charge of a pig. By the time the bus reached school, Fern had named her pet, selecting the most beautiful name she could think of.
"Its name is Wilbur," she whispered to herself.
She was still thinking about the pig when the teacher said:" Fern, what is the capital of Pennsylvania?"
"Wilbur," replied Fern, dreamily. The pupils giggled. Fern blushed.
II. Wilbur
Fern loved Wilbur more than anything. She loved to stroke him, to feed him, to put him to bed. Every morning, as soon as she got up, she warmed his milk, tied his bib on, and held the bottle for him. Every afternoon, when the school bus stopped in front of her house, she jumped out and ran to the kitchen to fix another bottle for him. She fed him again at suppertime, and again just before going to bed. Mrs. Arable gave him a feeding around noontime each day, when Fern was away in school. Wilbur loved his milk, and he was never happier than when Fern was warming up a bottle for him. He would stand and gaze up at her with adoring eyes.
For the first few days of his life, Wilbur was allowed to live in a box near the stove in the kitchen. Then when Mrs. Arable complained, he was moved to a bigger box in the woodshed. At two weeks of age, he was moved outdoors. It was apple-blossom time, and the days were getting warmer. Mr. Arable fixed a small yard specially for Wilbur under an apple tree, and gave him a large wooden box full of straw, with a doorway cut in it so he could walk in and out as he pleased.
"Won't he be cold at night?" asked Fern.
"No," said her father. "Your watch and see what he does."
Carrying a bottle of milk, Fern sat down under the apple tree inside the yard. Wilbur ran to her and she held the bottle for him while he sucked. When he had finished the last drop, he grunted and walked sleepily into the box. Fern peered through the door. Wilbur was poking the straw with his snout. In a short time he had dug a tunnel in the straw. He crawled into the tunnel and disappeared from sight, completely covered with straw. Fern was enchanted. It relieved her mind to know that her baby would sleep covered up, and would stay warm.
Every morning after breakfast, Wilbur walked out to the road with Fern and waited with her till the bus came. She would wave good-bye to him, and he would stand and watch the bus until it vanished around a turn. While Fern was in school, Wilbur was shut up inside his yard. But as soon as she got home in the afternoon, she would take him out and he would follow her around the place. If she went into the house, Wilbur went, too. If she went upstairs, Wilbur would wait at the bottom step until she came down again. If she took her doll for a walk in the doll carriage, Wilbur followed along. Sometimes, on these journeys, Wilbur would get tired, and Fern would pick him up and put him in the carriage alongside the doll. He liked this. And if he was very tired, he would close his eyes and go to sleep under the doll's blanket. 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. And if Wilbur goes there to live, you can walk down the road and visit him as often as you like."
"How much money should I ask for him?" Fern wanted to know.
"Well," said her father, "he's a runt. Tell your Uncle Homer you've got a pig you'll sell for six dollars, and see what he says."
It was soon arranged. Fern phoned and got her Aunt Edith, and her Aunt Edith hollered for Uncle Homer, and Uncle Homer came in from the barn and talked to Fern. When he heard that the price was only six dollars, he said he would buy the pig. Next day Wilbur was taken from his home under the apple tree and went to live in a manure pile in the cellar of Zuchkerman's barn.
III. Escape(1)
The barn was very large. It was very old. It smelled of hay and it smelled of manure. It smelled of the perspiration of tired horses and the wonderful sweet breath of patient cows. It often had a sort of peaceful smell -- as though noghing bad could happen ever again in the world. It smelled of grain and of harness dressing and of axle grease and of rubber boots and of new rope. And whenever the cat was given a fish-head to eat, the barn would smell of fish. But mostly it smelled of hay, for there was always hay in the great loft up overhead. And there was always hay being pitched down to the cows and the hourses and the sheep.
The barn was pleasantly warm in winter when the animals spent most of their time indoors, and it was pleasantly cool in summer when the big doors stood wide open to the breeze. The barn had stalls on the main floor for the work hourses, tie-ups on the main floor for the cows, a sheepfold down below for the sheep, a pigpen down below for Wilbur, and it was full of all sorts of things that you find in barns: ladders, grindsones, pitch forks, monkey wrenches, scythes, lawn mowers, snow shovels, ax handles, milk pails, water buchers, empty grain sacks, and rusty rat traps. It was the kind of barn that swallows like to build their nests in. It was the kind of barn that children like to play in. And the whole thing was owned by Fern's uncle, Mr. Homer L. Zuckerman.
