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 hog house,” 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 runt2. 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 pitcher3 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 sneakers4 were sopping5 by the time she caught up with her father.
“Please don't kill it!” she sobbed. “It's unfair.”
Mr. Arable stopped walking.
“Fern,”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 litter6 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 carton7 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 sink8 and washed his hands.
Fern came slowly down the stairs. Her eyes were red from crying. As she approached her chair, the carton wobbled9, and there was a scratching noise10. 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, and 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 distribute11 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 nipple12. 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 appetite13 and caught on quickly.
The school bus honked14 from the road.
“Run!” commanded Mrs. Arable, taking the pig from Fern and slipping15 a doughnut16 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 blissful17 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.
第一章 早餐之前
“爸爸拿着斧子去哪儿？”收拾桌子准备吃早饭的时候，芬问妈妈。
“去猪圈了，”阿拉贝尔太太回答，“昨晚生了几只小猪。”
“我不明白他干吗要拿着斧子去，”只有8岁的芬又说。
“这个嘛，”她妈妈说道，“有一只小猪先天不良。它太小太弱，没有留下的价值。所以你爸爸要去处理掉。”
“处理它？”芬尖叫，“你是说杀了它？就因为它比别的猪个子小？”
阿拉贝尔太太把一罐乳酪放到桌上。"别嚷嚷，芬！你爸做得没错。那头猪反正活不了。"
芬推开挡在面前的椅子跑出门外。草地湿漉漉的，泥土散发着一股春天的气息。等芬追上爸爸，她的运动鞋都湿透了。
“请不要杀它！”她眼泪汪汪地说，“这不公平！”
阿拉贝尔先生停下脚步。
“芬，”他温和地说，“你得学会控制自己。”
“控制自己？”芬大叫，“这可是关系生死的大事！你却对我说什么控制自己！” 泪水滚落到芬的脸颊上。她抓住斧头，想把它从爸爸手中夺下来。
“芬，”阿拉贝尔先生说，“养小猪的事我比你懂得多。一头体质差的小猪很难养活的。现在你该放我走了！”
“可这不公平，”芬哭叫着，“这头猪愿意生下来就弱吗，它能选择吗？要是我生下来时也很瘦小，你就会杀了我吗？”
阿拉贝尔先生笑了。“当然不会，”他边说边低下头疼爱地看着女儿，“不过这是两码事。小女孩是一回事，小瘦猪是另一回事儿。”
“我看不出有什么两样，”芬回答，仍抓着斧柄不放。“这是我听到过的最恐怖的、最不公平的事！”
约翰·阿拉贝尔先生的脸上掠过一丝奇特的表情。他好像也快要哭了。
“好吧，”他说，“你先回家吧。我会把那头小猪带回去。让你用奶瓶喂他，像照顾一个婴儿那样。那时你就会明白对付一头小猪有多么麻烦了。”
半小时后，阿拉贝尔先生到了家。他胳膊底下夹着一个硬纸盒。芬正在楼上换她的运动鞋。厨房的餐桌上摆好了早餐，房间里透着咖啡、薰肉、湿灰泥的气味，还有从炉子里飘出来的柴火烟味儿。
“把它放到她的椅子上！”阿拉贝尔太太说。阿拉贝尔先生把纸盒放到芬的位子上，然后走到水池旁边洗了手。
芬慢慢地走下楼。她的眼圈哭红了。她一走近她的椅子，纸盒就开始晃动起来，里面发出了抓挠的声音。芬看了看爸爸，然后掀起盒盖。从里面伸头打量她的，正是那刚生下来的小猪。是只小白猪，晨光把透过它的耳朵，把它们映成了粉红色。
“它是你的了，” 阿拉贝尔先生说，“你让它免于一死。愿老天原谅我做了这桩傻事。”
芬的视线简直不能从这头小猪身上挪开。“哇，”她轻声道，“看他呀！简直太漂亮了。”
她小心翼翼地盖上盖子。她先吻了爸爸，又吻了吻妈妈。随后又揭开盖子，把小猪举起来，贴到自己脸蛋上。这时候她的哥哥埃弗里走进房间。埃弗里10岁了，身上全副武装——一只手里握住一支气枪，另一只手里攥着一把木制匕首。
“那是什么玩意儿？”他问，“芬得到了什么？”
“她有了位来吃早餐的客人，” 阿拉贝尔太太说，“埃弗里，去洗脸洗手！”
“让我看看嘛！”埃弗里说着，放下他的枪。“这可怜的小东西也能叫猪？这不过是一头猪的小标本而已——他还没一只白鼠大呢。”
“快去洗脸来吃早饭，埃弗里！”妈妈说，“再过半个钟头校车就要来了。”
“我也能有一头猪吗，爸爸？”埃弗里问。
“不，我只把猪送给早起的人，”阿拉贝尔先生说，“为了制止世界上不公平的行为，芬天刚亮就起床了。结果现在她得到了一头猪。当然，小是小了点，可不管怎么说都是一头猪。这就证明，早起的人会有什么好处。好了，我们吃饭吧！”
但是芬要等到她的猪喝完牛奶后才能吃饭。阿拉贝尔太太找出一个婴儿奶瓶和橡皮奶嘴。她把热牛奶灌进奶瓶，套上奶嘴，递给了芬说：“喂它吃早餐吧！”
一分钟后，芬坐在厨房角落的地板上，把她的小宝贝抱在膝头，开始教小猪如何从瓶中吸奶。猪虽然小，胃口却很好，很快就学会了。
路上传来了校车的喇叭声。
“快跑！” 阿拉贝尔太太吩咐道，把小猪从芬那儿抱下来，在她手上塞了个炸面圈。埃弗里抓起他的枪，又拿起一个炸面圈。
孩子们跑到路边，上了车。车上芬没有搭理其他人，她只是坐在那儿朝窗外看。一个劲儿地想，这是个多美好的世界啊。自己是如此幸运，居然可以拥有一头小猪。在车抵达学校的那一刻，芬已经给她的宝贝取好了名字，一个她能想到的最漂亮的名字。
“它叫威伯，”她悄悄地对自己说。
“芬，宾夕法尼亚洲的首府叫什么？”当老师在课堂提问她时，她还在想着小猪。
“威伯，”芬出神地回答。同学们咯咯地笑起来。芬脸红了。
1. E.B.怀特(1899-1985)生于纽约，毕业于康奈尔大学，曾多年为《纽约人》杂志专职撰稿人。怀特是一位颇有造诣的散文家、诗人、幽默和讽刺作家。《小斯图亚特》和《夏洛的网》都为其著名的儿童作品。
2. runt adj. 发育不良的小动物（尤指一胎中最小的） runty adj. 发育不良的
3. pitcher n. 罐
4. sneaker n. 运动鞋
5. sopping adj. 湿透的
6. litter n. （一）窝
7. carton n. 硬纸盒
8. sink n. 面池，洗脸盆
9. wobble v. 晃动
10. scratching noise 噼噼啪啪的噪声
11. distribute v. 分发，分配
12. nipple n. 奶嘴
13. appetite n. 胃口
14. honk v. 汽车按喇叭
15. slip v. 塞
16. doughnut n. 油炸面包圈
17. blissful adj. 幸福的，快乐的