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As the days went by, Wilbur grew and grew. He ate three big meals a day. He spent long hours lying on his side, half asleep, dreaming pleasant dreams. He enjoyed good health and he gained a lot of weight. One afternoon, when Fern was sitting on the stool, the oldest sheep walked into the barn, and stopped to pay a call on Wilbur.
'Hello!' she said. 'Seems to me you're putting on weight.'
'Yes, I guess I am,' replied Wilbur. 'At my age it's a good idea to keep gaining.'
'Just the same, I don't envy you,' said the old sheep. 'You know why they're fattening you up, don't you?'
'No,' said Wilbur.
'Well, I don't like to spread bad news,' said the sheep, 'but they're fattening you up because they're going to kill you, that's why.'
'They're going to what?' screamed Wilbur. Fern grew rigid on her stool.
'Kill you. Turn you into smoked bacon and ham,' continued the old sheep. 'Almost all young pigs get murdered by the farmer as soon as the real cold weather sets in. There's a real conspiracy around here to kill you at Christmastime. Everybody is in the plot - Lurvy, Zuckerman, even John Arable.'
'Mr. Arable?' sobbed Wilbur. 'Fern's father?'
'Certainly. When a pig is to be butchered, everybody helps. I'm an old sheep and I see the same thing, same old business, year after year. Arable arrives with his .22, shoots the...'
'Stop!' screamed Wilbur. 'I don't want to die! Save me, somebody! Save me!' Fern was just about to jump up when a voice was heard.
'Be quiet, Wilbur!' said Charlotte, who had been listening to this awful conversation.
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E.B. White