One morning, Fern Arable heard her father talking about an ax. Her mother explained he was going to the hoghouse for a runt pig. Fern gasped, realizing what 'do away with it' truly meant.

Before her mother could reply, Fern was gone. She ran across the yard, her hair flowing behind her like a banner of protest. She had to stop her father before it was too late.

Fern cried, 'Stop!' and stood bravely in front of her father. Tears streamed down her face as she pleaded, 'Please don’t kill it, Daddy! It’s not fair!'

Mr. Arable looked down at his daughter, surprised. He tried to explain that 'life on a farm isn’t always easy.' But Fern, with tears spilling down her cheeks, asked, 'If I had been small, would you have killed me too?' Her father sighed, lowering the ax, a faint smile tugging at his lips. 'All right, Fern. Maybe this one deserves a chance,' he said.

Fern gently wrapped the tiny piglet in an old towel, its pink snout peeking out like a flower bud. 'You can raise him yourself,' said Mr. Arable, 'Bottle and all.' 'I will!' said Fern.

That night, Fern made a soft bed for the piglet in a box by the warm stove. The little pig snuggled into the blanket, finally safe and sound in his new, cozy home.

At breakfast the next morning, Fern proudly announced, 'His name is Wilbur.' Her brother, Avery, laughed, but Fern was firm. The piglet, she declared, looked exactly like a Wilbur.

Fern spent her days caring for Wilbur, feeding him from a baby bottle, and singing him soft lullabies. She even took him for walks in her doll carriage. Neighbors came to see the strange sight, but Mrs. Arable noted with concern, 'He’s growing fast. Too fast.'

Within weeks, Wilbur grew too big for the kitchen box. He rooted around the floor, knocked over his milk, and squealed when Fern left the room. 'Papa says we can’t keep him here forever,' Mrs. Arable said. 'He’s eating us out of house and home.' Fern hugged Wilbur tightly, insisting, 'He’s my friend.'

Mr. Arable made a phone call. 'Homer Zuckerman has a farm nearby. He’ll buy the pig.' Fern’s heart sank. 'But I’ll still see him, won’t I?' she asked. 'Every day if you wish,' said her father. Fern nodded slowly. 'Then I’ll go with him—to make sure he’s happy.'

Wilbur was placed in a small wooden crate lined with straw. Fern bent down and whispered, 'Don’t be scared. I’ll visit you.' Wilbur gave a soft oink as the wagon rattled away.

The new barn at Zuckerman's farm was large and cool, with dusty beams and soft hay everywhere. Wilbur blinked in wonder at the cows, geese, and sheep. Somewhere high above, a spider’s thread gleamed. 'This is your new home,' said Mr. Zuckerman kindly.

Wilbur tried to make friends with the goose, the sheep, and even the old rat, Templeton, but everyone seemed busy or rude. By nightfall, he was alone, staring at the moon through the slats of the barn, wishing Fern were there.

One morning, the gate latch slipped open. Wilbur dashed out joyfully, but soon realized everyone was chasing him. Terrified, he froze, whimpering, 'I don’t like being free.' After much running and shouting, Mr. Zuckerman coaxed him back with warm milk. Fern laughed through her tears, saying, 'You silly pig—you just wanted attention!' Wilbur snuggled back into his pen. As the barn quieted, he sighed. 'I wish I had a friend who was always here,' he said softly.

Night settled deep and still. A single star shone through the rafters. Just as Wilbur began to drift to sleep, a gentle voice came from the shadows above his head. 'Salutations,' it said. Wilbur blinked. 'Who’s that?' 'Someone who might be your friend,' said the voice. And somewhere in the darkness, a tiny spider dropped silently from her web.