Loneliness
THE NEXT day was rainy and dark. Rain
fell on the roof of the bam and dripped
steadily from the eaves. Rain fell in the
barnyard and ran in crooked courses down
into the lane where thistles and pigweed grew. Rain
spattered against .Mrs. Zuckerman's kitchen windows
and came gushing out of the downspouts. Rain fell on
the backs of the sheep as they grazed in the meadow.
When the sheep tired of standing in the rain, they
walked slowly up the lane and into the fold.
Rain upset Wilbur's plans. Wilbur had planned to
go out, this day, and dig a new hole in his yard. He had
other plans, too. His plans for the day went something
like this:
Breakfast at six-thiny. Skim milk, crusts, middlings,
bits of doughnuts, wheat cakes with drops of maple
syrup sticking to them, potato skins, leftover custard
pudding with raisins, and bits of Shredded Wheat.
Breakfast would be finished at seven.
From seven to eight, Wilbur planned to have a talk with Templeton, the rat that lived under his trough.
Talking with Templeton was not the most interesting
occupation in the world but it was better than nothing.
From eight to nine, Wilbur planned to take a nap
outdoors in the sun.
From nine to eleven he planned to dig a hole, or
trench, and possibly find something good to eat buried
in the dirt.
From eleven to twelve he planned to stand still and
watch flies on the boards, watch bees in the clover, and
watch swallows in the air.
Twelve o'clock-lunchtime. Middlings, warm
water, apple parings, meat gravy, carrot scrapings, meat
scraps, stale hominy, and the wrapper off a package of
cheese. Lunch would be over at one.
From one to two, Wilbur planned to sleep.
From two to three, he planned to scratch itchy places
by rubbing against the fence.
From three to four, he planned to stand perfectly
still and think of what it was like to be alive, and to
wait for Fern.
At four would come supper. Skim milk, provender,
leftover sandwich from Lurvy's lunchbox, prune skins,
a morsel of this, a bit of that, fried potatoes, marmalade
drippings, a little more of this, a little more of that, a
piece of baked apple, a scrap of upsidedown cake.
Wilbur had gone to sleep thinking about these plans.
He awoke at six and saw the rain, and it seemed as
though he couldn't bear it.
"I get everything all beautifully planned out and it
has to go and rain," he said.
For a while he stood gloomily indoors. Then he
walked to the door and looked out. Drops of rain struck
his face. His yard was cold and wet. His trough had an
inch of rainwater in it. Templeton was nowhere to be
seen.
"Are you out there, Templeton?" called Wilbur.
There was no answer. Suddenly Wilbur felt lonely and
friendless.
"One day just like another," he groaned. "I'm very
young, I have no real friend here in the barn, it's going
to rain all morning and all afternoon, and Fern won't
come in such bad weather. Oh, honestly!" And Wil-
bur was crying again, for the second time in two days.
At six-thiny Wilbur heard the banging of a pail.
Lurvy was standing outside in the rain, stirring up
breakfast.
"C'mon, pig!" said Lurvy.
Wilbur did not budge. Lurvy dumped the slops,
scraped the pail, and walked away. He noticed that
something was wrong with the pig.
Wilbur didn't want food, he wanted love. He
wanted a friend-someone who would play with
him. He mentioned this to the goose, who was siting ting quietly in a comer of the sheepfold.
"Will you come over and play with me?" he asked.
"Sorry, sonny, sorry," said the goose. "I'm sitting-
sitting on my eggs. Eight of them. Got to keep them
toasty-oasty-oasty warm. I have to stay right here, I'm
no flibberty-ibberty-gibbet. I do not play when there
are eggs to hatch. I'm expecting goslings."
"Well, I didn't think you were expecting wood-
peckers," said Wilbur, bitterly.
Wilbur next tried one of the 'lambs.
"Will you please play with me? " he asked.
"Certainly not," said the lamb. "In the first place, I
cannot get into your pen, as I am not old enough to
jump over the fence. In the second place, I am not in-
terested in pigs. Pigs mean less than nothing to me."
"What do you mean, less than nothing?" replied
Wilbur. "I don't think there is any such thing as less
than nothing. Nothing is absolutely the limit of noth-
ingness. It's the lowest you can go. It's the end of the
line. How can something be less than nothing? If there
were something that was less than nothing, then noth-
ing would not be nothing, it would be something-
even though it's just a very little bit of something. But
if nothing is nothing, then nothing has nothing that is
less than it is."
"Oh, be quiet!" said the lamb. "Go play by yourself!
I don't play with pigs."
Sadly, Wilbur lay down and listened to the rain.
Soon he saw the rat climbing down a slanting board
that he used as a stairway.
"Will you play with me, Templeton?" asked Wil-
bur.
"Play? " said Templeton, twirling his whiskers.
"Play? I hardly know the meaning of the word."
"Well," said Wilbur, "it means to have fun, to frolic,
to run and skip and make merry."
"I never do those things if I can avoid them," replied
the rat, sourly. "I prefer to spend my time eating, gnaw-
ing, spying, and hiding. I am a glutton but not a merrymaker. Right now I am on my way to your trough to
eat your breakfast, since you haven't got sense enough
to eat it yourself." And Templeton, the rat, crept
stealthily along the wall and disappeared into a private
tunnel that he had dug between the door and the trough
in Wilbur's yard. Templeton was a crafty rat, and he
had things pretty much his own way. The tunnel was
an example of his skill and cunning. The tunnel en-
abled him to get from the barn to his hiding place under
the pig trough without coming out into the open. He
had tunnels and runways all over Mr. Zuckerman's
farm and could get from one place to another without
being seen. Usually he slept during the daytime and was
abroad only after dark.
Wilbur watched him disappear into his tunnel. In a
moment he saw the rat's sharp nose poke out from un-
derneath the wooden trough. Cautiously Templeton
pulled himself up over the edge of the trough. This was
almost more than Wilbur could stand: on this dreary,
rainy day to see his breakfast being eaten by somebody
else. He knew Templeton was getting soaked, out there
in the pouring rain, but even that didn't comfon him.
Friendless, dejected, and hungry, he threw himself
down in the manure and sobbed.
Late that afternoon, Lurvy went to Mr. Zuckerman.
"I think there's something wrong with that pig of
yours. He hasn't touched his food."
"Give him two spoonfuls of sulphur and a little mo-
lasses," said Mr. Zuckerman.
Wilbur couldn't believe what was happening to him
when Lurvy caught him and forced the medicine down
his throat. This was cenainly the worst day of his life.
He didn't know whether he could endure the awful
loneliness any more.
Darkness settled over everything. Soon there were
only shadows and the noises of the sheep chewing their
cuds, and occasionally the rattle of a cow-chain up
overhead. You can imagine Wilbur's surprise when,
out of the darkness, came a small voice he had never
heard before. It sounded rather thin, but pleasant. "Do
you want a friend, Wilbur?" it said. "I'll be a friend to
you. I've watched you all day and I like you."
"But I can't see you," said Wilbur, jumping to his
feet. "Where are you? And who are you? "
"I'm right up here," said the voice. "Go to sleep.
You'll see me in the morning."