here's Papa going with that 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 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.

"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 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 the 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.