"You'll worty all right when next winter comes," said the sheep.
"You'll worry all right on a zero morning next January when Wilbur is dead and nobody comes down here with a nice pail of warm slops to pour into the trough.
Wilbur's leftover food is your chief source of supply, Templeton.
You know that. Wilbur's food is your food;
therefore Wilbur's destin and your destiny are closely linked.
If Wilbur is killed and his trough stands empty day after day,
you'll grow so thin we can look right through your stomach and see objects on the other's said."
Templeton's whiskers quivered.
"Maybe you're right," he said gruffly.
"I'm making a trip to the dump tomorrow afternoon.
I'll brhing back a magazine clipping if I can find one."
"Thanks," said Charlotte.
"The meeting is now adjourned.
I have a busy evening ahead of me.
I've got to tear my web apart and write 'Terrific'."
Wilbur blushed.
"But I'm not terrific, Charlotte. I'm just about average for a pig."
"You're terrific as far as I'm concerned," replied Charlotte, sweetly,
"and that's what counts.
You're my best friend,
and I think you're sensational.
Now stop arguinh and go get some sleep!"