“Where's Papa going with the ax?” said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast. “Out to the hog house (猪舍) ,” 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 (发育不全的 . It's very small and weak. So your father has decided to do away with it.” “Do away with it?” shrieked (尖叫) Fern. “You mean kill it? just because it's smaller than the others?” “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. 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 I ever heard of.” A look came over John Arable's face. He seemed almost ready to cry himself.