Animal Farm by George Orwell | Full Audiobook

Gates of Imagination presents: "Animal  Farm" by George Orwell. Read by Arthur Lane. Chapter 1. Mr. Jones, of the Manor Farm, had locked the  hen-houses for the night, but was too drunk to remember to shut the pop-holes. With the ring of  light from his lantern dancing from side to side, he lurched across the yard, kicked  off his boots at the back door, drew himself a last glass of beer  from the barrel in the scullery, and made his way up to bed, where  Mrs. Jones was already snoring. As soon

as the light in the bedroom went  out there was a stirring and a fluttering all through the farm buildings. Word had  gone round during the day that old Major, the prize Middle White boar, had had a  strange dream on the previous night and wished to communicate it to the other animals.  It had been agreed that they should all meet in the big barn as soon as Mr. Jones was safely out  of the way. Old Major (so he was always called, though the name under which he had been exhibited  was Willingdon

Beauty) was so highly regarded on the farm that everyone was quite ready to lose an  hour's sleep in order to hear what he had to say. At one end of the big barn,  on a sort of raised platform, Major was already ensconced on his bed of straw,  under a lantern which hung from a beam. He was twelve years old and had lately grown rather  stout, but he was still a majestic-looking pig, with a wise and benevolent appearance in spite  of the fact that his tushes had never been cut. Before long the oth

er animals began to arrive  and make themselves comfortable after their different fashions. First came the three dogs,  Bluebell, Jessie, and Pincher, and then the pigs, who settled down in the straw immediately in front  of the platform. The hens perched themselves on the window-sills, the pigeons fluttered up  to the rafters, the sheep and cows lay down behind the pigs and began to chew the cud. The two  cart-horses, Boxer and Clover, came in together, walking very slowly and setting down thei

r vast  hairy hoofs with great care lest there should be some small animal concealed in the straw. Clover  was a stout motherly mare approaching middle life, who had never quite got her figure back after  her fourth foal. Boxer was an enormous beast, nearly eighteen hands high, and as strong as  any two ordinary horses put together. A white stripe down his nose gave him a somewhat stupid  appearance, and in fact he was not of first-rate intelligence, but he was universally respected for  his ste

adiness of character and tremendous powers of work. After the horses came Muriel, the white  goat, and Benjamin, the donkey. Benjamin was the oldest animal on the farm, and the worst tempered.  He seldom talked, and when he did, it was usually to make some cynical remark—for instance, he  would say that God had given him a tail to keep the flies off, but that he would sooner have had  no tail and no flies. Alone among the animals on the farm he never laughed. If asked why, he would  say that he

saw nothing to laugh at. Nevertheless, without openly admitting it, he was devoted  to Boxer; the two of them usually spent their Sundays together in the small paddock beyond the  orchard, grazing side by side and never speaking. The two horses had just lain down when a brood  of ducklings, which had lost their mother, filed into the barn, cheeping feebly and wandering  from side to side to find some place where they would not be trodden on. Clover made a sort of  wall round them with her great

foreleg, and the ducklings nestled down inside it and promptly fell  asleep. At the last moment Mollie, the foolish, pretty white mare who drew Mr. Jones's trap,  came mincing daintily in, chewing at a lump of sugar. She took a place near the front and began  flirting her white mane, hoping to draw attention to the red ribbons it was plaited with. Last of  all came the cat, who looked round, as usual, for the warmest place, and finally squeezed  herself in between Boxer and Clover; there she pur

red contentedly throughout Major's speech  without listening to a word of what he was saying. All the animals were now present  except Moses, the tame raven, who slept on a perch behind the back  door. When Major saw that they had all made themselves comfortable and were waiting  attentively, he cleared his throat and began: "Comrades, you have heard already about the  strange dream that I had last night. But I will come to the dream later. I have something  else to say first. I do not think, co

mrades, that I shall be with you for many months longer,  and before I die, I feel it my duty to pass on to you such wisdom as I have acquired. I have had a  long life, I have had much time for thought as I lay alone in my stall, and I think I may say  that I understand the nature of life on this earth as well as any animal now living. It  is about this that I wish to speak to you. "Now, comrades, what is the nature of this life  of ours? Let us face it: our lives are miserable, laborious, and s

hort. We are born, we are given  just so much food as will keep the breath in our bodies, and those of us who are capable of it are  forced to work to the last atom of our strength; and the very instant that our usefulness has  come to an end we are slaughtered with hideous cruelty. No animal in England knows the meaning  of happiness or leisure after he is a year old. No animal in England is free. The life of an animal  is misery and slavery: that is the plain truth. "But is this simply part of

the order of  nature? Is it because this land of ours is so poor that it cannot afford a decent  life to those who dwell upon it? No, comrades, a thousand times no! The soil of  England is fertile, its climate is good, it is capable of affording food in abundance  to an enormously greater number of animals than now inhabit it. This single farm of ours  would support a dozen horses, twenty cows, hundreds of sheep—and all of them living in  a comfort and a dignity that are now almost beyond our i

magining. Why then do we continue in  this miserable condition? Because nearly the whole of the produce of our labour is stolen from us by  human beings. There, comrades, is the answer to all our problems. It is summed up in a single  word—Man. Man is the only real enemy we have. Remove Man from the scene, and the root cause  of hunger and overwork is abolished for ever. "Man is the only creature that consumes without  producing. He does not give milk, he does not lay eggs, he is too weak to pul

l the plough, he  cannot run fast enough to catch rabbits. Yet he is lord of all the animals. He sets them to work,  he gives back to them the bare minimum that will prevent them from starving, and the rest he  keeps for himself. Our labour tills the soil, our dung fertilises it, and yet there is  not one of us that owns more than his bare skin. You cows that I see before me, how many  thousands of gallons of milk have you given during this last year? And what has happened  to that milk which sh

ould have been breeding up sturdy calves? Every drop of it has gone  down the throats of our enemies. And you hens, how many eggs have you laid in this last year, and  how many of those eggs ever hatched into chickens? The rest have all gone to market to bring in money  for Jones and his men. And you, Clover, where are those four foals you bore, who should have been  the support and pleasure of your old age? Each was sold at a year old—you will never see one of  them again. In return for your fo

ur confinements and all your labour in the fields, what have you  ever had except your bare rations and a stall? "And even the miserable lives we lead are not  allowed to reach their natural span. For myself I do not grumble, for I am one of the lucky  ones. I am twelve years old and have had over four hundred children. Such is the natural life  of a pig. But no animal escapes the cruel knife in the end. You young porkers who are sitting  in front of me, every one of you will scream your lives o

ut at the block within a year. To  that horror we all must come—cows, pigs, hens, sheep, everyone. Even the horses and the dogs  have no better fate. You, Boxer, the very day that those great muscles of yours lose their  power, Jones will sell you to the knacker, who will cut your throat and boil you down  for the foxhounds. As for the dogs, when they grow old and toothless, Jones ties a brick round  their necks and drowns them in the nearest pond. "Is it not crystal clear, then, comrades, that 

all the evils of this life of ours spring from the tyranny of human beings? Only get rid of Man,  and the produce of our labour would be our own. Almost overnight we could become rich and free.  What then must we do? Why, work night and day, body and soul, for the overthrow of the  human race! That is my message to you, comrades: Rebellion! I do not know when  that Rebellion will come, it might be in a week or in a hundred years, but I know, as  surely as I see this straw beneath my feet, that

sooner or later justice will be done. Fix  your eyes on that, comrades, throughout the short remainder of your lives! And above all, pass on  this message of mine to those who come after you, so that future generations shall carry  on the struggle until it is victorious. "And remember, comrades, your resolution must  never falter. No argument must lead you astray. Never listen when they tell you that Man  and the animals have a common interest, that the prosperity of the one is the prosperity  o

f the others. It is all lies. Man serves the interests of no creature except himself. And  among us animals let there be perfect unity, perfect comradeship in the struggle. All  men are enemies. All animals are comrades." At this moment there was a tremendous uproar.  While Major was speaking four large rats had crept out of their holes and were sitting on their  hindquarters, listening to him. The dogs had suddenly caught sight of them, and it was only by  a swift dash for their holes that the

rats saved their lives. Major raised his trotter for silence. "Comrades," he said, "here is a point that must be settled. The wild creatures, such as rats and  rabbits—are they our friends or our enemies? Let us put it to the vote. I propose this  question to the meeting: Are rats comrades?" The vote was taken at once, and it was  agreed by an overwhelming majority that rats were comrades. There were only four  dissentients, the three dogs and the cat, who was afterwards discovered to have  vote

d on both sides. Major continued: "I have little more to say. I merely repeat,  remember always your duty of enmity towards Man and all his ways. Whatever goes upon two  legs is an enemy. Whatever goes upon four legs, or has wings, is a friend. And remember  also that in fighting against Man, we must not come to resemble him. Even when you  have conquered him, do not adopt his vices. No animal must ever live in a house, or sleep  in a bed, or wear clothes, or drink alcohol, or smoke tobacco, or

touch money, or engage  in trade. All the habits of Man are evil. And, above all, no animal must ever tyrannise over  his own kind. Weak or strong, clever or simple, we are all brothers. No animal must ever  kill any other animal. All animals are equal. "And now, comrades, I will tell you about my dream  of last night. I cannot describe that dream to you. It was a dream of the earth as it will be  when Man has vanished. But it reminded me of something that I had long forgotten. Many years  ago,

when I was a little pig, my mother and the other sows used to sing an old song of which they  knew only the tune and the first three words. I had known that tune in my infancy, but it had long  since passed out of my mind. Last night, however, it came back to me in my dream. And what is more,  the words of the song also came back-words, I am certain, which were sung by the animals of long  ago and have been lost to memory for generations. I will sing you that song now, comrades. I am  old and my

voice is hoarse, but when I have taught you the tune, you can sing it better for  yourselves. It is called 'Beasts of England'." Old Major cleared his throat and  began to sing. As he had said, his voice was hoarse, but he sang well  enough, and it was a stirring tune, something between 'Clementine'  and 'La Cucaracha'. The words ran: Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland, Beasts of every land and clime, Hearken to my joyful tidings Of the golden future time. Soon or late the day is coming, Tyra

nt Man shall be o'erthrown, And the fruitful fields of England Shall be trod by beasts alone. Rings shall vanish from our noses, And the harness from our back, Bit and spur shall rust forever, Cruel whips no more shall crack. Riches more than mind can picture, Wheat and barley, oats and hay, Clover, beans, and mangel-wurzels Shall be ours upon that day. Bright will shine the fields of England, Purer shall its waters be, Sweeter yet shall blow its breezes On the day that sets us free. For that da

y we all must labour, Though we die before it break; Cows and horses, geese and turkeys, All must toil for freedom's sake. Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland, Beasts of every land and clime, Hearken well and spread my tidings Of the golden future time. The singing of this song threw the animals into  the wildest excitement. Almost before Major had reached the end, they had begun singing it for  themselves. Even the stupidest of them had already picked up the tune and a few of the words, and as

  for the clever ones, such as the pigs and dogs, they had the entire song by heart within a few  minutes. And then, after a few preliminary tries, the whole farm burst out into 'Beasts of  England' in tremendous unison. The cows lowed it, the dogs whined it, the sheep bleated it, the  horses whinnied it, the ducks quacked it. They were so delighted with the song that they sang  it right through five times in succession, and might have continued singing it all  night if they had not been interru

pted. Unfortunately, the uproar awoke Mr. Jones, who  sprang out of bed, making sure that there was a fox in the yard. He seized the gun which  always stood in a corner of his bedroom, and let fly a charge of number 6 shot into  the darkness. The pellets buried themselves in the wall of the barn and the meeting  broke up hurriedly. Everyone fled to his own sleeping-place. The birds jumped on to their  perches, the animals settled down in the straw, and the whole farm was asleep in a moment. Chap

ter 2. Three nights later old Major  died peacefully in his sleep. His body was buried at the foot of the orchard. This was early in March. During the next three  months there was much secret activity. Major's speech had given to the more intelligent animals  on the farm a completely new outlook on life. They did not know when the Rebellion predicted by Major  would take place, they had no reason for thinking that it would be within their own lifetime, but  they saw clearly that it was their dut

y to prepare for it. The work of teaching and organising the  others fell naturally upon the pigs, who were generally recognised as being the cleverest of the  animals. Pre-eminent among the pigs were two young boars named Snowball and Napoleon, whom Mr. Jones  was breeding up for sale. Napoleon was a large, rather fierce-looking Berkshire boar, the only  Berkshire on the farm, not much of a talker, but with a reputation for getting his own way.  Snowball was a more vivacious pig than Napoleon,

quicker in speech and more inventive, but  was not considered to have the same depth of character. All the other male pigs on  the farm were porkers. The best known among them was a small fat pig named Squealer,  with very round cheeks, twinkling eyes, nimble movements, and a shrill voice. He was  a brilliant talker, and when he was arguing some difficult point he had a way of skipping  from side to side and whisking his tail which was somehow very persuasive. The others said of  Squealer that h

e could turn black into white. These three had elaborated old Major's  teachings into a complete system of thought, to which they gave the name of Animalism. Several  nights a week, after Mr. Jones was asleep, they held secret meetings in the barn and  expounded the principles of Animalism to the others. At the beginning they met with much  stupidity and apathy. Some of the animals talked of the duty of loyalty to Mr. Jones, whom  they referred to as "Master," or made elementary remarks such as

"Mr. Jones feeds us. If he  were gone, we should starve to death." Others asked such questions as "Why should we care  what happens after we are dead?" or "If this Rebellion is to happen anyway, what difference  does it make whether we work for it or not?", and the pigs had great difficulty in making  them see that this was contrary to the spirit of Animalism. The stupidest questions of all  were asked by Mollie, the white mare. The very first question she asked Snowball was: "Will  there still

be sugar after the Rebellion?" "No," said Snowball firmly. "We have no  means of making sugar on this farm. Besides, you do not need sugar. You will  have all the oats and hay you want." "And shall I still be allowed to wear  ribbons in my mane?" asked Mollie. "Comrade," said Snowball, "those ribbons  that you are so devoted to are the badge of slavery. Can you not understand that  liberty is worth more than ribbons?" Mollie agreed, but she did  not sound very convinced. The pigs had an even har

der struggle to  counteract the lies put about by Moses, the tame raven. Moses, who was Mr. Jones's  especial pet, was a spy and a tale-bearer, but he was also a clever talker. He claimed to  know of the existence of a mysterious country called Sugarcandy Mountain, to which  all animals went when they died. It was situated somewhere up in the sky, a little  distance beyond the clouds, Moses said. In Sugarcandy Mountain it was Sunday seven days a  week, clover was in season all the year round, an

d lump sugar and linseed cake grew on the  hedges. The animals hated Moses because he told tales and did no work, but some of  them believed in Sugarcandy Mountain, and the pigs had to argue very hard to  persuade them that there was no such place. Their most faithful disciples were the two  cart-horses, Boxer and Clover. These two had great difficulty in thinking anything out for  themselves, but having once accepted the pigs as their teachers, they absorbed everything that they  were told, and

passed it on to the other animals by simple arguments. They were unfailing in their  attendance at the secret meetings in the barn, and led the singing of 'Beasts of England',  with which the meetings always ended. Now, as it turned out, the Rebellion was achieved  much earlier and more easily than anyone had expected. In past years Mr. Jones, although  a hard master, had been a capable farmer, but of late he had fallen on evil days. He had become  much disheartened after losing money in a laws

uit, and had taken to drinking more than was good for  him. For whole days at a time he would lounge in his Windsor chair in the kitchen, reading the  newspapers, drinking, and occasionally feeding Moses on crusts of bread soaked in beer. His men  were idle and dishonest, the fields were full of weeds, the buildings wanted roofing, the hedges  were neglected, and the animals were underfed. June came and the hay was almost ready for  cutting. On Midsummer's Eve, which was a Saturday, Mr. Jones we

nt into Willingdon and got so drunk  at the Red Lion that he did not come back till midday on Sunday. The men had milked the cows in  the early morning and then had gone out rabbiting, without bothering to feed the animals. When  Mr. Jones got back he immediately went to sleep on the drawing-room sofa with the News of the  World over his face, so that when evening came, the animals were still unfed. At last they could  stand it no longer. One of the cows broke in the door of the store-shed with

her horn and all  the animals began to help themselves from the bins. It was just then that Mr. Jones woke up.  The next moment he and his four men were in the store-shed with whips in their hands, lashing  out in all directions. This was more than the hungry animals could bear. With one accord, though  nothing of the kind had been planned beforehand, they flung themselves upon their tormentors. Jones  and his men suddenly found themselves being butted and kicked from all sides. The situation wa

s  quite out of their control. They had never seen animals behave like this before, and this  sudden uprising of creatures whom they were used to thrashing and maltreating just as they chose,  frightened them almost out of their wits. After only a moment or two they gave up trying to  defend themselves and took to their heels. A minute later all five of them were in full flight  down the cart-track that led to the main road, with the animals pursuing them in triumph. Mrs. Jones looked out of the

bedroom window, saw what was happening, hurriedly flung  a few possessions into a carpet bag, and slipped out of the farm by another way.  Moses sprang off his perch and flapped after her, croaking loudly. Meanwhile the animals had chased  Jones and his men out on to the road and slammed the five-barred gate behind them. And so, almost  before they knew what was happening, the Rebellion had been successfully carried through: Jones  was expelled, and the Manor Farm was theirs. For the first few

minutes the animals  could hardly believe in their good fortune. Their first act was to gallop in a  body right round the boundaries of the farm, as though to make quite sure that no  human being was hiding anywhere upon it; then they raced back to the farm buildings to wipe  out the last traces of Jones's hated reign. The harness-room at the end of the stables was broken  open; the bits, the nose-rings, the dog-chains, the cruel knives with which Mr. Jones had  been used to castrate the pigs an

d lambs, were all flung down the well. The reins, the  halters, the blinkers, the degrading nosebags, were thrown on to the rubbish fire which was  burning in the yard. So were the whips. All the animals capered with joy when they saw the whips  going up in flames. Snowball also threw on to the fire the ribbons with which the horses' manes and  tails had usually been decorated on market days. "Ribbons," he said, "should  be considered as clothes, which are the mark of a human  being. All animals

should go naked." When Boxer heard this he fetched the  small straw hat which he wore in summer to keep the flies out of his ears, and  flung it on to the fire with the rest. In a very little while the animals had destroyed  everything that reminded them of Mr. Jones. Napoleon then led them back to the store-shed and  served out a double ration of corn to everybody, with two biscuits for each dog. Then they sang  'Beasts of England' from end to end seven times running, and after that they settl

ed down for the  night and slept as they had never slept before. But they woke at dawn as usual, and suddenly  remembering the glorious thing that had happened, they all raced out into the pasture together.  A little way down the pasture there was a knoll that commanded a view of most of the farm.  The animals rushed to the top of it and gazed round them in the clear morning light. Yes,  it was theirs—everything that they could see was theirs! In the ecstasy of that thought they  gambolled round

and round, they hurled themselves into the air in great leaps of excitement. They  rolled in the dew, they cropped mouthfuls of the sweet summer grass, they kicked up clods of  the black earth and snuffed its rich scent. Then they made a tour of inspection of the whole  farm and surveyed with speechless admiration the ploughland, the hayfield, the orchard, the  pool, the spinney. It was as though they had never seen these things before, and even now they  could hardly believe that it was all th

eir own. Then they filed back to the farm buildings  and halted in silence outside the door of the farmhouse. That was theirs too, but they were  frightened to go inside. After a moment, however, Snowball and Napoleon butted the door open with  their shoulders and the animals entered in single file, walking with the utmost care for fear of  disturbing anything. They tiptoed from room to room, afraid to speak above a whisper and gazing  with a kind of awe at the unbelievable luxury, at the beds w

ith their feather mattresses,  the looking-glasses, the horsehair sofa, the Brussels carpet, the lithograph of Queen  Victoria over the drawing-room mantelpiece. They were just coming down the stairs when  Mollie was discovered to be missing. Going back, the others found that she had remained behind  in the best bedroom. She had taken a piece of blue ribbon from Mrs. Jones's dressing-table,  and was holding it against her shoulder and admiring herself in the glass in a very foolish  manner. The

others reproached her sharply, and they went outside. Some hams hanging  in the kitchen were taken out for burial, and the barrel of beer in the scullery was  stove in with a kick from Boxer's hoof, otherwise nothing in the house was touched. A  unanimous resolution was passed on the spot that the farmhouse should be preserved as a museum. All  were agreed that no animal must ever live there. The animals had their breakfast, and then  Snowball and Napoleon called them together again. "Comrades,"

said Snowball, "it is half-past six  and we have a long day before us. Today we begin the hay harvest. But there is another  matter that must be attended to first." The pigs now revealed that during the past  three months they had taught themselves to read and write from an old spelling book which  had belonged to Mr. Jones's children and which had been thrown on the rubbish heap. Napoleon  sent for pots of black and white paint and led the way down to the five-barred gate that  gave on to the

main road. Then Snowball (for it was Snowball who was best at writing) took a  brush between the two knuckles of his trotter, painted out MANOR FARM from the top bar of the  gate and in its place painted ANIMAL FARM. This was to be the name of the farm from now onwards.  After this they went back to the farm buildings, where Snowball and Napoleon sent for a ladder  which they caused to be set against the end wall of the big barn. They explained that by  their studies of the past three months the

pigs had succeeded in reducing the principles  of Animalism to Seven Commandments. These Seven Commandments would now be inscribed on  the wall; they would form an unalterable law by which all the animals on Animal Farm must  live for ever after. With some difficulty (for it is not easy for a pig to balance himself on  a ladder) Snowball climbed up and set to work, with Squealer a few rungs below him holding  the paint-pot. The Commandments were written on the tarred wall in great white letters

that  could be read thirty yards away. They ran thus: The Seven Commandments: 1. Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy. 2. Whatever goes upon four legs, or has wings, is a friend. 3. No animal shall wear clothes. 4. No animal shall sleep in a bed. 5. No animal shall drink alcohol. 6. No animal shall kill any other animal. 7. All animals are equal. It was very neatly written, and except that  "friend" was written "freind" and one of the "S's" was the wrong way round, the spelling  was correct

all the way through. Snowball read it aloud for the benefit of the others.  All the animals nodded in complete agreement, and the cleverer ones at once began  to learn the Commandments by heart. "Now, comrades," cried Snowball, throwing down  the paint-brush, "to the hayfield! Let us make it a point of honour to get in the harvest  more quickly than Jones and his men could do." But at this moment the three cows, who  had seemed uneasy for some time past, set up a loud lowing. They had not been m

ilked  for twenty-four hours, and their udders were almost bursting. After a little thought,  the pigs sent for buckets and milked the cows fairly successfully, their trotters being  well adapted to this task. Soon there were five buckets of frothing creamy milk at which many of  the animals looked with considerable interest. "What is going to happen to  all that milk?" said someone. "Jones used sometimes to mix some of  it in our mash," said one of the hens. "Never mind the milk, comrades!" cri

ed Napoleon,  placing himself in front of the buckets. "That will be attended to. The harvest is more  important. Comrade Snowball will lead the way. I shall follow in a few minutes.  Forward, comrades! The hay is waiting." So the animals trooped down to  the hayfield to begin the harvest, and when they came back in the evening it  was noticed that the milk had disappeared. Chapter 3. How they toiled and sweated to get the  hay in! But their efforts were rewarded, for the harvest was an even big

ger  success than they had hoped. Sometimes the work was hard; the implements  had been designed for human beings and not for animals, and it was a great drawback that no  animal was able to use any tool that involved standing on his hind legs. But the pigs were so  clever that they could think of a way round every difficulty. As for the horses, they knew every  inch of the field, and in fact understood the business of mowing and raking far better than  Jones and his men had ever done. The pigs

did not actually work, but directed and supervised  the others. With their superior knowledge it was natural that they should assume the leadership.  Boxer and Clover would harness themselves to the cutter or the horse-rake (no bits or reins  were needed in these days, of course) and tramp steadily round and round the field with a pig  walking behind and calling out "Gee up, comrade!" or "Whoa back, comrade!" as the case might be.  And every animal down to the humblest worked at turning the hay

and gathering it. Even the ducks  and hens toiled to and fro all day in the sun, carrying tiny wisps of hay in their beaks. In the  end they finished the harvest in two days' less time than it had usually taken Jones and his men.  Moreover, it was the biggest harvest that the farm had ever seen. There was no wastage whatever; the  hens and ducks with their sharp eyes had gathered up the very last stalk. And not an animal on  the farm had stolen so much as a mouthful. All through that summer the

work of the farm  went like clockwork. The animals were happy as they had never conceived it possible to be. Every  mouthful of food was an acute positive pleasure, now that it was truly their own food,  produced by themselves and for themselves, not doled out to them by a grudging master. With  the worthless parasitical human beings gone, there was more for everyone to eat. There was  more leisure too, inexperienced though the animals were. They met with many difficulties—for  instance, later i

n the year, when they harvested the corn, they had to tread it out in the ancient  style and blow away the chaff with their breath, since the farm possessed no threshing machine—but  the pigs with their cleverness and Boxer with his tremendous muscles always pulled them through.  Boxer was the admiration of everybody. He had been a hard worker even in Jones's time, but  now he seemed more like three horses than one; there were days when the entire work of the  farm seemed to rest on his mighty s

houlders. From morning to night he was pushing and pulling,  always at the spot where the work was hardest. He had made an arrangement with one of the cockerels  to call him in the mornings half an hour earlier than anyone else, and would put in some volunteer  labour at whatever seemed to be most needed, before the regular day's work began. His  answer to every problem, every setback, was "I will work harder!"—which he  had adopted as his personal motto. But everyone worked according to his cap

acity  The hens and ducks, for instance, saved five bushels of corn at the harvest by gathering up  the stray grains. Nobody stole, nobody grumbled over his rations, the quarrelling and biting and  jealousy which had been normal features of life in the old days had almost disappeared. Nobody  shirked—or almost nobody. Mollie, it was true, was not good at getting up in the mornings,  and had a way of leaving work early on the ground that there was a stone in her hoof. And the  behaviour of the ca

t was somewhat peculiar. It was soon noticed that when there was work to be done  the cat could never be found. She would vanish for hours on end, and then reappear at meal-times,  or in the evening after work was over, as though nothing had happened. But she always made such  excellent excuses, and purred so affectionately, that it was impossible not to believe in her  good intentions. Old Benjamin, the donkey, seemed quite unchanged since the Rebellion. He  did his work in the same slow obstin

ate way as he had done it in Jones's time, never shirking  and never volunteering for extra work either. About the Rebellion and its results he would  express no opinion. When asked whether he was not happier now that Jones was gone, he would  say only "Donkeys live a long time. None of you has ever seen a dead donkey," and the others  had to be content with this cryptic answer. On Sundays there was no work. Breakfast was an  hour later than usual, and after breakfast there was a ceremony which

was observed every week  without fail. First came the hoisting of the flag. Snowball had found in the harness-room  an old green tablecloth of Mrs. Jones's and had painted on it a hoof and a horn in white.  This was run up the flagstaff in the farmhouse garden every Sunday morning. The flag was green,  Snowball explained, to represent the green fields of England, while the hoof and horn signified the  future Republic of the Animals which would arise when the human race had been finally overthrow

n.  After the hoisting of the flag all the animals trooped into the big barn for a general assembly  which was known as the Meeting. Here the work of the coming week was planned out and resolutions  were put forward and debated. It was always the pigs who put forward the resolutions. The other  animals understood how to vote, but could never think of any resolutions of their own. Snowball  and Napoleon were by far the most active in the debates. But it was noticed that these two were  never in a

greement: whatever suggestion either of them made, the other could be counted on to  oppose it. Even when it was resolved—a thing no one could object to in itself—to set aside  the small paddock behind the orchard as a home of rest for animals who were past work, there  was a stormy debate over the correct retiring age for each class of animal. The Meeting always  ended with the singing of 'Beasts of England', and the afternoon was given up to recreation. The pigs had set aside the harness-room

as a headquarters for themselves. Here, in  the evenings, they studied blacksmithing, carpentering, and other necessary arts from books  which they had brought out of the farmhouse. Snowball also busied himself with organising  the other animals into what he called Animal Committees. He was indefatigable at this. He  formed the Egg Production Committee for the hens, the Clean Tails League for the cows, the Wild  Comrades' Re-education Committee (the object of this was to tame the rats and rabbit

s),  the Whiter Wool Movement for the sheep, and various others, besides instituting  classes in reading and writing. On the whole, these projects were a failure. The attempt  to tame the wild creatures, for instance, broke down almost immediately. They continued to  behave very much as before, and when treated with generosity, simply took advantage of it. The cat  joined the Re-education Committee and was very active in it for some days. She was seen one day  sitting on a roof and talking to so

me sparrows who were just out of her reach. She was telling  them that all animals were now comrades and that any sparrow who chose could come and perch on  her paw; but the sparrows kept their distance. The reading and writing classes, however, were a great success. By the autumn almost every  animal on the farm was literate in some degree. As for the pigs, they could already read and write  perfectly. The dogs learned to read fairly well, but were not interested in reading anything  except the

Seven Commandments. Muriel, the goat, could read somewhat better than the dogs, and  sometimes used to read to the others in the evenings from scraps of newspaper which she found  on the rubbish heap. Benjamin could read as well as any pig, but never exercised his faculty. So  far as he knew, he said, there was nothing worth reading. Clover learnt the whole alphabet, but  could not put words together. Boxer could not get beyond the letter D. He would trace out  A, B, C, D, in the dust with his

great hoof, and then would stand staring at the letters with  his ears back, sometimes shaking his forelock, trying with all his might to remember what came  next and never succeeding. On several occasions, indeed, he did learn E, F, G, H, but by the  time he knew them, it was always discovered that he had forgotten A, B, C, and D. Finally he  decided to be content with the first four letters, and used to write them out once or twice every day  to refresh his memory. Mollie refused to learn any

but the six letters which spelt her own name.  She would form these very neatly out of pieces of twig, and would then decorate them with a  flower or two and walk round them admiring them. None of the other animals on the farm could get  further than the letter A. It was also found that the stupider animals, such as the sheep, hens, and  ducks, were unable to learn the Seven Commandments by heart. After much thought Snowball declared  that the Seven Commandments could in effect be reduced to a s

ingle maxim, namely: "Four legs  good, two legs bad." This, he said, contained the essential principle of Animalism. Whoever had  thoroughly grasped it would be safe from human influences. The birds at first objected, since  it seemed to them that they also had two legs, but Snowball proved to them that this was not so. "A bird's wing, comrades," he said, "is an organ of propulsion and not of manipulation.  It should therefore be regarded as a leg. The distinguishing mark of man is the HAND, the

  instrument with which he does all his mischief." The birds did not understand Snowball's long  words, but they accepted his explanation, and all the humbler animals set to work to  learn the new maxim by heart. FOUR LEGS GOOD, TWO LEGS BAD, was inscribed on the end wall of  the barn, above the Seven Commandments and in bigger letters When they had once got it by heart,  the sheep developed a great liking for this maxim, and often as they lay in the field they would  all start bleating "Four le

gs good, two legs bad! Four legs good, two legs bad!" and keep it  up for hours on end, never growing tired of it. Napoleon took no interest in Snowball's  committees. He said that the education of the young was more important than anything  that could be done for those who were already grown up. It happened that Jessie and Bluebell  had both whelped soon after the hay harvest, giving birth between them to nine sturdy  puppies. As soon as they were weaned, Napoleon took them away from their moth

ers, saying  that he would make himself responsible for their education. He took them up into a loft which could  only be reached by a ladder from the harness-room, and there kept them in such seclusion that the  rest of the farm soon forgot their existence. The mystery of where the milk went to was soon  cleared up. It was mixed every day into the pigs' mash. The early apples were now ripening,  and the grass of the orchard was littered with windfalls. The animals had assumed as a matter  of co

urse that these would be shared out equally; one day, however, the order went forth that all  the windfalls were to be collected and brought to the harness-room for the use of the pigs.  At this some of the other animals murmured, but it was no use. All the pigs were  in full agreement on this point, even Snowball and Napoleon. Squealer was sent to  make the necessary explanations to the others. "Comrades!" he cried. "You do not imagine, I hope, that we pigs are doing this in a spirit  of selfis

hness and privilege? Many of us actually dislike milk and apples. I dislike  them myself. Our sole object in taking these things is to preserve our health. Milk and  apples (this has been proved by Science, comrades) contain substances absolutely  necessary to the well-being of a pig. We pigs are brainworkers. The whole management and  organisation of this farm depend on us. Day and night we are watching over your welfare. It is for  YOUR sake that we drink that milk and eat those apples. Do you

know what would happen if we pigs  failed in our duty? Jones would come back! Yes, Jones would come back! Surely, comrades," cried  Squealer almost pleadingly, skipping from side to side and whisking his tail, "surely there is no  one among you who wants to see Jones come back?" Now if there was one thing that the animals were  completely certain of, it was that they did not want Jones back. When it was put to them in this  light, they had no more to say. The importance of keeping the pigs in g

ood health was all too  obvious. So it was agreed without further argument that the milk and the windfall apples (and also  the main crop of apples when they ripened) should be reserved for the pigs alone. Chapter 4. By the late summer the news of what had  happened on Animal Farm had spread across half the county. Every day Snowball  and Napoleon sent out flights of pigeons whose instructions were to mingle  with the animals on neighbouring farms, tell them the story of the Rebellion, and  teac

h them the tune of 'Beasts of England'. Most of this time Mr. Jones had spent sitting  in the taproom of the Red Lion at Willingdon, complaining to anyone who would listen of  the monstrous injustice he had suffered in being turned out of his property by a  pack of good-for-nothing animals. The other farmers sympathised in principle, but they  did not at first give him much help. At heart, each of them was secretly wondering whether  he could not somehow turn Jones's misfortune to his own advant

age. It was lucky that the  owners of the two farms which adjoined Animal Farm were on permanently bad terms. One of  them, which was named Foxwood, was a large, neglected, old-fashioned farm, much overgrown by  woodland, with all its pastures worn out and its hedges in a disgraceful condition. Its owner,  Mr. Pilkington, was an easy-going gentleman farmer who spent most of his time in fishing or  hunting according to the season. The other farm, which was called Pinchfield, was smaller and  bett

er kept. Its owner was a Mr. Frederick, a tough, shrewd man, perpetually involved  in lawsuits and with a name for driving hard bargains. These two disliked each  other so much that it was difficult for them to come to any agreement, even  in defence of their own interests. Nevertheless, they were both thoroughly frightened  by the rebellion on Animal Farm, and very anxious to prevent their own animals from learning too  much about it. At first they pretended to laugh to scorn the idea of animal

s managing a farm  for themselves. The whole thing would be over in a fortnight, they said. They put it about that  the animals on the Manor Farm (they insisted on calling it the Manor Farm; they would not tolerate  the name "Animal Farm") were perpetually fighting among themselves and were also rapidly starving  to death. When time passed and the animals had evidently not starved to death, Frederick and  Pilkington changed their tune and began to talk of the terrible wickedness that now flouris

hed  on Animal Farm. It was given out that the animals there practised cannibalism, tortured one another  with red-hot horseshoes, and had their females in common. This was what came of rebelling against  the laws of Nature, Frederick and Pilkington said. However, these stories were never fully  believed. Rumours of a wonderful farm, where the human beings had been turned out and  the animals managed their own affairs, continued to circulate in vague and distorted forms, and  throughout that yea

r a wave of rebelliousness ran through the countryside. Bulls which had  always been tractable suddenly turned savage, sheep broke down hedges and devoured the clover,  cows kicked the pail over, hunters refused their fences and shot their riders on to the other  side. Above all, the tune and even the words of 'Beasts of England' were known everywhere. It had  spread with astonishing speed. The human beings could not contain their rage when they heard this  song, though they pretended to think i

t merely ridiculous. They could not understand, they said,  how even animals could bring themselves to sing such contemptible rubbish. Any animal caught  singing it was given a flogging on the spot. And yet the song was irrepressible. The blackbirds  whistled it in the hedges, the pigeons cooed it in the elms, it got into the din of the smithies and  the tune of the church bells. And when the human beings listened to it, they secretly trembled,  hearing in it a prophecy of their future doom. Ear

ly in October, when the corn was cut and  stacked and some of it was already threshed, a flight of pigeons came whirling through the air  and alighted in the yard of Animal Farm in the wildest excitement. Jones and all his men, with  half a dozen others from Foxwood and Pinchfield, had entered the five-barred gate and were  coming up the cart-track that led to the farm. They were all carrying sticks,  except Jones, who was marching ahead with a gun in his hands. Obviously they were  going to att

empt the recapture of the farm. This had long been expected, and all  preparations had been made. Snowball, who had studied an old book of Julius Caesar's  campaigns which he had found in the farmhouse, was in charge of the defensive operations.  He gave his orders quickly, and in a couple of minutes every animal was at his post. As the human beings approached the farm buildings, Snowball launched his first attack.  All the pigeons, to the number of thirty-five, flew to and fro over the men's he

ads and muted  upon them from mid-air; and while the men were dealing with this, the geese, who had been  hiding behind the hedge, rushed out and pecked viciously at the calves of their legs. However,  this was only a light skirmishing manoeuvre, intended to create a little disorder, and  the men easily drove the geese off with their sticks. Snowball now launched his second line  of attack. Muriel, Benjamin, and all the sheep, with Snowball at the head of them, rushed forward  and prodded and bu

tted the men from every side, while Benjamin turned around and lashed at them  with his small hoofs. But once again the men, with their sticks and their hobnailed boots,  were too strong for them; and suddenly, at a squeal from Snowball, which was the  signal for retreat, all the animals turned and fled through the gateway into the yard. The men gave a shout of triumph. They saw, as they imagined, their enemies in flight,  and they rushed after them in disorder. This was just what Snowball had i

ntended. As soon as  they were well inside the yard, the three horses, the three cows, and the rest of the pigs,  who had been lying in ambush in the cowshed, suddenly emerged in their rear, cutting them off.  Snowball now gave the signal for the charge. He himself dashed straight for Jones. Jones saw  him coming, raised his gun and fired. The pellets scored bloody streaks along Snowball's  back, and a sheep dropped dead. Without halting for an instant, Snowball flung his fifteen stone  against

Jones's legs. Jones was hurled into a pile of dung and his gun flew out of his hands. But  the most terrifying spectacle of all was Boxer, rearing up on his hind legs and striking out with  his great iron-shod hoofs like a stallion. His very first blow took a stable-lad from Foxwood on  the skull and stretched him lifeless in the mud. At the sight, several men dropped their sticks  and tried to run. Panic overtook them, and the next moment all the animals together were chasing  them round and ro

und the yard. They were gored, kicked, bitten, trampled on. There was not an  animal on the farm that did not take vengeance on them after his own fashion. Even the cat suddenly  leapt off a roof onto a cowman's shoulders and sank her claws in his neck, at which he yelled  horribly. At a moment when the opening was clear, the men were glad enough to rush out of the yard  and make a bolt for the main road. And so within five minutes of their invasion they were in  ignominious retreat by the same

way as they had come, with a flock of geese hissing after  them and pecking at their calves all the way. All the men were gone except one. Back in  the yard Boxer was pawing with his hoof at the stable-lad who lay face down in the mud,  trying to turn him over. The boy did not stir. "He is dead," said Boxer sorrowfully. "I  had no intention of doing that. I forgot that I was wearing iron shoes. Who will  believe that I did not do this on purpose?" "No sentimentality, comrade!" cried  Snowball fr

om whose wounds the blood was still dripping. "War is war. The  only good human being is a dead one." "I have no wish to take life, not  even human life," repeated Boxer, and his eyes were full of tears. "Where is Mollie?" exclaimed somebody. Mollie in fact was missing. For a moment  there was great alarm; it was feared that the men might have harmed her in some way, or even  carried her off with them. In the end, however, she was found hiding in her stall with her head  buried among the hay in

the manger. She had taken to flight as soon as the gun went off. And when  the others came back from looking for her, it was to find that the stable-lad, who in fact was  only stunned, had already recovered and made off. The animals had now reassembled in the  wildest excitement, each recounting his own exploits in the battle at the top of  his voice. An impromptu celebration of the victory was held immediately. The flag  was run up and 'Beasts of England' was sung a number of times, then the sh

eep who  had been killed was given a solemn funeral, a hawthorn bush being planted on her grave. At  the graveside Snowball made a little speech, emphasising the need for all animals to be  ready to die for Animal Farm if need be. The animals decided unanimously to create  a military decoration, "Animal Hero, First Class," which was conferred there and then  on Snowball and Boxer. It consisted of a brass medal (they were really some old horse-brasses  which had been found in the harness-room), t

o be worn on Sundays and holidays. There  was also "Animal Hero, Second Class," which was conferred posthumously on the dead sheep. There was much discussion as to what the battle should be called. In the end, it was named the  Battle of the Cowshed, since that was where the ambush had been sprung. Mr. Jones's gun had been  found lying in the mud, and it was known that there was a supply of cartridges in the farmhouse.  It was decided to set the gun up at the foot of the Flagstaff, like a piece

of artillery, and to  fire it twice a year—once on October the twelfth, the anniversary of the Battle of the Cowshed,  and once on Midsummer Day, the anniversary of the Rebellion. Chapter 5. As winter drew on, Mollie became more and  more troublesome. She was late for work every morning and excused herself by saying that she had  overslept, and she complained of mysterious pains, although her appetite was excellent. On every  kind of pretext she would run away from work and go to the drinking po

ol, where she would stand  foolishly gazing at her own reflection in the water. But there were also rumours of something  more serious. One day, as Mollie strolled blithely into the yard, flirting her long tail and  chewing at a stalk of hay, Clover took her aside. "Mollie," she said, "I have something very serious  to say to you. This morning I saw you looking over the hedge that divides Animal Farm from Foxwood.  One of Mr. Pilkington's men was standing on the other side of the hedge. And—I wa

s a long way  away, but I am almost certain I saw this—he was talking to you and you were allowing him to  stroke your nose. What does that mean, Mollie?" "He didn't! I wasn't! It  isn't true!" cried Mollie, beginning to prance about and paw the ground. "Mollie! Look me in the face. Do you give me your word of honour that that man  was not stroking your nose?" "It isn't true!" repeated Mollie, but  she could not look Clover in the face, and the next moment she took to her  heels and galloped awa

y into the field. A thought struck Clover. Without  saying anything to the others, she went to Mollie's stall and turned over the  straw with her hoof. Hidden under the straw was a little pile of lump sugar and several  bunches of ribbon of different colours. Three days later Mollie disappeared. For some  weeks nothing was known of her whereabouts, then the pigeons reported that they  had seen her on the other side of Willingdon. She was between the shafts  of a smart dogcart painted red and bla

ck, which was standing outside a public-house. A  fat red-faced man in check breeches and gaiters, who looked like a publican, was stroking  her nose and feeding her with sugar. Her coat was newly clipped and she wore a scarlet  ribbon round her forelock. She appeared to be enjoying herself, so the pigeons said. None  of the animals ever mentioned Mollie again. In January there came bitterly hard weather.  The earth was like iron, and nothing could be done in the fields. Many meetings were held

in  the big barn, and the pigs occupied themselves with planning out the work of the coming season.  It had come to be accepted that the pigs, who were manifestly cleverer than the other animals, should  decide all questions of farm policy, though their decisions had to be ratified by a majority vote.  This arrangement would have worked well enough if it had not been for the disputes between Snowball  and Napoleon. These two disagreed at every point where disagreement was possible. If one of the

m  suggested sowing a bigger acreage with barley, the other was certain to demand a bigger acreage  of oats, and if one of them said that such and such a field was just right for cabbages, the  other would declare that it was useless for anything except roots. Each had his own following,  and there were some violent debates. At the Meetings Snowball often won over the majority by  his brilliant speeches, but Napoleon was better at canvassing support for himself in between times.  He was especial

ly successful with the sheep. Of late the sheep had taken to bleating "Four legs  good, two legs bad" both in and out of season, and they often interrupted the Meeting with this.  It was noticed that they were especially liable to break into "Four legs good, two legs bad" at  crucial moments in Snowball's speeches. Snowball had made a close study of some back numbers  of the 'Farmer and Stockbreeder' which he had found in the farmhouse, and was full of plans for  innovations and improvements. He

talked learnedly about field drains, silage, and basic slag, and  had worked out a complicated scheme for all the animals to drop their dung directly in the fields,  at a different spot every day, to save the labour of cartage. Napoleon produced no schemes of his  own, but said quietly that Snowball's would come to nothing, and seemed to be biding his time. But  of all their controversies, none was so bitter as the one that took place over the windmill. In the long pasture, not far from the far

m buildings, there was a small knoll which  was the highest point on the farm. After surveying the ground, Snowball declared  that this was just the place for a windmill, which could be made to operate a dynamo and  supply the farm with electrical power. This would light the stalls and warm them in winter,  and would also run a circular saw, a chaff-cutter, a mangel-slicer, and an electric milking machine.  The animals had never heard of anything of this kind before (for the farm was an old-fash

ioned  one and had only the most primitive machinery), and they listened in astonishment while Snowball  conjured up pictures of fantastic machines which would do their work for them while they grazed  at their ease in the fields or improved their minds with reading and conversation. Within a few weeks Snowball's plans for the windmill were fully worked out.  The mechanical details came mostly from three books which had belonged to Mr. Jones—'One  Thousand Useful Things to Do About the House', '

Every Man His Own Bricklayer', and 'Electricity  for Beginners'. Snowball used as his study a shed which had once been used for incubators and had  a smooth wooden floor, suitable for drawing on. He was closeted there for hours at a time. With  his books held open by a stone, and with a piece of chalk gripped between the knuckles of his  trotter, he would move rapidly to and fro, drawing in line after line and uttering little  whimpers of excitement. Gradually the plans grew into a complicated m

ass of cranks and cog-wheels,  covering more than half the floor, which the other animals found completely unintelligible but  very impressive. All of them came to look at Snowball's drawings at least once a day. Even  the hens and ducks came, and were at pains not to tread on the chalk marks. Only Napoleon  held aloof. He had declared himself against the windmill from the start. One day, however,  he arrived unexpectedly to examine the plans. He walked heavily round the shed, looked closely  at

every detail of the plans and snuffed at them once or twice, then stood for a little while  contemplating them out of the corner of his eye; then suddenly he lifted his leg, urinated over  the plans, and walked out without uttering a word. The whole farm was deeply divided on the subject  of the windmill. Snowball did not deny that to build it would be a difficult business. Stone  would have to be carried and built up into walls, then the sails would have to be made and  after that there would

be need for dynamos and cables. (How these were to be procured,  Snowball did not say.) But he maintained that it could all be done in a year. And thereafter,  he declared, so much labour would be saved that the animals would only need to work three  days a week. Napoleon, on the other hand, argued that the great need of the moment was to  increase food production, and that if they wasted time on the windmill they would all starve to  death. The animals formed themselves into two factions under

the slogan, "Vote for Snowball  and the three-day week" and "Vote for Napoleon and the full manger." Benjamin was the only animal  who did not side with either faction. He refused to believe either that food would become more  plentiful or that the windmill would save work. Windmill or no windmill, he said, life would  go on as it had always gone on—that is, badly. Apart from the disputes over the windmill, there  was the question of the defence of the farm. It was fully realised that though the

human beings  had been defeated in the Battle of the Cowshed they might make another and more determined  attempt to recapture the farm and reinstate Mr. Jones. They had all the more reason for  doing so because the news of their defeat had spread across the countryside and made the  animals on the neighbouring farms more restive than ever. As usual, Snowball and Napoleon  were in disagreement. According to Napoleon, what the animals must do was to procure firearms  and train themselves in the

use of them. According to Snowball, they must send out more and more  pigeons and stir up rebellion among the animals on the other farms. The one argued that if  they could not defend themselves they were bound to be conquered, the other argued that  if rebellions happened everywhere they would have no need to defend themselves. The animals  listened first to Napoleon, then to Snowball, and could not make up their minds which was right;  indeed, they always found themselves in agreement with the

one who was speaking at the moment. At last the day came when Snowball's plans were completed. At the Meeting on the following  Sunday the question of whether or not to begin work on the windmill was to be put to the vote.  When the animals had assembled in the big barn, Snowball stood up and, though occasionally  interrupted by bleating from the sheep, set forth his reasons for advocating the building of  the windmill. Then Napoleon stood up to reply. He said very quietly that the windmill was

nonsense  and that he advised nobody to vote for it, and promptly sat down again; he had spoken for barely  thirty seconds, and seemed almost indifferent as to the effect he produced. At this Snowball sprang  to his feet, and shouting down the sheep, who had begun bleating again, broke into a passionate  appeal in favour of the windmill. Until now the animals had been about equally divided in their  sympathies, but in a moment Snowball's eloquence had carried them away. In glowing sentences he 

painted a picture of Animal Farm as it might be when sordid labour was lifted from the animals'  backs. His imagination had now run far beyond chaff-cutters and turnip-slicers. Electricity, he  said, could operate threshing machines, ploughs, harrows, rollers, and reapers and binders, besides  supplying every stall with its own electric light, hot and cold water, and an electric heater.  By the time he had finished speaking, there was no doubt as to which way the vote would  go. But just at thi

s moment Napoleon stood up and, casting a peculiar sidelong look at  Snowball, uttered a high-pitched whimper of a kind no one had ever heard him utter before. At this there was a terrible baying sound outside, and nine enormous dogs wearing brass-studded  collars came bounding into the barn. They dashed straight for Snowball, who only sprang from his  place just in time to escape their snapping jaws. In a moment he was out of the door and they were  after him. Too amazed and frightened to speak

, all the animals crowded through the door to watch  the chase. Snowball was racing across the long pasture that led to the road. He was running as  only a pig can run, but the dogs were close on his heels. Suddenly he slipped and it seemed certain  that they had him. Then he was up again, running faster than ever, then the dogs were gaining on  him again. One of them all but closed his jaws on Snowball's tail, but Snowball whisked it free  just in time. Then he put on an extra spurt and, with a

few inches to spare, slipped through  a hole in the hedge and was seen no more. Silent and terrified, the animals crept back  into the barn. In a moment the dogs came bounding back. At first no one had been able  to imagine where these creatures came from, but the problem was soon solved: they were  the puppies whom Napoleon had taken away from their mothers and reared privately. Though  not yet full-grown, they were huge dogs, and as fierce-looking as wolves. They kept  close to Napoleon. It w

as noticed that they wagged their tails to him in the same way as  the other dogs had been used to do to Mr. Jones. Napoleon, with the dogs following him, now mounted  on to the raised portion of the floor where Major had previously stood to deliver his speech. He  announced that from now on the Sunday-morning Meetings would come to an end. They were  unnecessary, he said, and wasted time. In future all questions relating to the working of the farm  would be settled by a special committee of pig

s, presided over by himself. These would meet  in private and afterwards communicate their decisions to the others. The animals would still  assemble on Sunday mornings to salute the flag, sing 'Beasts of England', and receive their orders  for the week; but there would be no more debates. In spite of the shock that Snowball's  expulsion had given them, the animals were dismayed by this announcement. Several  of them would have protested if they could have found the right arguments. Even Boxer 

was vaguely troubled. He set his ears back, shook his forelock several times, and  tried hard to marshal his thoughts; but in the end he could not think of anything  to say. Some of the pigs themselves, however, were more articulate. Four young porkers in the  front row uttered shrill squeals of disapproval, and all four of them sprang to their feet  and began speaking at once. But suddenly the dogs sitting round Napoleon let out deep,  menacing growls, and the pigs fell silent and sat down agai

n. Then the sheep broke out into a  tremendous bleating of "Four legs good, two legs bad!" which went on for nearly a quarter of an  hour and put an end to any chance of discussion. Afterwards Squealer was sent round the farm  to explain the new arrangement to the others. "Comrades," he said, "I trust that every  animal here appreciates the sacrifice that Comrade Napoleon has made in taking this extra  labour upon himself. Do not imagine, comrades, that leadership is a pleasure! On the contrary,

  it is a deep and heavy responsibility. No one believes more firmly than Comrade Napoleon that  all animals are equal. He would be only too happy to let you make your decisions for yourselves.  But sometimes you might make the wrong decisions, comrades, and then where should we be?  Suppose you had decided to follow Snowball, with his moonshine of windmills—Snowball, who,  as we now know, was no better than a criminal?" "He fought bravely at the Battle  of the Cowshed," said somebody. "Bravery

is not enough," said Squealer. "Loyalty  and obedience are more important. And as to the Battle of the Cowshed, I believe the time will  come when we shall find that Snowball's part in it was much exaggerated. Discipline, comrades,  iron discipline! That is the watchword for today. One false step, and our enemies would be upon us.  Surely, comrades, you do not want Jones back?" Once again this argument was unanswerable.  Certainly the animals did not want Jones back; if the holding of debates on

Sunday mornings  was liable to bring him back, then the debates must stop. Boxer, who had now had time to think  things over, voiced the general feeling by saying: "If Comrade Napoleon says it, it must be  right." And from then on he adopted the maxim, "Napoleon is always right," in addition to  his private motto of "I will work harder." By this time the weather had broken and the spring  ploughing had begun. The shed where Snowball had drawn his plans of the windmill had been shut up  and it w

as assumed that the plans had been rubbed off the floor. Every Sunday morning at ten o'clock  the animals assembled in the big barn to receive their orders for the week. The skull of old Major,  now clean of flesh, had been disinterred from the orchard and set up on a stump at the foot of the  flagstaff, beside the gun. After the hoisting of the flag, the animals were required to file past  the skull in a reverent manner before entering the barn. Nowadays they did not sit all together  as they h

ad done in the past. Napoleon, with Squealer and another pig named Minimus, who had  a remarkable gift for composing songs and poems, sat on the front of the raised platform, with the  nine young dogs forming a semicircle round them, and the other pigs sitting behind. The rest of  the animals sat facing them in the main body of the barn. Napoleon read out the orders  for the week in a gruff soldierly style, and after a single singing of 'Beasts  of England', all the animals dispersed. On the thi

rd Sunday after Snowball's expulsion,  the animals were somewhat surprised to hear Napoleon announce that the windmill was to be  built after all. He did not give any reason for having changed his mind, but merely  warned the animals that this extra task would mean very hard work, it might even be  necessary to reduce their rations. The plans, however, had all been prepared, down to  the last detail. A special committee of pigs had been at work upon them for the past  three weeks. The building o

f the windmill, with various other improvements,  was expected to take two years. That evening Squealer explained privately to the  other animals that Napoleon had never in reality been opposed to the windmill. On the contrary,  it was he who had advocated it in the beginning, and the plan which Snowball had drawn on the floor  of the incubator shed had actually been stolen from among Napoleon's papers. The windmill  was, in fact, Napoleon's own creation. Why, then, asked somebody, had he spoken

so strongly  against it? Here Squealer looked very sly. That, he said, was Comrade Napoleon's cunning.  He had SEEMED to oppose the windmill, simply as a manoeuvre to get rid of Snowball, who  was a dangerous character and a bad influence. Now that Snowball was out of the way, the plan  could go forward without his interference. This, said Squealer, was something called tactics. He  repeated a number of times, "Tactics, comrades, tactics!" skipping round and whisking his tail  with a merry laug

h. The animals were not certain what the word meant, but Squealer spoke so  persuasively, and the three dogs who happened to be with him growled so threateningly, that  they accepted his explanation without further questions. Chapter 6. All that year the animals worked like slaves. But  they were happy in their work; they grudged no effort or sacrifice, well aware that everything  that they did was for the benefit of themselves and those of their kind who would come after them,  and not for a pa

ck of idle, thieving human beings. Throughout the spring and summer they worked a  sixty-hour week, and in August Napoleon announced that there would be work on Sunday afternoons  as well. This work was strictly voluntary, but any animal who absented himself from it  would have his rations reduced by half. Even so, it was found necessary to leave certain  tasks undone. The harvest was a little less successful than in the previous year,  and two fields which should have been sown with roots in th

e early summer were not sown  because the ploughing had not been completed early enough. It was possible to foresee  that the coming winter would be a hard one. The windmill presented unexpected difficulties.  There was a good quarry of limestone on the farm, and plenty of sand and cement had been found in  one of the outhouses, so that all the materials for building were at hand. But the problem the  animals could not at first solve was how to break up the stone into pieces of suitable size. Th

ere  seemed no way of doing this except with picks and crowbars, which no animal could use, because no  animal could stand on his hind legs. Only after weeks of vain effort did the right idea occur to  somebody-namely, to utilise the force of gravity. Huge boulders, far too big to be used as they  were, were lying all over the bed of the quarry. The animals lashed ropes round these, and then  all together, cows, horses, sheep, any animal that could lay hold of the rope—even the pigs sometimes  j

oined in at critical moments—they dragged them with desperate slowness up the slope to the top of  the quarry, where they were toppled over the edge, to shatter to pieces below. Transporting the stone  when it was once broken was comparatively simple. The horses carried it off in cart-loads, the sheep  dragged single blocks, even Muriel and Benjamin yoked themselves into an old governess-cart and  did their share. By late summer a sufficient store of stone had accumulated, and then the building 

began, under the superintendence of the pigs. But it was a slow, laborious process. Frequently  it took a whole day of exhausting effort to drag a single boulder to the top of the quarry,  and sometimes when it was pushed over the edge it failed to break. Nothing could have  been achieved without Boxer, whose strength seemed equal to that of all the rest of the  animals put together. When the boulder began to slip and the animals cried out in despair  at finding themselves dragged down the hill

, it was always Boxer who strained himself  against the rope and brought the boulder to a stop. To see him toiling up the slope  inch by inch, his breath coming fast, the tips of his hoofs clawing at the ground,  and his great sides matted with sweat, filled everyone with admiration. Clover warned him  sometimes to be careful not to overstrain himself, but Boxer would never listen to her. His two  slogans, "I will work harder" and "Napoleon is always right," seemed to him a sufficient answer  to

all problems. He had made arrangements with the cockerel to call him three-quarters of an hour  earlier in the mornings instead of half an hour. And in his spare moments, of which there were not  many nowadays, he would go alone to the quarry, collect a load of broken stone, and drag it  down to the site of the windmill unassisted. The animals were not badly off throughout that  summer, in spite of the hardness of their work. If they had no more food than they had had in  Jones's day, at least

they did not have less. The advantage of only having to feed themselves,  and not having to support five extravagant human beings as well, was so great that it would  have taken a lot of failures to outweigh it. And in many ways the animal method of doing  things was more efficient and saved labour. Such jobs as weeding, for instance, could be done  with a thoroughness impossible to human beings. And again, since no animal now stole, it was  unnecessary to fence off pasture from arable land, whi

ch saved a lot of labour on the upkeep of  hedges and gates. Nevertheless, as the summer wore on, various unforeseen shortages began to make  them selves felt. There was need of paraffin oil, nails, string, dog biscuits, and iron for the  horses' shoes, none of which could be produced on the farm. Later there would also be need for seeds  and artificial manures, besides various tools and, finally, the machinery for the windmill. How these  were to be procured, no one was able to imagine. One Sun

day morning, when the animals assembled  to receive their orders, Napoleon announced that he had decided upon a new policy. From now  onwards Animal Farm would engage in trade with the neighbouring farms: not, of course, for  any commercial purpose, but simply in order to obtain certain materials which were urgently  necessary. The needs of the windmill must override everything else, he said. He was therefore making  arrangements to sell a stack of hay and part of the current year's wheat crop,

and later on, if  more money were needed, it would have to be made up by the sale of eggs, for which there was always  a market in Willingdon. The hens, said Napoleon, should welcome this sacrifice as their own special  contribution towards the building of the windmill. Once again the animals were conscious of a vague  uneasiness. Never to have any dealings with human beings, never to engage in trade, never to  make use of money—had not these been among the earliest resolutions passed at that fi

rst  triumphant Meeting after Jones was expelled? All the animals remembered passing such resolutions:  or at least they thought that they remembered it. The four young pigs who had protested when  Napoleon abolished the Meetings raised their voices timidly, but they were promptly silenced  by a tremendous growling from the dogs. Then, as usual, the sheep broke into "Four legs good,  two legs bad!" and the momentary awkwardness was smoothed over. Finally Napoleon raised his  trotter for silence

and announced that he had already made all the arrangements. There would  be no need for any of the animals to come in contact with human beings, which would clearly be  most undesirable. He intended to take the whole burden upon his own shoulders. A Mr. Whymper,  a solicitor living in Willingdon, had agreed to act as intermediary between Animal Farm and  the outside world, and would visit the farm every Monday morning to receive his instructions.  Napoleon ended his speech with his usual cry of

"Long live Animal Farm!" and after the singing of  'Beasts of England' the animals were dismissed. Afterwards Squealer made a round of the farm and  set the animals' minds at rest. He assured them that the resolution against engaging in trade  and using money had never been passed, or even suggested. It was pure imagination, probably  traceable in the beginning to lies circulated by Snowball. A few animals still felt faintly  doubtful, but Squealer asked them shrewdly, "Are you certain that thi

s is not something that  you have dreamed, comrades? Have you any record of such a resolution? Is it written down anywhere?"  And since it was certainly true that nothing of the kind existed in writing, the animals  were satisfied that they had been mistaken. Every Monday Mr. Whymper visited the farm  as had been arranged. He was a sly-looking little man with side whiskers, a solicitor in a  very small way of business, but sharp enough to have realised earlier than anyone else that Animal  Farm

would need a broker and that the commissions would be worth having. The animals watched  his coming and going with a kind of dread, and avoided him as much as possible. Nevertheless,  the sight of Napoleon, on all fours, delivering orders to Whymper, who stood on two legs, roused  their pride and partly reconciled them to the new arrangement. Their relations with the human  race were now not quite the same as they had been before. The human beings did not hate Animal  Farm any less now that it w

as prospering; indeed, they hated it more than ever. Every human being  held it as an article of faith that the farm would go bankrupt sooner or later, and, above all, that  the windmill would be a failure. They would meet in the public-houses and prove to one another by  means of diagrams that the windmill was bound to fall down, or that if it did stand up, then that  it would never work. And yet, against their will, they had developed a certain respect for the  efficiency with which the animal

s were managing their own affairs. One symptom of this was that  they had begun to call Animal Farm by its proper name and ceased to pretend that it was called  the Manor Farm. They had also dropped their championship of Jones, who had given up hope of  getting his farm back and gone to live in another part of the county. Except through Whymper, there  was as yet no contact between Animal Farm and the outside world, but there were constant rumours  that Napoleon was about to enter into a definit

e business agreement either with Mr. Pilkington of  Foxwood or with Mr. Frederick of Pinchfield—but never, it was noticed, with both simultaneously. It was about this time that the pigs suddenly moved into the farmhouse and took up their  residence there. Again the animals seemed to remember that a resolution against this had been  passed in the early days, and again Squealer was able to convince them that this was not the  case. It was absolutely necessary, he said, that the pigs, who were the

brains of the  farm, should have a quiet place to work in. It was also more suited to the dignity of the  Leader (for of late he had taken to speaking of Napoleon under the title of "Leader") to live  in a house than in a mere sty. Nevertheless, some of the animals were disturbed when they  heard that the pigs not only took their meals in the kitchen and used the drawing-room as a  recreation room, but also slept in the beds. Boxer passed it off as usual with "Napoleon  is always right!", but Cl

over, who thought she remembered a definite ruling against beds,  went to the end of the barn and tried to puzzle out the Seven Commandments which were inscribed  there. Finding herself unable to read more than individual letters, she fetched Muriel. "Muriel," she said, "read me the Fourth Commandment. Does it not say something  about never sleeping in a bed?" With some difficulty Muriel spelt it out. "It says, 'No animal shall sleep in a  bed with sheets,"' she announced finally. Curiously enou

gh, Clover had not remembered that  the Fourth Commandment mentioned sheets; but as it was there on the wall, it must have done so.  And Squealer, who happened to be passing at this moment, attended by two or three dogs, was able  to put the whole matter in its proper perspective. "You have heard then, comrades," he said,  "that we pigs now sleep in the beds of the farmhouse? And why not? You did not suppose,  surely, that there was ever a ruling against beds? A bed merely means a place to sleep

  in. A pile of straw in a stall is a bed, properly regarded. The rule was against sheets,  which are a human invention. We have removed the sheets from the farmhouse beds, and sleep between  blankets. And very comfortable beds they are too! But not more comfortable than we need, I can  tell you, comrades, with all the brainwork we have to do nowadays. You would not rob us  of our repose, would you, comrades? You would not have us too tired to carry out our duties?  Surely none of you wishes to

see Jones back?" The animals reassured him on this point  immediately, and no more was said about the pigs sleeping in the farmhouse  beds. And when, some days afterwards, it was announced that from now on the  pigs would get up an hour later in the mornings than the other animals, no  complaint was made about that either. By the autumn the animals were tired but  happy. They had had a hard year, and after the sale of part of the hay and corn, the stores  of food for the winter were none too ple

ntiful, but the windmill compensated for everything.  It was almost half built now. After the harvest there was a stretch of clear dry weather,  and the animals toiled harder than ever, thinking it well worth while to plod to and  fro all day with blocks of stone if by doing so they could raise the walls another foot.  Boxer would even come out at nights and work for an hour or two on his own by the light  of the harvest moon. In their spare moments the animals would walk round and round the  ha

lf-finished mill, admiring the strength and perpendicularity of its walls and marvelling  that they should ever have been able to build anything so imposing. Only old Benjamin refused  to grow enthusiastic about the windmill, though, as usual, he would utter nothing beyond the  cryptic remark that donkeys live a long time. November came, with raging south-west winds.  Building had to stop because it was now too wet to mix the cement. Finally there came a  night when the gale was so violent that

the farm buildings rocked on their foundations and  several tiles were blown off the roof of the barn. The hens woke up squawking with terror  because they had all dreamed simultaneously of hearing a gun go off in the distance. In the  morning the animals came out of their stalls to find that the flagstaff had been blown down  and an elm tree at the foot of the orchard had been plucked up like a radish. They had just  noticed this when a cry of despair broke from every animal's throat. A terribl

e sight had  met their eyes. The windmill was in ruins. With one accord they dashed down to the spot.  Napoleon, who seldom moved out of a walk, raced ahead of them all. Yes, there it  lay, the fruit of all their struggles, levelled to its foundations, the stones they  had broken and carried so laboriously scattered all around. Unable at first to speak, they stood  gazing mournfully at the litter of fallen stone. Napoleon paced to and fro in silence, occasionally  snuffing at the ground. His tai

l had grown rigid and twitched sharply from side to side, a sign  in him of intense mental activity. Suddenly he halted as though his mind were made up. "Comrades," he said quietly, "do you know who is responsible for this? Do you know the  enemy who has come in the night and overthrown our windmill? SNOWBALL!" he suddenly roared in a  voice of thunder. "Snowball has done this thing! In sheer malignity, thinking to set back our plans  and avenge himself for his ignominious expulsion, this traito

r has crept here under cover of night  and destroyed our work of nearly a year. Comrades, here and now I pronounce the death  sentence upon Snowball. 'Animal Hero, Second Class,' and half a bushel of apples  to any animal who brings him to justice. A full bushel to anyone who captures him alive!" The animals were shocked beyond measure to learn that even Snowball could be guilty of such  an action. There was a cry of indignation, and everyone began thinking out ways of  catching Snowball if he s

hould ever come back. Almost immediately the footprints of a pig  were discovered in the grass at a little distance from the knoll. They could only be traced for  a few yards, but appeared to lead to a hole in the hedge. Napoleon snuffed deeply at them and  pronounced them to be Snowball's. He gave it as his opinion that Snowball had probably  come from the direction of Foxwood Farm. "No more delays, comrades!" cried Napoleon  when the footprints had been examined. "There is work to be done. Thi

s very morning we begin  rebuilding the windmill, and we will build all through the winter, rain or shine. We will  teach this miserable traitor that he cannot undo our work so easily. Remember, comrades,  there must be no alteration in our plans: they shall be carried out to the day. Forward,  comrades! Long live the windmill! Long live Animal Farm!" Chapter 8. It was a bitter winter. The stormy weather was  followed by sleet and snow, and then by a hard frost which did not break till well into

February.  The animals carried on as best they could with the rebuilding of the windmill, well knowing  that the outside world was watching them and that the envious human beings would rejoice and  triumph if the mill were not finished on time. Out of spite, the human beings pretended not to  believe that it was Snowball who had destroyed the windmill: they said that it had fallen down  because the walls were too thin. The animals knew that this was not the case. Still, it had  been decided to

build the walls three feet thick this time instead of eighteen inches as before,  which meant collecting much larger quantities of stone. For a long time the quarry was  full of snowdrifts and nothing could be done. Some progress was made in the dry frosty  weather that followed, but it was cruel work, and the animals could not feel so hopeful about  it as they had felt before. They were always cold, and usually hungry as well. Only Boxer  and Clover never lost heart. Squealer made excellent spe

eches on the joy of service and  the dignity of labour, but the other animals found more inspiration in Boxer's strength and  his never-failing cry of "I will work harder!" In January food fell short. The corn ration was  drastically reduced, and it was announced that an extra potato ration would be issued to make up  for it. Then it was discovered that the greater part of the potato crop had been frosted in the  clamps, which had not been covered thickly enough. The potatoes had become soft and

discoloured, and  only a few were edible. For days at a time the animals had nothing to eat but chaff and mangels.  Starvation seemed to stare them in the face. It was vitally necessary to conceal this  fact from the outside world. Emboldened by the collapse of the windmill, the human beings  were inventing fresh lies about Animal Farm. Once again it was being put about that all the  animals were dying of famine and disease, and that they were continually fighting among  themselves and had reso

rted to cannibalism and infanticide. Napoleon was well aware of the bad  results that might follow if the real facts of the food situation were known, and he decided  to make use of Mr. Whymper to spread a contrary impression. Hitherto the animals had had little  or no contact with Whymper on his weekly visits: now, however, a few selected animals,  mostly sheep, were instructed to remark casually in his hearing that rations had been  increased. In addition, Napoleon ordered the almost empty bin

s in the store-shed to  be filled nearly to the brim with sand, which was then covered up with what remained  of the grain and meal. On some suitable pretext Whymper was led through the store-shed and allowed  to catch a glimpse of the bins. He was deceived, and continued to report to the outside world  that there was no food shortage on Animal Farm. Nevertheless, towards the end of January it  became obvious that it would be necessary to procure some more grain from somewhere. In  these days Na

poleon rarely appeared in public, but spent all his time in the farmhouse, which was  guarded at each door by fierce-looking dogs. When he did emerge, it was in a ceremonial manner, with  an escort of six dogs who closely surrounded him and growled if anyone came too near. Frequently  he did not even appear on Sunday mornings, but issued his orders through one  of the other pigs, usually Squealer. One Sunday morning Squealer announced that  the hens, who had just come in to lay again, must surre

nder their eggs. Napoleon had accepted,  through Whymper, a contract for four hundred eggs a week. The price of these would pay for  enough grain and meal to keep the farm going till summer came on and conditions were easier. When the hens heard this, they raised a terrible outcry. They had been warned earlier that  this sacrifice might be necessary, but had not believed that it would really happen. They  were just getting their clutches ready for the spring sitting, and they protested that to t

ake  the eggs away now was murder. For the first time since the expulsion of Jones, there was something  resembling a rebellion. Led by three young Black Minorca pullets, the hens made a determined  effort to thwart Napoleon's wishes. Their method was to fly up to the rafters and there  lay their eggs, which smashed to pieces on the floor. Napoleon acted swiftly and ruthlessly.  He ordered the hens' rations to be stopped, and decreed that any animal giving so much as  a grain of corn to a hen sh

ould be punished by death. The dogs saw to it that these orders were  carried out. For five days the hens held out, then they capitulated and went back to their  nesting boxes. Nine hens had died in the meantime. Their bodies were buried in the orchard, and it  was given out that they had died of coccidiosis. Whymper heard nothing of this affair, and the  eggs were duly delivered, a grocer's van driving up to the farm once a week to take them away. All this while no more had been seen of Snowbal

l. He was rumoured to be hiding on one of the  neighbouring farms, either Foxwood or Pinchfield. Napoleon was by this time on slightly better terms  with the other farmers than before. It happened that there was in the yard a pile of timber which  had been stacked there ten years earlier when a beech spinney was cleared. It was well seasoned,  and Whymper had advised Napoleon to sell it; both Mr. Pilkington and Mr. Frederick were  anxious to buy it. Napoleon was hesitating between the two, unabl

e to make up his mind.  It was noticed that whenever he seemed on the point of coming to an agreement with Frederick,  Snowball was declared to be in hiding at Foxwood, while, when he inclined toward Pilkington,  Snowball was said to be at Pinchfield. Suddenly, early in the spring, an alarming thing  was discovered. Snowball was secretly frequenting the farm by night! The animals were so disturbed  that they could hardly sleep in their stalls. Every night, it was said, he came creeping in  under

cover of darkness and performed all kinds of mischief. He stole the corn, he upset the  milk-pails, he broke the eggs, he trampled the seedbeds, he gnawed the bark off the fruit trees.  Whenever anything went wrong it became usual to attribute it to Snowball. If a window was broken  or a drain was blocked up, someone was certain to say that Snowball had come in the night and done  it, and when the key of the store-shed was lost, the whole farm was convinced that Snowball  had thrown it down the

well. Curiously enough, they went on believing this even after the  mislaid key was found under a sack of meal. The cows declared unanimously that Snowball crept  into their stalls and milked them in their sleep. The rats, which had been troublesome that winter,  were also said to be in league with Snowball. Napoleon decreed that there should be a full  investigation into Snowball's activities. With his dogs in attendance he set out and made a  careful tour of inspection of the farm buildings,

the other animals following at a respectful  distance. At every few steps Napoleon stopped and snuffed the ground for traces of  Snowball's footsteps, which, he said, he could detect by the smell. He snuffed in  every corner, in the barn, in the cow-shed, in the henhouses, in the vegetable garden, and  found traces of Snowball almost everywhere. He would put his snout to the ground, give several  deep sniffs, ad exclaim in a terrible voice, "Snowball! He has been here! I can smell  him distinctl

y!" and at the word "Snowball" all the dogs let out blood-curdling  growls and showed their side teeth. The animals were thoroughly frightened. It seemed  to them as though Snowball were some kind of invisible influence, pervading the air about them  and menacing them with all kinds of dangers. In the evening Squealer called them together, and  with an alarmed expression on his face told them that he had some serious news to report. "Comrades!" cried Squealer, making little nervous skips, "a mos

t terrible thing has been  discovered. Snowball has sold himself to Frederick of Pinchfield Farm, who is even now plotting to  attack us and take our farm away from us! Snowball is to act as his guide when the attack begins.  But there is worse than that. We had thought that Snowball's rebellion was caused simply by his  vanity and ambition. But we were wrong, comrades. Do you know what the real reason was? Snowball  was in league with Jones from the very start! He was Jones's secret agent all t

he time. It has all  been proved by documents which he left behind him and which we have only just discovered. To my mind  this explains a great deal, comrades. Did we not see for ourselves how he attempted—fortunately  without success—to get us defeated and destroyed at the Battle of the Cowshed?" The animals were stupefied. This was a wickedness far outdoing Snowball's destruction of  the windmill. But it was some minutes before they could fully take it in. They all remembered,  or thought the

y remembered, how they had seen Snowball charging ahead of them at the Battle of  the Cowshed, how he had rallied and encouraged them at every turn, and how he had not paused for  an instant even when the pellets from Jones's gun had wounded his back. At first it was a little  difficult to see how this fitted in with his being on Jones's side. Even Boxer, who seldom asked  questions, was puzzled. He lay down, tucked his fore hoofs beneath him, shut his eyes, and with  a hard effort managed to fo

rmulate his thoughts. "I do not believe that," he said. "Snowball  fought bravely at the Battle of the Cowshed. I saw him myself. Did we not give him 'Animal  Hero, first Class,' immediately afterwards?" "That was our mistake, comrade. For we  know now—it is all written down in the secret documents that we have found—that in  reality he was trying to lure us to our doom." "But he was wounded," said Boxer.  "We all saw him running with blood." "That was part of the arrangement!" cried  Squealer.

"Jones's shot only grazed him. I could show you this in his own writing, if you were  able to read it. The plot was for Snowball, at the critical moment, to give the signal for flight and  leave the field to the enemy. And he very nearly succeeded—I will even say, comrades, he WOULD  have succeeded if it had not been for our heroic Leader, Comrade Napoleon. Do you not remember  how, just at the moment when Jones and his men had got inside the yard, Snowball suddenly turned  and fled, and many an

imals followed him? And do you not remember, too, that it was just at that  moment, when panic was spreading and all seemed lost, that Comrade Napoleon sprang forward with a  cry of 'Death to Humanity!' and sank his teeth in Jones's leg? Surely you remember THAT, comrades?"  exclaimed Squealer, frisking from side to side. Now when Squealer described the scene so  graphically, it seemed to the animals that they did remember it. At any rate,  they remembered that at the critical moment of the batt

le Snowball had turned to  flee. But Boxer was still a little uneasy. "I do not believe that Snowball was a traitor at  the beginning," he said finally. "What he has done since is different. But I believe that at the  Battle of the Cowshed he was a good comrade." "Our Leader, Comrade Napoleon," announced  Squealer, speaking very slowly and firmly, "has stated categorically—categorically,  comrade—that Snowball was Jones's agent from the very beginning—yes, and from long  before the Rebellion was

ever thought of." "Ah, that is different!" said Boxer. "If  Comrade Napoleon says it, it must be right." "That is the true spirit, comrade!" cried  Squealer, but it was noticed he cast a very ugly look at Boxer with his little twinkling  eyes. He turned to go, then paused and added impressively: "I warn every animal on this farm  to keep his eyes very wide open. For we have reason to think that some of Snowball's secret  agents are lurking among us at this moment!" Four days later, in the late

afternoon, Napoleon  ordered all the animals to assemble in the yard. When they were all gathered together,  Napoleon emerged from the farmhouse, wearing both his medals (for he had recently  awarded himself "Animal Hero, First Class", and "Animal Hero, Second Class"), with his nine  huge dogs frisking round him and uttering growls that sent shivers down all the animals' spines.  They all cowered silently in their places, seeming to know in advance that some  terrible thing was about to happen.

Napoleon stood sternly surveying his audience;  then he uttered a high-pitched whimper. Immediately the dogs bounded forward, seized  four of the pigs by the ear and dragged them, squealing with pain and terror, to Napoleon's  feet. The pigs' ears were bleeding, the dogs had tasted blood, and for a few moments they appeared  to go quite mad. To the amazement of everybody, three of them flung themselves upon Boxer. Boxer  saw them coming and put out his great hoof, caught a dog in mid-air, and pi

nned him to the ground.  The dog shrieked for mercy and the other two fled with their tails between their legs. Boxer looked  at Napoleon to know whether he should crush the dog to death or let it go. Napoleon appeared to  change countenance, and sharply ordered Boxer to let the dog go, whereat Boxer lifted his hoof,  and the dog slunk away, bruised and howling. Presently the tumult died down. The four  pigs waited, trembling, with guilt written on every line of their countenances. Napoleon  now

called upon them to confess their crimes. They were the same four pigs as had protested  when Napoleon abolished the Sunday Meetings. Without any further prompting they confessed  that they had been secretly in touch with Snowball ever since his expulsion, that they had  collaborated with him in destroying the windmill, and that they had entered into an agreement with  him to hand over Animal Farm to Mr. Frederick. They added that Snowball had privately admitted  to them that he had been Jones'

s secret agent for years past. When they had finished their  confession, the dogs promptly tore their throats out, and in a terrible voice Napoleon demanded  whether any other animal had anything to confess. The three hens who had been the ringleaders  in the attempted rebellion over the eggs now came forward and stated that Snowball had  appeared to them in a dream and incited them to disobey Napoleon's orders. They, too,  were slaughtered. Then a goose came forward and confessed to having secr

eted six ears of corn  during the last year's harvest and eaten them in the night. Then a sheep confessed to having  urinated in the drinking pool—urged to do this, so she said, by Snowball—and two other sheep  confessed to having murdered an old ram, an especially devoted follower of Napoleon, by  chasing him round and round a bonfire when he was suffering from a cough. They were all slain  on the spot. And so the tale of confessions and executions went on, until there was a pile of  corpses ly

ing before Napoleon's feet and the air was heavy with the smell of blood, which had  been unknown there since the expulsion of Jones. When it was all over, the remaining animals,  except for the pigs and dogs, crept away in a body. They were shaken and miserable. They did not  know which was more shocking—the treachery of the animals who had leagued themselves with Snowball,  or the cruel retribution they had just witnessed. In the old days there had often been scenes  of bloodshed equally terri

ble, but it seemed to all of them that it was far worse now that it  was happening among themselves. Since Jones had left the farm, until today, no animal had killed  another animal. Not even a rat had been killed. They had made their way on to the little knoll  where the half-finished windmill stood, and with one accord they all lay down as though huddling  together for warmth—Clover, Muriel, Benjamin, the cows, the sheep, and a whole flock of geese  and hens—everyone, indeed, except the cat, w

ho had suddenly disappeared just before Napoleon  ordered the animals to assemble. For some time nobody spoke. Only Boxer remained on his feet. He  fidgeted to and fro, swishing his long black tail against his sides and occasionally uttering  a little whinny of surprise. Finally he said: "I do not understand it. I would not have  believed that such things could happen on our farm. It must be due to some fault  in ourselves. The solution, as I see it, is to work harder. From now onwards I shall 

get up a full hour earlier in the mornings." And he moved off at his lumbering trot and made  for the quarry. Having got there, he collected two successive loads of stone and dragged them down  to the windmill before retiring for the night. The animals huddled about Clover, not speaking.  The knoll where they were lying gave them a wide prospect across the countryside. Most of Animal  Farm was within their view—the long pasture stretching down to the main road, the hayfield,  the spinney, the dr

inking pool, the ploughed fields where the young wheat was thick and green,  and the red roofs of the farm buildings with the smoke curling from the chimneys. It was a clear  spring evening. The grass and the bursting hedges were gilded by the level rays of the sun. Never  had the farm—and with a kind of surprise they remembered that it was their own farm, every  inch of it their own property—appeared to the animals so desirable a place. As Clover looked  down the hillside her eyes filled with t

ears. If she could have spoken her thoughts, it would  have been to say that this was not what they had aimed at when they had set themselves years  ago to work for the overthrow of the human race. These scenes of terror and slaughter were not  what they had looked forward to on that night when old Major first stirred them to rebellion.  If she herself had had any picture of the future, it had been of a society of animals set free  from hunger and the whip, all equal, each working according to h

is capacity, the strong protecting  the weak, as she had protected the lost brood of ducklings with her foreleg on the night of Major's  speech. Instead—she did not know why—they had come to a time when no one dared speak his mind,  when fierce, growling dogs roamed everywhere, and when you had to watch your comrades torn to  pieces after confessing to shocking crimes. There was no thought of rebellion or disobedience in  her mind. She knew that, even as things were, they were far better off tha

n they had been in  the days of Jones, and that before all else it was needful to prevent the return of the human beings.  Whatever happened she would remain faithful, work hard, carry out the orders that were given to her,  and accept the leadership of Napoleon. But still, it was not for this that she and all the other  animals had hoped and toiled. It was not for this that they had built the windmill and faced the  bullets of Jones's gun. Such were her thoughts, though she lacked the words to

express them. At last, feeling this to be in some way a substitute for the words she was unable to  find, she began to sing 'Beasts of England'. The other animals sitting round her took it up,  and they sang it three times over—very tunefully, but slowly and mournfully, in a  way they had never sung it before. They had just finished singing it  for the third time when Squealer, attended by two dogs, approached  them with the air of having something important to say. He announced that, by  a spec

ial decree of Comrade Napoleon, 'Beasts of England' had been abolished. From  now onwards it was forbidden to sing it. The animals were taken aback. "Why?" cried Muriel. "It's no longer needed, comrade," said Squealer  stiffly. "'Beasts of England' was the song of the Rebellion. But the Rebellion is now  completed. The execution of the traitors this afternoon was the final act. The enemy  both external and internal has been defeated. In 'Beasts of England' we expressed our  longing for a better

society in days to come. But that society has now been established.  Clearly this song has no longer any purpose." Frightened though they were, some of the  animals might possibly have protested, but at this moment the sheep set up  their usual bleating of "Four legs good, two legs bad," which went on for several  minutes and put an end to the discussion. So 'Beasts of England' was heard  no more. In its place Minimus, the poet, had composed another song which began: Animal Farm, Animal Farm, Ne

ver through me shalt thou come to harm! and this was sung every Sunday morning after  the hoisting of the flag. But somehow neither the words nor the tune ever seemed to the  animals to come up to 'Beasts of England'. Chapter 8. A few days later, when the terror caused by the  executions had died down, some of the animals remembered—or thought they remembered—that the  Sixth Commandment decreed "No animal shall kill any other animal." And though no one cared to  mention it in the hearing of the

pigs or the dogs, it was felt that the killings which had taken  place did not square with this. Clover asked Benjamin to read her the Sixth Commandment, and  when Benjamin, as usual, said that he refused to meddle in such matters, she fetched Muriel.  Muriel read the Commandment for her. It ran: "No animal shall kill any other animal WITHOUT  CAUSE." Somehow or other, the last two words had slipped out of the animals' memory. But they saw  now that the Commandment had not been violated; for cle

arly there was good reason for killing the  traitors who had leagued themselves with Snowball. Throughout the year the animals worked even harder  than they had worked in the previous year. To rebuild the windmill, with walls twice as thick  as before, and to finish it by the appointed date, together with the regular work of the farm, was  a tremendous labour. There were times when it seemed to the animals that they worked longer  hours and fed no better than they had done in Jones's day. On Sun

day mornings Squealer, holding  down a long strip of paper with his trotter, would read out to them lists of figures proving  that the production of every class of foodstuff had increased by two hundred per cent, three  hundred per cent, or five hundred per cent, as the case might be. The animals saw no reason  to disbelieve him, especially as they could no longer remember very clearly what conditions  had been like before the Rebellion. All the same, there were days when they felt that they wou

ld  sooner have had less figures and more food. All orders were now issued through Squealer or  one of the other pigs. Napoleon himself was not seen in public as often as once in a fortnight.  When he did appear, he was attended not only by his retinue of dogs but by a black cockerel who  marched in front of him and acted as a kind of trumpeter, letting out a loud "cock-a-doodle-doo"  before Napoleon spoke. Even in the farmhouse, it was said, Napoleon inhabited separate apartments  from the othe

rs. He took his meals alone, with two dogs to wait upon him, and always ate  from the Crown Derby dinner service which had been in the glass cupboard in the drawing-room.  It was also announced that the gun would be fired every year on Napoleon's birthday,  as well as on the other two anniversaries. Napoleon was now never spoken of simply as  "Napoleon." He was always referred to in formal style as "our Leader, Comrade Napoleon,"  and this pigs liked to invent for him such titles as Father of Al

l Animals, Terror of Mankind,  Protector of the Sheep-fold, Ducklings' Friend, and the like. In his speeches, Squealer would  talk with the tears rolling down his cheeks of Napoleon's wisdom the goodness of his heart, and  the deep love he bore to all animals everywhere, even and especially the unhappy animals who  still lived in ignorance and slavery on other farms. It had become usual to give Napoleon  the credit for every successful achievement and every stroke of good fortune. You would  oft

en hear one hen remark to another, "Under the guidance of our Leader, Comrade Napoleon, I  have laid five eggs in six days"; or two cows, enjoying a drink at the pool, would exclaim,  "Thanks to the leadership of Comrade Napoleon, how excellent this water tastes!" The general  feeling on the farm was well expressed in a poem entitled Comrade Napoleon, which was  composed by Minimus and which ran as follows: Friend of fatherless! Fountain of happiness! Lord of the swill-bucket! Oh, how my soul is

on Fire when I gaze at thy Calm and commanding eye, Like the sun in the sky, Comrade Napoleon! Thou are the giver of All that thy creatures love, Full belly twice a day, clean straw to roll upon; Every beast great or small Sleeps at peace in his stall, Thou watchest over all, Comrade Napoleon! Had I a sucking-pig, Ere he had grown as big Even as a pint bottle or as a rolling-pin, He should have learned to be Faithful and true to thee, Yes, his first squeak should be "Comrade Napoleon!" Napoleon

approved of this poem and caused it  to be inscribed on the wall of the big barn, at the opposite end from the Seven Commandments.  It was surmounted by a portrait of Napoleon, in profile, executed by Squealer in white paint. Meanwhile, through the agency of Whymper, Napoleon was engaged in complicated negotiations  with Frederick and Pilkington. The pile of timber was still unsold. Of the two, Frederick was the  more anxious to get hold of it, but he would not offer a reasonable price. At the

same time there  were renewed rumours that Frederick and his men were plotting to attack Animal Farm and to destroy  the windmill, the building of which had aroused furious jealousy in him. Snowball was known to be  still skulking on Pinchfield Farm. In the middle of the summer the animals were alarmed to hear  that three hens had come forward and confessed that, inspired by Snowball, they had entered into  a plot to murder Napoleon. They were executed immediately, and fresh precautions for Napo

leon's  safety were taken. Four dogs guarded his bed at night, one at each corner, and a young pig named  Pinkeye was given the task of tasting all his food before he ate it, lest it should be poisoned. At about the same time it was given out that Napoleon had arranged to sell the pile of  timber to Mr. Pilkington; he was also going to enter into a regular agreement for the exchange of  certain products between Animal Farm and Foxwood. The relations between Napoleon and Pilkington,  though they

were only conducted through Whymper, were now almost friendly. The animals  distrusted Pilkington, as a human being, but greatly preferred him to Frederick, whom they  both feared and hated. As the summer wore on, and the windmill neared completion, the rumours  of an impending treacherous attack grew stronger and stronger. Frederick, it was said, intended to  bring against them twenty men all armed with guns, and he had already bribed the magistrates  and police, so that if he could once get ho

ld of the title-deeds of Animal Farm  they would ask no questions. Moreover, terrible stories were leaking out from Pinchfield  about the cruelties that Frederick practised upon his animals. He had flogged an old horse to  death, he starved his cows, he had killed a dog by throwing it into the furnace, he amused  himself in the evenings by making cocks fight with splinters of razor-blade tied to their  spurs. The animals' blood boiled with rage when they heard of these things beingdone to their 

comrades, and sometimes they clamoured to be allowed to go out in a body and attack Pinchfield  Farm, drive out the humans, and set the animals free. But Squealer counselled them to avoid rash  actions and trust in Comrade Napoleon's strategy. Nevertheless, feeling against Frederick continued  to run high. One Sunday morning Napoleon appeared in the barn and explained that he had never  at any time contemplated selling the pile of timber to Frederick; he considered it beneath  his dignity, he s

aid, to have dealings with scoundrels of that description. The pigeons  who were still sent out to spread tidings of the Rebellion were forbidden to set foot  anywhere on Foxwood, and were also ordered to drop their former slogan of "Death to Humanity"  in favour of "Death to Frederick." In the late summer yet another of Snowball's machinations  was laid bare. The wheat crop was full of weeds, and it was discovered that on one of his nocturnal  visits Snowball had mixed weed seeds with the seed

corn. A gander who had been privy to the plot had  confessed his guilt to Squealer and immediately committed suicide by swallowing deadly nightshade  berries. The animals now also learned that Snowball had never—as many of them had believed  hitherto—received the order of "Animal Hero, First Class." This was merely a legend which  had been spread some time after the Battle of the Cowshed by Snowball himself. So far from  being decorated, he had been censured for showing cowardice in the battle.

Once again some of the  animals heard this with a certain bewilderment, but Squealer was soon able to convince  them that their memories had been at fault. In the autumn, by a tremendous, exhausting  effort—for the harvest had to be gathered at almost the same time—the windmill was finished.  The machinery had still to be installed, and Whymper was negotiating the purchase of it, but  the structure was completed. In the teeth of every difficulty, in spite of inexperience, of primitive  implement

s, of bad luck and of Snowball's treachery, the work had been finished punctually  to the very day! Tired out but proud, the animals walked round and round their masterpiece, which  appeared even more beautiful in their eyes than when it had been built the first time. Moreover,  the walls were twice as thick as before. Nothing short of explosives would lay them low this time!  And when they thought of how they had laboured, what discouragements they had overcome, and  the enormous difference tha

t would be made in their lives when the sails were turning and the  dynamos running—when they thought of all this, their tiredness forsook them and they gambolled  round and round the windmill, uttering cries of triumph. Napoleon himself, attended by his  dogs and his cockerel, came down to inspect the completed work; he personally congratulated  the animals on their achievement, and announced that the mill would be named Napoleon Mill. Two days later the animals were called together for a speci

al meeting in the barn.  They were struck dumb with surprise when Napoleon announced that he had sold the pile  of timber to Frederick. Tomorrow Frederick's wagons would arrive and begin carting it  away. Throughout the whole period of his seeming friendship with Pilkington, Napoleon had  really been in secret agreement with Frederick. All relations with Foxwood had been broken  off; insulting messages had been sent to Pilkington. The pigeons had been told to  avoid Pinchfield Farm and to alter

their slogan from "Death to Frederick" to "Death to  Pilkington." At the same time Napoleon assured the animals that the stories of an impending  attack on Animal Farm were completely untrue, and that the tales about Frederick's  cruelty to his own animals had been greatly exaggerated. All these rumours had  probably originated with Snowball and his agents. It now appeared that Snowball was  not, after all, hiding on Pinchfield Farm, and in fact had never been there in his  life: he was living—i

n considerable luxury, so it was said—at Foxwood, and had in reality  been a pensioner of Pilkington for years past. The pigs were in ecstasies over Napoleon's  cunning. By seeming to be friendly with Pilkington he had forced Frederick to raise  his price by twelve pounds. But the superior quality of Napoleon's mind, said Squealer,  was shown in the fact that he trusted nobody, not even Frederick. Frederick had wanted to pay  for the timber with something called a cheque, which, it seemed, was a

piece of paper  with a promise to pay written upon it. But Napoleon was too clever for him. He had  demanded payment in real five-pound notes, which were to be handed over before the timber  was removed. Already Frederick had paid up; and the sum he had paid was just enough  to buy the machinery for the windmill. Meanwhile the timber was being carted  away at high speed. When it was all gone, another special meeting was held in the barn for  the animals to inspect Frederick's bank-notes. Smilin

g beatifically, and wearing both his  decorations, Napoleon reposed on a bed of straw on the platform, with the money at his  side, neatly piled on a china dish from the farmhouse kitchen. The animals filed slowly past,  and each gazed his fill. And Boxer put out his nose to sniff at the bank-notes, and the flimsy  white things stirred and rustled in his breath. Three days later there was a terrible  hullabaloo. Whymper, his face deadly pale, came racing up the path on his bicycle,  flung it dow

n in the yard and rushed straight into the farmhouse. The next  moment a choking roar of rage sounded from Napoleon's apartments. The news of  what had happened sped round the farm like wildfire. The banknotes were forgeries!  Frederick had got the timber for nothing! Napoleon called the animals together immediately  and in a terrible voice pronounced the death sentence upon Frederick. When captured, he said,  Frederick should be boiled alive. At the same time he warned them that after this trea

cherous deed  the worst was to be expected. Frederick and his men might make their long-expected attack at  any moment. Sentinels were placed at all the approaches to the farm. In addition, four pigeons  were sent to Foxwood with a conciliatory message, which it was hoped might re-establish  good relations with Pilkington. The very next morning the attack came. The  animals were at breakfast when the look-outs came racing in with the news that Frederick  and his followers had already come throug

h the five-barred gate. Boldly enough the animals  sallied forth to meet them, but this time they did not have the easy victory that they had had in  the Battle of the Cowshed. There were fifteen men, with half a dozen guns between them, and they  opened fire as soon as they got within fifty yards. The animals could not face the terrible  explosions and the stinging pellets, and in spite of the efforts of Napoleon and Boxer to rally  them, they were soon driven back. A number of them were alread

y wounded. They took refuge in  the farm buildings and peeped cautiously out from chinks and knot-holes. The whole of the big  pasture, including the windmill, was in the hands of the enemy. For the moment even Napoleon seemed  at a loss. He paced up and down without a word, his tail rigid and twitching. Wistful glances were  sent in the direction of Foxwood. If Pilkington and his men would help them, the day might yet be  won. But at this moment the four pigeons, who had been sent out on the da

y before, returned, one of  them bearing a scrap of paper from Pilkington. On it was pencilled the words: "Serves you right." Meanwhile Frederick and his men had halted about the windmill. The animals watched them, and  a murmur of dismay went round. Two of the men had produced a crowbar and a sledge hammer.  They were going to knock the windmill down. "Impossible!" cried Napoleon. "We  have built the walls far too thick for that. They could not knock it  down in a week. Courage, comrades!" But

Benjamin was watching the movements of  the men intently. The two with the hammer and the crowbar were drilling a hole  near the base of the windmill. Slowly, and with an air almost of amusement,  Benjamin nodded his long muzzle. "I thought so," he said. "Do you not  see what they are doing? In another moment they are going to pack  blasting powder into that hole." Terrified, the animals waited. It  was impossible now to venture out of the shelter of the buildings. After a few  minutes the men w

ere seen to be running in all directions. Then there was a deafening  roar. The pigeons swirled into the air, and all the animals, except Napoleon, flung  themselves flat on their bellies and hid their faces. When they got up again, a huge  cloud of black smoke was hanging where the windmill had been. Slowly the breeze drifted  it away. The windmill had ceased to exist! At this sight the animals' courage returned  to them. The fear and despair they had felt a moment earlier were drowned in their

rage  against this vile, contemptible act. A mighty cry for vengeance went up, and without waiting  for further orders they charged forth in a body and made straight for the enemy. This time  they did not heed the cruel pellets that swept over them like hail. It was a savage, bitter  battle. The men fired again and again, and, when the animals got to close quarters, lashed out  with their sticks and their heavy boots. A cow, three sheep, and two geese were killed, and  nearly everyone was wound

ed. Even Napoleon, who was directing operations from the rear,  had the tip of his tail chipped by a pellet. But the men did not go unscathed either. Three  of them had their heads broken by blows from Boxer's hoofs; another was gored in the belly by  a cow's horn; another had his trousers nearly torn off by Jessie and Bluebell. And when the nine  dogs of Napoleon's own bodyguard, whom he had instructed to make a detour under cover of the  hedge, suddenly appeared on the men's flank, baying fero

ciously, panic overtook them. They  saw that they were in danger of being surrounded. Frederick shouted to his men to get out while the  going was good, and the next moment the cowardly enemy was running for dear life. The animals  chased them right down to the bottom of the field, and got in some last kicks at them as they  forced their way through the thorn hedge. They had won, but they were weary and bleeding.  Slowly they began to limp back towards the farm. The sight of their dead comrades

stretched upon  the grass moved some of them to tears. And for a little while they halted in sorrowful silence at  the place where the windmill had once stood. Yes, it was gone; almost the last trace of their  labour was gone! Even the foundations were partially destroyed. And in rebuilding it  they could not this time, as before, make use of the fallen stones. This time the stones  had vanished too. The force of the explosion had flung them to distances of hundreds of yards.  It was as though t

he windmill had never been. As they approached the farm Squealer, who had  unaccountably been absent during the fighting, came skipping towards them, whisking his  tail and beaming with satisfaction. And the animals heard, from the direction of the  farm buildings, the solemn booming of a gun. "What is that gun firing for?" said Boxer. "To celebrate our victory!" cried Squealer. "What victory?" said Boxer. His knees  were bleeding, he had lost a shoe and split his hoof, and a dozen pellets  had

lodged themselves in his hind leg. "What victory, comrade? Have  we not driven the enemy off our soil—the sacred soil of Animal Farm?" "But they have destroyed the windmill.  And we had worked on it for two years!" "What matter? We will build another windmill.  We will build six windmills if we feel like it. You do not appreciate, comrade, the  mighty thing that we have done. The enemy was in occupation of this very ground  that we stand upon. And now—thanks to the leadership of Comrade Napoleon

—we  have won every inch of it back again!" "Then we have won back what  we had before," said Boxer. "That is our victory," said Squealer. They limped into the yard. The pellets under  the skin of Boxer's leg smarted painfully. He saw ahead of him the heavy labour of rebuilding  the windmill from the foundations, and already in imagination he braced himself for the task. But  for the first time it occurred to him that he was eleven years old and that perhaps his great  muscles were not quite wha

t they had once been. But when the animals saw the green flag flying,  and heard the gun firing again—seven times it was fired in all—and heard the speech that Napoleon  made, congratulating them on their conduct, it did seem to them after all that they had  won a great victory. The animals slain in the battle were given a solemn funeral. Boxer and  Clover pulled the wagon which served as a hearse, and Napoleon himself walked at the head of the  procession. Two whole days were given over to cele

brations. There were songs, speeches, and  more firing of the gun, and a special gift of an apple was bestowed on every animal, with two  ounces of corn for each bird and three biscuits for each dog. It was announced that the battle  would be called the Battle of the Windmill, and that Napoleon had created a new decoration, the  Order of the Green Banner, which he had conferred upon himself. In the general rejoicings the  unfortunate affair of the banknotes was forgotten. It was a few days later

than this that the pigs  came upon a case of whisky in the cellars of the farmhouse. It had been overlooked at the  time when the house was first occupied. That night there came from the farmhouse the sound of  loud singing, in which, to everyone's surprise, the strains of 'Beasts of England' were  mixed up. At about half past nine Napoleon, wearing an old bowler hat of Mr. Jones's, was  distinctly seen to emerge from the back door, gallop rapidly round the yard, and disappear  indoors again. B

ut in the morning a deep silence hung over the farmhouse. Not a pig appeared to  be stirring. It was nearly nine o'clock when Squealer made his appearance, walking slowly and  dejectedly, his eyes dull, his tail hanging limply behind him, and with every appearance of being  seriously ill. He called the animals together and told them that he had a terrible piece of  news to impart. Comrade Napoleon was dying! A cry of lamentation went up. Straw was laid  down outside the doors of the farmhouse, a

nd the animals walked on tiptoe. With tears  in their eyes they asked one another what they should do if their Leader were taken away  from them. A rumour went round that Snowball had after all contrived to introduce poison into  Napoleon's food. At eleven o'clock Squealer came out to make another announcement. As his  last act upon earth, Comrade Napoleon had pronounced a solemn decree: the drinking  of alcohol was to be punished by death. By the evening, however, Napoleon appeared to  be somew

hat better, and the following morning Squealer was able to tell them that he was  well on the way to recovery. By the evening of that day Napoleon was back at work, and on the  next day it was learned that he had instructed Whymper to purchase in Willingdon some booklets  on brewing and distilling. A week later Napoleon gave orders that the small paddock beyond the  orchard, which it had previously been intended to set aside as a grazing-ground for animals  who were past work, was to be ploughed

up. It was given out that the pasture was exhausted  and needed re-seeding; but it soon became known that Napoleon intended to sow it with barley. About this time there occurred a strange incident which hardly anyone was able to understand.  One night at about twelve o'clock there was a loud crash in the yard, and the animals rushed  out of their stalls. It was a moonlit night. At the foot of the end wall of the big barn,  where the Seven Commandments were written, there lay a ladder broken in

two pieces. Squealer,  temporarily stunned, was sprawling beside it, and near at hand there lay a lantern,  a paint-brush, and an overturned pot of white paint. The dogs immediately made a ring  round Squealer, and escorted him back to the farmhouse as soon as he was able to walk.  None of the animals could form any idea as to what this meant, except old Benjamin,  who nodded his muzzle with a knowing air, and seemed to understand, but would say nothing. But a few days later Muriel, reading over

the Seven Commandments to herself, noticed that  there was yet another of them which the animals had remembered wrong. They had thought the Fifth  Commandment was "No animal shall drink alcohol," but there were two words that they had forgotten.  Actually the Commandment read: "No animal shall drink alcohol TO EXCESS." Chapter 9. Boxer's split hoof was a long time in healing.  They had started the rebuilding of the windmill the day after the victory celebrations were  ended. Boxer refused to ta

ke even a day off work, and made it a point of honour not to  let it be seen that he was in pain. In the evenings he would admit privately to  Clover that the hoof troubled him a great deal. Clover treated the hoof with poultices  of herbs which she prepared by chewing them, and both she and Benjamin urged Boxer to work  less hard. "A horse's lungs do not last for ever," she said to him. But Boxer would  not listen. He had, he said, only one real ambition left—to see the windmill well under  way

before he reached the age for retirement. At the beginning, when the laws of Animal Farm  were first formulated, the retiring age had been fixed for horses and pigs at twelve, for cows at  fourteen, for dogs at nine, for sheep at seven, and for hens and geese at five. Liberal old-age  pensions had been agreed upon. As yet no animal had actually retired on pension, but of  late the subject had been discussed more and more. Now that the small field beyond  the orchard had been set aside for barle

y, it was rumoured that a corner of the large  pasture was to be fenced off and turned into a grazing-ground for superannuated animals. For  a horse, it was said, the pension would be five pounds of corn a day and, in winter, fifteen  pounds of hay, with a carrot or possibly an apple on public holidays. Boxer's twelfth birthday  was due in the late summer of the following year. Meanwhile life was hard. The winter  was as cold as the last one had been, and food was even shorter. Once again all ra

tions  were reduced, except those of the pigs and the dogs. A too rigid equality in rations, Squealer  explained, would have been contrary to the principles of Animalism. In any case he had no  difficulty in proving to the other animals that they were NOT in reality short of food, whatever  the appearances might be. For the time being, certainly, it had been found necessary to make a  readjustment of rations (Squealer always spoke of it as a "readjustment," never as a "reduction"),  but in compa

rison with the days of Jones, the improvement was enormous. Reading  out the figures in a shrill, rapid voice, he proved to them in detail that they had more  oats, more hay, more turnips than they had had in Jones's day, that they worked shorter hours,  that their drinking water was of better quality, that they lived longer, that a larger proportion  of their young ones survived infancy, and that they had more straw in their stalls and suffered  less from fleas. The animals believed every word

of it. Truth to tell, Jones and all he stood  for had almost faded out of their memories. They knew that life nowadays was harsh and bare,  that they were often hungry and often cold, and that they were usually working when they  were not asleep. But doubtless it had been worse in the old days. They were glad to believe  so. Besides, in those days they had been slaves and now they were free, and that made all the  difference, as Squealer did not fail to point out. There were many more mouths to

feed now. In  the autumn the four sows had all littered about simultaneously, producing thirty-one young  pigs between them. The young pigs were piebald, and as Napoleon was the only boar on the farm,  it was possible to guess at their parentage. It was announced that later, when bricks and  timber had been purchased, a schoolroom would be built in the farmhouse garden. For the  time being, the young pigs were given their instruction by Napoleon himself in the farmhouse  kitchen. They took their

exercise in the garden, and were discouraged from playing with the  other young animals. About this time, too, it was laid down as a rule that when a  pig and any other animal met on the path, the other animal must stand aside: and  also that all pigs, of whatever degree, were to have the privilege of wearing  green ribbons on their tails on Sundays. The farm had had a fairly successful year, but  was still short of money. There were the bricks, sand, and lime for the schoolroom to be purchased

,  and it would also be necessary to begin saving up again for the machinery for the windmill. Then  there were lamp oil and candles for the house, sugar for Napoleon's own table (he  forbade this to the other pigs, on the ground that it made them fat), and all the  usual replacements such as tools, nails, string, coal, wire, scrap-iron, and dog biscuits. A stump  of hay and part of the potato crop were sold off, and the contract for eggs was increased to six  hundred a week, so that that year t

he hens barely hatched enough chicks to keep their numbers at  the same level. Rations, reduced in December, were reduced again in February, and lanterns in  the stalls were forbidden to save oil. But the pigs seemed comfortable enough, and in fact were  putting on weight if anything. One afternoon in late February a warm, rich, appetising scent,  such as the animals had never smelt before, wafted itself across the yard from the little  brew-house, which had been disused in Jones's time, and whi

ch stood beyond the kitchen.  Someone said it was the smell of cooking barley. The animals sniffed the air hungrily and  wondered whether a warm mash was being prepared for their supper. But no warm mash appeared, and  on the following Sunday it was announced that from now onwards all barley would be reserved for the  pigs. The field beyond the orchard had already been sown with barley. And the news soon leaked  out that every pig was now receiving a ration of a pint of beer daily, with half a g

allon  for Napoleon himself, which was always served to him in the Crown Derby soup tureen. But if there were hardships to be borne, they were partly offset by the fact that life  nowadays had a greater dignity than it had had before. There were more songs, more  speeches, more processions. Napoleon had commanded that once a week there should be held  something called a Spontaneous Demonstration, the object of which was to celebrate the struggles  and triumphs of Animal Farm. At the appointed ti

me the animals would leave their work and march round  the precincts of the farm in military formation, with the pigs leading, then the horses, then the  cows, then the sheep, and then the poultry. The dogs flanked the procession and at the head of  all marched Napoleon's black cockerel. Boxer and Clover always carried between them a green banner  marked with the hoof and the horn and the caption, "Long live Comrade Napoleon!" Afterwards  there were recitations of poems composed in Napoleon's ho

nour, and a speech by Squealer  giving particulars of the latest increases in the production of foodstuffs, and on occasion  a shot was fired from the gun. The sheep were the greatest devotees of the Spontaneous  Demonstration, and if anyone complained (as a few animals sometimes did, when no pigs or dogs  were near) that they wasted time and meant a lot of standing about in the cold, the sheep were sure  to silence him with a tremendous bleating of "Four legs good, two legs bad!" But by and lar

ge the  animals enjoyed these celebrations. They found it comforting to be reminded that, after all, they  were truly their own masters and that the work they did was for their own benefit. So that, what  with the songs, the processions, Squealer's lists of figures, the thunder of the gun, the crowing  of the cockerel, and the fluttering of the flag, they were able to forget that their bellies  were empty, at least part of the time. In April, Animal Farm was proclaimed a Republic,  and it became

necessary to elect a President. There was only one candidate, Napoleon, who  was elected unanimously. On the same day it was given out that fresh documents had been  discovered which revealed further details about Snowball's complicity with Jones. It now  appeared that Snowball had not, as the animals had previously imagined, merely attempted to lose  the Battle of the Cowshed by means of a stratagem, but had been openly fighting on Jones's side.  In fact, it was he who had actually been the le

ader of the human forces, and had charged into  battle with the words "Long live Humanity!" on his lips. The wounds on Snowball's back, which a  few of the animals still remembered to have seen, had been inflicted by Napoleon's teeth. In the middle of the summer Moses the raven suddenly reappeared on the farm, after an  absence of several years. He was quite unchanged, still did no work, and talked in the same strain  as ever about Sugarcandy Mountain. He would perch on a stump, flap his black w

ings, and talk by  the hour to anyone who would listen. "Up there, comrades," he would say solemnly, pointing  to the sky with his large beak—"up there, just on the other side of that dark cloud that  you can see—there it lies, Sugarcandy Mountain, that happy country where we poor animals shall  rest for ever from our labours!" He even claimed to have been there on one of his higher flights,  and to have seen the everlasting fields of clover and the linseed cake and lump sugar growing on  the he

dges. Many of the animals believed him. Their lives now, they reasoned, were hungry  and laborious; was it not right and just that a better world should exist somewhere else?  A thing that was difficult to determine was the attitude of the pigs towards Moses. They  all declared contemptuously that his stories about Sugarcandy Mountain were lies, and yet they  allowed him to remain on the farm, not working, with an allowance of a gill of beer a day. After his hoof had healed up, Boxer worked hard

er than ever. Indeed, all the animals worked  like slaves that year. Apart from the regular work of the farm, and the rebuilding of the windmill,  there was the schoolhouse for the young pigs, which was started in March. Sometimes the long  hours on insufficient food were hard to bear, but Boxer never faltered. In nothing that  he said or did was there any sign that his strength was not what it had been. It was  only his appearance that was a little altered; his hide was less shiny than it had u

sed to be,  and his great haunches seemed to have shrunken. The others said, "Boxer will pick up when  the spring grass comes on"; but the spring came and Boxer grew no fatter. Sometimes on  the slope leading to the top of the quarry, when he braced his muscles against the weight of  some vast boulder, it seemed that nothing kept him on his feet except the will to continue. At  such times his lips were seen to form the words, "I will work harder"; he had no voice left. Once  again Clover and Ben

jamin warned him to take care of his health, but Boxer paid no attention.  His twelfth birthday was approaching. He did not care what happened so long as a good store of  stone was accumulated before he went on pension. Late one evening in the summer, a sudden rumour  ran round the farm that something had happened to Boxer. He had gone out alone to drag a load  of stone down to the windmill. And sure enough, the rumour was true. A few minutes later  two pigeons came racing in with the news; "Box

er has fallen! He is lying  on his side and can't get up!" About half the animals on the farm rushed  out to the knoll where the windmill stood. There lay Boxer, between the shafts  of the cart, his neck stretched out, unable even to raise his head. His eyes  were glazed, his sides matted with sweat. A thin stream of blood had trickled out of his  mouth. Clover dropped to her knees at his side. "Boxer!" she cried, "how are you?" "It is my lung," said Boxer in a weak  voice. "It does not matter.

I think you will be able to finish the windmill without  me. There is a pretty good store of stone accumulated. I had only another month to  go in any case. To tell you the truth, I had been looking forward to my retirement.  And perhaps, as Benjamin is growing old too, they will let him retire at the  same time and be a companion to me." "We must get help at once," said Clover. "Run,  somebody, and tell Squealer what has happened." All the other animals immediately raced back  to the farmhouse

to give Squealer the news. Only Clover remained, and Benjamin who lay  down at Boxer's side, and, without speaking, kept the flies off him with his long tail. After  about a quarter of an hour Squealer appeared, full of sympathy and concern. He said that  Comrade Napoleon had learned with the very deepest distress of this misfortune to one of the  most loyal workers on the farm, and was already making arrangements to send Boxer to be treated  in the hospital at Willingdon. The animals felt a lit

tle uneasy at this. Except for Mollie and  Snowball, no other animal had ever left the farm, and they did not like to think of their sick  comrade in the hands of human beings. However, Squealer easily convinced them that the  veterinary surgeon in Willingdon could treat Boxer's case more satisfactorily than could  be done on the farm. And about half an hour later, when Boxer had somewhat recovered, he was with  difficulty got on to his feet, and managed to limp back to his stall, where Clover a

nd Benjamin  had prepared a good bed of straw for him. For the next two days Boxer remained in his  stall. The pigs had sent out a large bottle of pink medicine which they had found  in the medicine chest in the bathroom, and Clover administered it to Boxer twice a day  after meals. In the evenings she lay in his stall and talked to him, while Benjamin kept the flies  off him. Boxer professed not to be sorry for what had happened. If he made a good recovery,  he might expect to live another thre

e years, and he looked forward to the peaceful days that he  would spend in the corner of the big pasture. It would be the first time that he had had leisure to  study and improve his mind. He intended, he said, to devote the rest of his life to learning the  remaining twenty-two letters of the alphabet. However, Benjamin and Clover could  only be with Boxer after working hours, and it was in the middle of the day when the van  came to take him away. The animals were all at work weeding turnips

under the supervision  of a pig, when they were astonished to see Benjamin come galloping from the direction of  the farm buildings, braying at the top of his voice. It was the first time that they  had ever seen Benjamin excited—indeed, it was the first time that anyone had ever  seen him gallop. "Quick, quick!" he shouted. "Come at once! They're taking Boxer away!"  Without waiting for orders from the pig, the animals broke off work and raced back to the  farm buildings. Sure enough, there in

the yard was a large closed van, drawn by two horses,  with lettering on its side and a sly-looking man in a low-crowned bowler hat sitting on the  driver's seat. And Boxer's stall was empty. The animals crowded round the van.  "Good-bye, Boxer!" they chorused, "good-bye!" "Fools! Fools!" shouted Benjamin, prancing  round them and stamping the earth with his small hoofs. "Fools! Do you not see what  is written on the side of that van?" That gave the animals pause, and there  was a hush. Muriel b

egan to spell out the words. But Benjamin pushed her aside and  in the midst of a deadly silence he read: "'Alfred Simmonds, Horse Slaughterer and Glue  Boiler, Willingdon. Dealer in Hides and Bone-Meal. Kennels Supplied.' Do you not understand what that  means? They are taking Boxer to the knacker's!" A cry of horror burst from all the animals. At  this moment the man on the box whipped up his horses and the van moved out of the yard at a  smart trot. All the animals followed, crying out at the

tops of their voices. Clover forced her  way to the front. The van began to gather speed. Clover tried to stir her stout limbs to a gallop,  and achieved a canter. "Boxer!" she cried. "Boxer! Boxer! Boxer!" And just at this moment, as though  he had heard the uproar outside, Boxer's face, with the white stripe down his nose, appeared  at the small window at the back of the van. "Boxer!" cried Clover in a terrible voice. "Boxer! Get out! Get out quickly!  They're taking you to your death!" All t

he animals took up the cry of "Get out,  Boxer, get out!" But the van was already gathering speed and drawing away from them. It was uncertain  whether Boxer had understood what Clover had said. But a moment later his face disappeared from the  window and there was the sound of a tremendous drumming of hoofs inside the van. He was trying  to kick his way out. The time had been when a few kicks from Boxer's hoofs would have smashed  the van to matchwood. But alas! his strength had left him; and i

n a few moments the sound  of drumming hoofs grew fainter and died away. In desperation the animals began appealing to the  two horses which drew the van to stop. "Comrades, comrades!" they shouted. "Don't take your own  brother to his death!" But the stupid brutes, too ignorant to realise what was  happening, merely set back their ears and quickened their pace. Boxer's face  did not reappear at the window. Too late, someone thought of racing ahead and shutting  the five-barred gate; but in anot

her moment the van was through it and rapidly disappearing  down the road. Boxer was never seen again. Three days later it was announced that he  had died in the hospital at Willingdon, in spite of receiving every attention  a horse could have. Squealer came to announce the news to the others. He had, he  said, been present during Boxer's last hours. "It was the most affecting sight  I have ever seen!" said Squealer, lifting his trotter and wiping away  a tear. "I was at his bedside at the very

last. And at the end, almost too  weak to speak, he whispered in my ear that his sole sorrow was to have passed on  before the windmill was finished. 'Forward, comrades!' he whispered. 'Forward in the name of  the Rebellion. Long live Animal Farm! Long live Comrade Napoleon! Napoleon is always right.'  Those were his very last words, comrades." Here Squealer's demeanour suddenly  changed. He fell silent for a moment, and his little eyes darted suspicious glances  from side to side before he proc

eeded. It had come to his knowledge, he said, that a  foolish and wicked rumour had been circulated at the time of Boxer's removal. Some of the  animals had noticed that the van which took Boxer away was marked "Horse Slaughterer,"  and had actually jumped to the conclusion that Boxer was being sent to the knacker's.  It was almost unbelievable, said Squealer, that any animal could be so stupid. Surely, he  cried indignantly, whisking his tail and skipping from side to side, surely they knew the

ir beloved  Leader, Comrade Napoleon, better than that? But the explanation was really very simple. The van  had previously been the property of the knacker, and had been bought by the veterinary surgeon,  who had not yet painted the old name out. That was how the mistake had arisen. The animals were enormously relieved to hear this. And when Squealer went on to give  further graphic details of Boxer's death-bed, the admirable care he had received, and the  expensive medicines for which Napoleon

had paid without a thought as to the cost, their  last doubts disappeared and the sorrow that they felt for their comrade's death was tempered  by the thought that at least he had died happy. Napoleon himself appeared at the meeting on  the following Sunday morning and pronounced a short oration in Boxer's honour. It had not been  possible, he said, to bring back their lamented comrade's remains for interment on the farm, but  he had ordered a large wreath to be made from the laurels in the far

mhouse garden and sent down to  be placed on Boxer's grave. And in a few days' time the pigs intended to hold a memorial banquet  in Boxer's honour. Napoleon ended his speech with a reminder of Boxer's two favourite maxims,  "I will work harder" and "Comrade Napoleon is always right"—maxims, he said, which every  animal would do well to adopt as his own. On the day appointed for the banquet, a grocer's  van drove up from Willingdon and delivered a large wooden crate at the farmhouse. That night 

there was the sound of uproarious singing, which was followed by what sounded like a violent  quarrel and ended at about eleven o'clock with a tremendous crash of glass. No one stirred in  the farmhouse before noon on the following day, and the word went round that from somewhere or  other the pigs had acquired the money to buy themselves another case of whisky. Chapter 10. Years passed. The seasons came and went,  the short animal lives fled by. A time came when there was no one who remembered

  the old days before the Rebellion, except Clover, Benjamin, Moses the  raven, and a number of the pigs. Muriel was dead; Bluebell, Jessie, and Pincher  were dead. Jones too was dead—he had died in an inebriates' home in another part of the country.  Snowball was forgotten. Boxer was forgotten, except by the few who had known him.  Clover was an old stout mare now, stiff in the joints and with a tendency to rheumy  eyes. She was two years past the retiring age, but in fact no animal had ever ac

tually  retired. The talk of setting aside a corner of the pasture for superannuated animals had  long since been dropped. Napoleon was now a mature boar of twenty-four stone. Squealer  was so fat that he could with difficulty see out of his eyes. Only old Benjamin was much  the same as ever, except for being a little greyer about the muzzle, and, since Boxer's  death, more morose and taciturn than ever. There were many more creatures on the farm now,  though the increase was not so great as had

been expected in earlier years. Many animals  had been born to whom the Rebellion was only a dim tradition, passed on by word of mouth,  and others had been bought who had never heard mention of such a thing before their arrival.  The farm possessed three horses now besides Clover. They were fine upstanding beasts, willing  workers and good comrades, but very stupid. None of them proved able to learn the alphabet beyond  the letter B. They accepted everything that they were told about the Rebel

lion and the principles  of Animalism, especially from Clover, for whom they had an almost filial respect; but it was  doubtful whether they understood very much of it. The farm was more prosperous now, and better  organised: it had even been enlarged by two fields which had been bought from Mr. Pilkington. The  windmill had been successfully completed at last, and the farm possessed a threshing machine and a  hay elevator of its own, and various new buildings had been added to it. Whymper had b

ought himself  a dogcart. The windmill, however, had not after all been used for generating electrical power.  It was used for milling corn, and brought in a handsome money profit. The animals were hard at  work building yet another windmill; when that one was finished, so it was said, the dynamos would  be installed. But the luxuries of which Snowball had once taught the animals to dream, the stalls  with electric light and hot and cold water, and the three-day week, were no longer talked about

.  Napoleon had denounced such ideas as contrary to the spirit of Animalism. The truest happiness,  he said, lay in working hard and living frugally. Somehow it seemed as though the farm had grown  richer without making the animals themselves any richer-except, of course, for the pigs and  the dogs. Perhaps this was partly because there were so many pigs and so many dogs. It was not  that these creatures did not work, after their fashion. There was, as Squealer was never tired  of explaining, en

dless work in the supervision and organisation of the farm. Much of this work was of  a kind that the other animals were too ignorant to understand. For example, Squealer told them that  the pigs had to expend enormous labours every day upon mysterious things called "files," "reports,"  "minutes," and "memoranda". These were large sheets of paper which had to be closely covered  with writing, and as soon as they were so covered, they were burnt in the furnace. This was of the  highest importance

for the welfare of the farm, Squealer said. But still, neither pigs nor  dogs produced any food by their own labour; and there were very many of them,  and their appetites were always good. As for the others, their life, so far as  they knew, was as it had always been. They were generally hungry, they slept on straw, they  drank from the pool, they laboured in the fields; in winter they were troubled by the cold, and  in summer by the flies. Sometimes the older ones among them racked their dim

memories and  tried to determine whether in the early days of the Rebellion, when Jones's expulsion was still  recent, things had been better or worse than now. They could not remember. There was nothing with  which they could compare their present lives: they had nothing to go upon except Squealer's  lists of figures, which invariably demonstrated that everything was getting better and better. The  animals found the problem insoluble; in any case, they had little time for speculating on such  t

hings now. Only old Benjamin professed to remember every detail of his long life  and to know that things never had been, nor ever could be much better or much  worse—hunger, hardship, and disappointment being, so he said, the unalterable law of life. And yet the animals never gave up hope. More, they never lost, even for an instant, their  sense of honour and privilege in being members of Animal Farm. They were still the only farm  in the whole county—in all England!—owned and operated by anima

ls. Not one of them, not  even the youngest, not even the newcomers who had been brought from farms ten or twenty  miles away, ever ceased to marvel at that. And when they heard the gun booming and saw the  green flag fluttering at the masthead, their hearts swelled with imperishable pride, and the  talk turned always towards the old heroic days, the expulsion of Jones, the writing of the Seven  Commandments, the great battles in which the human invaders had been defeated. None of the old dreams

  had been abandoned. The Republic of the Animals which Major had foretold, when the green fields  of England should be untrodden by human feet, was still believed in. Some day it was coming:  it might not be soon, it might not be with in the lifetime of any animal now living, but still it  was coming. Even the tune of 'Beasts of England' was perhaps hummed secretly here and there: at  any rate, it was a fact that every animal on the farm knew it, though no one would have dared to  sing it aloud

. It might be that their lives were hard and that not all of their hopes had been  fulfilled; but they were conscious that they were not as other animals. If they went hungry,  it was not from feeding tyrannical human beings; if they worked hard, at least they worked  for themselves. No creature among them went upon two legs. No creature called any other  creature "Master." All animals were equal. One day in early summer Squealer ordered  the sheep to follow him, and led them out to a piece of w

aste ground at the other end  of the farm, which had become overgrown with birch saplings. The sheep spent the whole day  there browsing at the leaves under Squealer's supervision. In the evening he returned to the  farmhouse himself, but, as it was warm weather, told the sheep to stay where they were. It  ended by their remaining there for a whole week, during which time the other animals saw nothing  of them. Squealer was with them for the greater part of every day. He was, he said, teaching t

hem  to sing a new song, for which privacy was needed. It was just after the sheep had  returned, on a pleasant evening when the animals had finished work and were  making their way back to the farm buildings, that the terrified neighing of a  horse sounded from the yard. Startled, the animals stopped in their tracks. It  was Clover's voice. She neighed again, and all the animals broke into a gallop and rushed  into the yard. Then they saw what Clover had seen. It was a pig walking on his hind l

egs. Yes, it was Squealer. A little awkwardly,  as though not quite used to supporting his considerable bulk in that position, but with  perfect balance, he was strolling across the yard. And a moment later, out from the door of the  farmhouse came a long file of pigs, all walking on their hind legs. Some did it better than  others, one or two were even a trifle unsteady and looked as though they would have liked the  support of a stick, but every one of them made his way right round the yard su

ccessfully. And  finally there was a tremendous baying of dogs and a shrill crowing from the black cockerel, and  out came Napoleon himself, majestically upright, casting haughty glances from side to side,  and with his dogs gambolling round him. He carried a whip in his trotter. There was a deadly silence. Amazed, terrified,  huddling together, the animals watched the long line of pigs march slowly round the  yard. It was as though the world had turned upside-down. Then there came a moment  whe

n the first shock had worn off and when, in spite of everything-in spite of their  terror of the dogs, and of the habit, developed through long years, of  never complaining, never criticising, no matter what happened—they might have uttered  some word of protest. But just at that moment, as though at a signal, all the sheep  burst out into a tremendous bleating of— "Four legs good, two legs BETTER! Four legs good,  two legs BETTER! Four legs good, two legs BETTER!" It went on for five minutes wi

thout stopping.  And by the time the sheep had quieted down, the chance to utter any protest had passed, for  the pigs had marched back into the farmhouse. Benjamin felt a nose nuzzling at his shoulder.  He looked round. It was Clover. Her old eyes looked dimmer than ever. Without saying  anything, she tugged gently at his mane and led him round to the end of the big  barn, where the Seven Commandments were written. For a minute or two they stood gazing  at the tatted wall with its white letteri

ng. "My sight is failing," she said finally.  "Even when I was young I could not have read what was written there. But it  appears to me that that wall looks different. Are the Seven Commandments  the same as they used to be, Benjamin?" For once Benjamin consented to break  his rule, and he read out to her what was written on the wall. There was nothing  there now except a single Commandment. It ran: ALL ANIMALS ARE EQUAL BUT SOME ANIMALS ARE MORE EQUAL THAN OTHERS After that it did not seem str

ange when next day  the pigs who were supervising the work of the farm all carried whips in their trotters.  It did not seem strange to learn that the pigs had bought themselves a wireless set, were  arranging to install a telephone, and had taken out subscriptions to 'John Bull', 'Tit-Bits', and  the 'Daily Mirror'. It did not seem strange when Napoleon was seen strolling in the farmhouse  garden with a pipe in his mouth—no, not even when the pigs took Mr. Jones's clothes out of  the wardrobes

and put them on, Napoleon himself appearing in a black coat, ratcatcher breeches,  and leather leggings, while his favourite sow appeared in the watered silk dress which Mrs.  Jones had been used to wearing on Sundays. A week later, in the afternoon, a number of  dog-carts drove up to the farm. A deputation of neighbouring farmers had been invited to make  a tour of inspection. They were shown all over the farm, and expressed great admiration for  everything they saw, especially the windmill. Th

e animals were weeding the turnip field. They  worked diligently hardly raising their faces from the ground, and not knowing whether to be more  frightened of the pigs or of the human visitors. That evening loud laughter and bursts of  singing came from the farmhouse. And suddenly, at the sound of the mingled voices, the animals  were stricken with curiosity. What could be happening in there, now that for the first time  animals and human beings were meeting on terms of equality? With one accord

they began to creep  as quietly as possible into the farmhouse garden. At the gate they paused, half frightened to go on  but Clover led the way in. They tiptoed up to the house, and such animals as were tall enough  peered in at the dining-room window. There, round the long table, sat half a dozen farmers and  half a dozen of the more eminent pigs, Napoleon himself occupying the seat of honour at the head  of the table. The pigs appeared completely at ease in their chairs. The company had been

enjoying a  game of cards but had broken off for the moment, evidently in order to drink a toast. A large  jug was circulating, and the mugs were being refilled with beer. No one noticed the wondering  faces of the animals that gazed in at the window. Mr. Pilkington, of Foxwood, had stood up,  his mug in his hand. In a moment, he said, he would ask the present company to  drink a toast. But before doing so, there were a few words that he  felt it incumbent upon him to say. It was a source of gr

eat satisfaction  to him, he said—and, he was sure, to all others present—to feel that a long period  of mistrust and misunderstanding had now come to an end. There had been a time—not that he, or  any of the present company, had shared such sentiments—but there had been a time when the  respected proprietors of Animal Farm had been regarded, he would not say with hostility, but  perhaps with a certain measure of misgiving, by their human neighbours. Unfortunate incidents  had occurred, mistaken

ideas had been current. It had been felt that the existence of a farm  owned and operated by pigs was somehow abnormal and was liable to have an unsettling effect in  the neighbourhood. Too many farmers had assumed, without due enquiry, that on such a farm a spirit  of licence and indiscipline would prevail. They had been nervous about the effects upon their own  animals, or even upon their human employees. But all such doubts were now dispelled. Today he and  his friends had visited Animal Far

m and inspected every inch of it with their own eyes, and what did  they find? Not only the most up-to-date methods, but a discipline and an orderliness which  should be an example to all farmers everywhere. He believed that he was right in saying that  the lower animals on Animal Farm did more work and received less food than any animals in the  county. Indeed, he and his fellow-visitors today had observed many features which they intended  to introduce on their own farms immediately. He would

end his remarks, he said, by emphasising  once again the friendly feelings that subsisted, and ought to subsist, between Animal Farm and  its neighbours. Between pigs and human beings there was not, and there need not be, any clash  of interests whatever. Their struggles and their difficulties were one. Was not the labour  problem the same everywhere? Here it became apparent that Mr. Pilkington was about to spring  some carefully prepared witticism on the company, but for a moment he was too ove

rcome by amusement  to be able to utter it. After much choking, during which his various chins turned purple, he managed  to get it out: "If you have your lower animals to contend with," he said, "we have our lower  classes!" This BON MOT set the table in a roar; and Mr. Pilkington once again congratulated the  pigs on the low rations, the long working hours, and the general absence of pampering  which he had observed on Animal Farm. And now, he said finally, he would ask  the company to rise to

their feet and make certain that their glasses were full.  "Gentlemen," concluded Mr. Pilkington, "gentlemen, I give you a toast:  To the prosperity of Animal Farm!" There was enthusiastic cheering and stamping  of feet. Napoleon was so gratified that he left his place and came round the  table to clink his mug against Mr. Pilkington's before emptying it. When  the cheering had died down, Napoleon, who had remained on his feet, intimated  that he too had a few words to say. Like all of Napoleon

's speeches, it was  short and to the point. He too, he said, was happy that the period of misunderstanding  was at an end. For a long time there had been rumours—circulated, he had reason to think, by  some malignant enemy—that there was something subversive and even revolutionary in the  outlook of himself and his colleagues. They had been credited with attempting to stir  up rebellion among the animals on neighbouring farms. Nothing could be further from the  truth! Their sole wish, now and i

n the past, was to live at peace and in normal business  relations with their neighbours. This farm which he had the honour to control, he added,  was a co-operative enterprise. The title-deeds, which were in his own possession,  were owned by the pigs jointly. He did not believe, he said, that any  of the old suspicions still lingered, but certain changes had been made recently in the  routine of the farm which should have the effect of promoting confidence still further. Hitherto  the animals

on the farm had had a rather foolish custom of addressing one another as "Comrade."  This was to be suppressed. There had also been a very strange custom, whose origin was unknown,  of marching every Sunday morning past a boar's skull which was nailed to a post in the garden.  This, too, would be suppressed, and the skull had already been buried. His visitors might have  observed, too, the green flag which flew from the masthead. If so, they would perhaps have noted  that the white hoof and horn

with which it had previously been marked had now been removed. It  would be a plain green flag from now onwards. He had only one criticism, he said, to make  of Mr. Pilkington's excellent and neighbourly speech. Mr. Pilkington had referred throughout to  "Animal Farm." He could not of course know—for he, Napoleon, was only now for the first time  announcing it—that the name "Animal Farm" had been abolished. Henceforward the farm  was to be known as "The Manor Farm"—which, he believed, was its c

orrect and original name. "Gentlemen," concluded Napoleon, "I will give you  the same toast as before, but in a different form. Fill your glasses to the brim. Gentlemen, here is  my toast: To the prosperity of The Manor Farm!" There was the same hearty cheering as before,  and the mugs were emptied to the dregs. But as the animals outside gazed at the scene, it seemed  to them that some strange thing was happening. What was it that had altered in the faces of the  pigs? Clover's old dim eyes fli

tted from one face to another. Some of them had five chins, some had  four, some had three. But what was it that seemed to be melting and changing? Then, the applause  having come to an end, the company took up their cards and continued the game that had been  interrupted, and the animals crept silently away. But they had not gone twenty yards when  they stopped short. An uproar of voices was coming from the farmhouse. They rushed  back and looked through the window again. Yes, a violent quarrel

was in progress. There  were shoutings, bangings on the table, sharp suspicious glances, furious denials.  The source of the trouble appeared to be that Napoleon and Mr. Pilkington had each  played an ace of spades simultaneously. Twelve voices were shouting in anger, and  they were all alike. No question, now, what had happened to the faces of the pigs. The  creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but  already it was impossible to say which was

which. The End. Thank you for listening. If you like our recordings consider liking  this video and subscribing to our channel, so you don't miss any more audiobooks.