Animal Farm

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 special  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, 

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Never 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. 

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 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 clearly 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 Sunday  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 would 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  others.  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 All 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 often 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! 

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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

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immediately, and  fresh  precautions  for Napoleon'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 hold  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 said, 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 Hero7 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 implements, 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 that 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 special  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

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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−in 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. Smiling 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 down  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 treacherous 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 through 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  already  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  day before,  returned,

one of them  bearing a  scrap of paper from Pilkington. On  it was  pencilled the words: "Serves you right." 

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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 were 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 wounded. 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  ferociously, 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 the 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. 

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"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 what 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 celebrations. 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. But  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, and 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  somewhat 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

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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." 

IX

B

OXER'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 take 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  barley, 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 rations 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 comparison  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

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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 the 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 which 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 gallon 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  time 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  honour,  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  large 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. 

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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 leader  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  wings, 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 hedges. 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 harder  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 used 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  Benjamin 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:  "Boxer  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." 

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"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 Benjamin7 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 little 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 and

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

three  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 began 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. 

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"Boxer!" cried Clover in a terrible voice. "Boxer! Get out! Get out  quickly! They're taking you to your

death!" 

All the 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 in 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 another 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 proceeded. 

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  their  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 farmhouse 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. 

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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. 

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 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 actually  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  Rebellion  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  bought 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, endless 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;

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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 things  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  animals.  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 waste

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 them 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 legs. 

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 successfully.  And finally  there was a tremendous  baying of

dogs and  a shrill crowing from  the  black  cockerel,  and  out  came  Napoleon  himself,  majestically upright,

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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  when 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  without 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  lettering. 

"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  strange 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, TitBits, 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 wear on Sundays. 

A week later, in the  afternoon, a number of dogcarts  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. The 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. 

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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 great  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 Farm  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 overcome 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  in  the  past,  was to live

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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  stiff  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 correct  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 flitted 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. 

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Document Outline

• Table of Contents
• Animal Farm
  • George Orwell
  • I
  • II
  • III
  • IV
  • V
  • VI
  • VII
  • VIII
  • IX
  • X