Animal Farm

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 farm 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−fashioned  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 mass 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

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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  this  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 was

noticed that  they  wagged their tails  to him  in the same  way as the other dogs had been  used to do to Mr.

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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 pigs, 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 again.  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 was 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

had 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

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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 third  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  of 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 laugh. 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. 

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 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 pack 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 the  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. There 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 joined 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. 

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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, which 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 Sunday 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 first 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

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faintly  doubtful, but Squealer asked them  shrewdly, "Are you certain that this  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 was  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 animals  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  definite 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  Clover, 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  enough,  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

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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  plentiful, 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 half−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  terrible 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  tail

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  traitor 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 should 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.  This 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,

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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!" 

VII

I

T 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 destroyer 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  i.ne  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 speeches 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 resorted  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  bins 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  Napoleon 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 surrender

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. 

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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 take 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 should

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  Snowball.  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,  unable 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 distinctly!" 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 most  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,

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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  the 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  they 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 formulate 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 animals 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 battle 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! " 

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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  pinned 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  secreted 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 lying  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 terrible,  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,

who 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." 

 Animal Farm

VII

25

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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  drinking 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 tears. 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 his  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  than 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