George Orwell - Animal Farm


MR. JONES, of the Manor Farm, had locked the hen-houses for the night,
but was too drunk to remember to shut the popholes. With the ring of light
from his lantern dancing from side to side, he lurched across the yard,
kicked off his boots at the back door, drew himself a last glass of beer
from the barrel in the scullery, and made his way up to bed, where Mrs.
Jones was already snoring.
As soon as the light in the bedroom went out there was a stirring and
a fluttering all through the farm buildings. Word had gone round during the
day that old Major, the prize Middle White boar, had had a strange dream on
the previous night and wished to communicate it to the other animals. It
had been agreed that they should all meet in the big barn as soon as Mr.
Jones was safely out of the way. Old Major (so he was always called, though
the name under which he had been exhibited was Willingdon Beauty) was so
highly regarded on the farm that everyone was quite ready to lose an hour's
sleep in order to hear what he had to say.
At one end of the big barn, on a sort of raised platform, Major was
already ensconced on his bed of straw, under a lantern which hung from a
beam. He was twelve years old and had lately grown rather stout, but he was
still a majestic-looking pig, with a wise and benevolent appearance in
spite of the fact that his tushes had never been cut. Before long the other
animals began to arrive and make themselves comfortable after their
different fashions. First came the three dogs, Bluebell, Jessie, and
Pincher, and then the pigs, who settled down in the straw immediately in
front of the platform. The hens perched themselves on the window-sills, the
pigeons fluttered up to the rafters, the sheep and cows lay down behind the
pigs and began to chew the cud. The two cart-horses, Boxer and Clover, came
in together, walking very slowly and setting down their vast hairy hoofs
with great care lest there should be some small animal concealed in the
straw. Clover was a stout motherly mare approaching middle life, who had
never quite got her figure back after her fourth foal. Boxer was an
enormous beast, nearly eighteen hands high, and as strong as any two
ordinary horses put together. A white stripe down his nose gave him a
somewhat stupid appearance, and in fact he was not of first-rate
intelligence, but he was universally respected for his steadiness of
character and tremendous powers of work. After the horses came Muriel, the
white goat, and Benjamin, the donkey. Benjamin was the oldest animal on the
farm, and the worst tempered. He seldom talked, and when he did, it was
usually to make some cynical remark—for instance, he would say that God had
given him a tail to keep the flies off, but that he would sooner have had
no tail and no flies. Alone among the animals on the farm he never laughed.
If asked why, he would say that he saw nothing to laugh at. Nevertheless,
without openly admitting it, he was devoted to Boxer; the two of them
usually spent their Sundays together in the small paddock beyond the
orchard, grazing side by side and never speaking.
The two horses had just lain down when a brood of ducklings, which had
lost their mother, filed into the barn, cheeping feebly and wandering from
side to side to find some place where they would not be trodden on. Clover
made a sort of wall round them with her great foreleg, and the ducklings
nestled down inside it and promptly fell asleep. At the last moment Mollie,
the foolish, pretty white mare who drew Mr. Jones's trap, came mincing
daintily in, chewing at a lump of sugar. She took a place near the front
and began flirting her white mane, hoping to draw attention to the red
ribbons it was plaited with. Last of all came the cat, who looked round, as
usual, for the warmest place, and finally squeezed herself in between Boxer
and Clover; there she purred contentedly throughout Major's speech without
listening to a word of what he was saying.
All the animals were now present except Moses, the tame raven, who
slept on a perch behind the back door. When Major saw that they had all
made themselves comfortable and were waiting attentively, he cleared his
throat and began:
"Comrades, you have heard already about the strange dream that I had
last night. But I will come to the dream later. I have something else to
say first. I do not think, comrades, that I shall be with you for many
months longer, and before I die, I feel it my duty to pass on to you such
wisdom as I have acquired. I have had a long life, I have had much time for
thought as I lay alone in my stall, and I think I may say that I understand
the nature of life on this earth as well as any animal now living. It is
about this that I wish to speak to you.
"Now, comrades, what is the nature of this life of ours? Let us face
it: our lives are miserable, laborious, and short. We are born, we are
given just so much food as will keep the breath in our bodies, and those of
us who are capable of it are forced to work to the last atom of our
strength; and the very instant that our usefulness has come to an end we
are slaughtered with hideous cruelty. No animal in England knows the
meaning of happiness or leisure after he is a year old. No animal in
England is free. The life of an animal is misery and slavery: that is the
plain truth.
"But is this simply part of the order of nature? Is it because this
land of ours is so poor that it cannot afford a decent life to those who
dwell upon it? No, comrades, a thousand times no! The soil of England is
fertile, its climate is good, it is capable of affording food in abundance
to an enormously greater number of animals than now inhabit it. This single
farm of ours would support a dozen horses, twenty cows, hundreds of
sheep—and all of them living in a comfort and a dignity that are now almost
beyond our imagining. Why then do we continue in this miserable condition?
Because nearly the whole of the produce of our labour is stolen from us by
human beings. There, comrades, is the answer to all our problems. It is
summed up in a single word—Man. Man is the only real enemy we have. Remove
Man from the scene, and the root cause of hunger and overwork is abolished
for ever.
"Man is the only creature that consumes without producing. He does not
give milk, he does not lay eggs, he is too weak to pull the plough, he
cannot run fast enough to catch rabbits. Yet he is lord of all the animals.
He sets them to work, he gives back to them the bare minimum that will
prevent them from starving, and the rest he keeps for himself. Our labour
tills the soil, our dung fertilises it, and yet there is not one of us that
owns more than his bare skin. You cows that I see before me, how many
thousands of gallons of milk have you given during this last year? And what
has happened to that milk which should have been breeding up sturdy calves?
Every drop of it has gone down the throats of our enemies. And you hens,
how many eggs have you laid in this last year, and how many of those eggs
ever hatched into chickens? The rest have all gone to market to bring in
money for Jones and his men. And you, Clover, where are those four foals
you bore, who should have been the support and pleasure of your old age?
Each was sold at a year old—you will never see one of them again. In return
for your four confinements and all your labour in the fields, what have you
ever had except your bare rations and a stall?
"And even the miserable lives we lead are not allowed to reach their
natural span. For myself I do not grumble, for I am one of the lucky ones.
I am twelve years old and have had over four hundred children. Such is the
natural life of a pig. But no animal escapes the cruel knife in the end.
You young porkers who are sitting in front of me, every one of you will
scream your lives out at the block within a year. To that horror we all
must come—cows, pigs, hens, sheep, everyone. Even the horses and the dogs
have no better fate. You, Boxer, the very day that those great muscles of
yours lose their power, Jones will sell you to the knacker, who will cut
your throat and boil you down for the foxhounds. As for the dogs, when they
grow old and toothless, Jones ties a brick round their necks and drowns
them in the nearest pond.
"Is it not crystal clear, then, comrades, that all the evils of this
life of ours spring from the tyranny of human beings? Only get rid of Man,
and the produce of our labour would be our own. A1most overnight we could
become rich and free. What then must we do? Why, work night and day, body
and soul, for the overthrow of the human race! That is my message to you,
comrades: Rebellion! I do not know when that Rebellion will come, it might
be in a week or in a hundred years, but I know, as surely as I see this
straw beneath my feet, that sooner or later justice will be done. Fix your
eyes on that, comrades, throughout the short remainder of your lives! And
above all, pass on this message of mine to those who come after you, so
that future generations shall carry on the struggle until it is victorious.
"And remember, comrades, your resolution must never falter. No
argument must lead you astray. Never listen when they tell you that Man and
the animals have a common interest, that the prosperity of the one is the
prosperity of the others. It is all lies. Man serves the interests of no
creature except himself. And among us animals let there be perfect unity,
perfect comradeship in the struggle. All men are enemies. All animals are
At this moment there was a tremendous uproar. While Major was speaking
four large rats had crept out of their holes and were sitting on their
hindquarters, listening to him. The dogs had suddenly caught sight of them,
and it was only by a swift dash for their holes that the rats saved their
lives. Major raised his trotter for silence.
"Comrades," he said, "here is a point that must be settled. The wild
creatures, such as rats and rabbits—are they our friends or our enemies?
Let us put it to the vote. I propose this question to the meeting: Are rats
The vote was taken at once, and it was agreed by an overwhelming
majority that rats were comrades. There were only four dissentients, the
three dogs and the cat, who was afterwards discovered to have voted on both
sides. Major continued:
"I have little more to say. I merely repeat, remember always your duty
of enmity towards Man and all his ways. Whatever goes upon two legs is an
enemy. Whatever goes upon four legs, or has wings, is a friend. And
remember also that in fighting against Man, we must not come to resemble
him. Even when you have conquered him, do not adopt his vices. No animal
must ever live in a house, or sleep in a bed, or wear clothes, or drink
alcohol, or smoke tobacco, or touch money, or engage in trade. All the
habits of Man are evil. And, above all, no animal must ever tyrannise over
his own kind. Weak or strong, clever or simple, we are all brothers. No
animal must ever kill any other animal. All animals are equal.
"And now, comrades, I will tell you about my dream of last night. I
cannot describe that dream to you. It was a dream of the earth as it will
be when Man has vanished. But it reminded me of something that I had long
forgotten. Many years ago, when I was a little pig, my mother and the other
sows used to sing an old song of which they knew only the tune and the
first three words. I had known that tune in my infancy, but it had long
since passed out of my mind. Last night, however, it came back to me in my
dream. And what is more, the words of the song also came back—words, I am
certain, which were sung by the animals of long ago and have been lost to
memory for generations. I will sing you that song now, comrades. I am old
and my voice is hoarse, but when I have taught you the tune, you can sing
it better for yourselves. It is called Beasts of England."
Old Major cleared his throat and began to sing. As he had said, his
voice was hoarse, but he sang well enough, and it was a stirring tune,
something between Clementine and La Cucaracha. The words ran:

Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland,
Beasts of every land and clime,
Hearken to my joyful tidings
Of the golden future time.

Soon or late the day is coming,
Tyrant Man shall be o'erthrown,
And the fruitful fields of England
Shall be trod by beasts alone.

Rings shall vanish from our noses,
And the harness from our back,
Bit and spur shall rust forever,
Cruel whips no more shall crack.

Riches more than mind can picture,
Wheat and barley, oats and hay,
Clover, beans, and mangel-wurzels
Shall be ours upon that day.

Bright will shine the fields of England,
Purer shall its waters be,
Sweeter yet shall blow its breezes
On the day that sets us free.

For that day we all must labour,
Though we die before it break;
Cows and horses, geese and turkeys,
All must toil for freedom's sake.

Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland,
Beasts of every land and clime,
Hearken well and spread my tidings
Of the golden future time.

The singing of this song threw the animals into the wildest
excitement. Almost before Major had reached the end, they had begun singing
it for themselves. Even the stupidest of them had already picked up the
tune and a few of the words, and as for the clever ones, such as the pigs
and dogs, they had the entire song by heart within a few minutes. And then,
after a few preliminary tries, the whole farm burst out into Beasts of
England in tremendous unison. The cows lowed it, the dogs whined it, the
sheep bleated it, the horses whinnied it, the ducks quacked it. They were
so delighted with the song that they sang it right through five times in
succession, and might have continued singing it all night if they had not
been interrupted.
Unfortunately, the uproar awoke Mr. Jones, who sprang out of bed,
making sure that there was a fox in the yard. He seized the gun which
always stood in a corner of his bedroom, and let fly a charge of number 6
shot into the darkness. The pellets buried themselves in the wall of the
barn and the meeting broke up hurriedly. Everyone fled to his own
sleeping-place. The birds jumped on to their perches, the animals settled
down in the straw, and the whole farm was asleep in a moment.


THREE nights later old Major died peacefully in his sleep. His body
was buried at the foot of the orchard.
This was early in March. During the next three months there was much
secret activity. Major's speech had given to the more intelligent animals
on the farm a completely new outlook on life. They did not know when the
Rebellion predicted by Major would take place, they had no reason for
thinking that it would be within their own lifetime, but they saw clearly
that it was their duty to prepare for it. The work of teaching and
organising the others fell naturally upon the pigs, who were generally
recognised as being the cleverest of the animals. Pre-eminent among the
pigs were two young boars named Snowball and Napoleon, whom Mr. Jones was
breeding up for sale. Napoleon was a large, rather fierce-looking Berkshire
boar, the only Berkshire on the farm, not much of a talker, but with a
reputation for getting his own way. Snowball was a more vivacious pig than
Napoleon, quicker in speech and more inventive, but was not considered to
have the same depth of character. All the other male pigs on the farm were
porkers. The best known among them was a small fat pig named Squealer, with
very round cheeks, twinkling eyes, nimble movements, and a shrill voice. He
was a brilliant talker, and when he was arguing some difficult point he had
a way of skipping from side to side and whisking his tail which was somehow
very persuasive. The others said of Squealer that he could turn black into
These three had elaborated old Major's teachings into a complete
system of thought, to which they gave the name of Animalism. Several nights
a week, after Mr. Jones was asleep, they held secret meetings in the barn
and expounded the principles of Animalism to the others. At the beginning
they met with much stupidity and apathy. Some of the animals talked of the
duty of loyalty to Mr. Jones, whom they referred to as "Master," or made
elementary remarks such as "Mr. Jones feeds us. If he were gone, we should
starve to death." Others asked such questions as "Why should we care what
happens after we are dead?" or "If this Rebellion is to happen anyway, what
difference does it make whether we work for it or not?", and the pigs had
great difficulty in making them see that this was contrary to the spirit of
Animalism. The stupidest questions of all were asked by Mollie, the white
mare. The very first question she asked Snowball was: "Will there still be
sugar after the Rebellion? "
"No," said Snowball firmly. "We have no means of making sugar on this
farm. Besides, you do not need sugar. You will have all the oats and hay
you want."
"And shall I still be allowed to wear ribbons in my mane?" asked
"Comrade," said Snowball, "those ribbons that you are so devoted to
are the badge of slavery. Can you not understand that liberty is worth more
than ribbons? "
Mollie agreed, but she did not sound very convinced.
The pigs had an even harder struggle to counteract the lies put about
by Moses, the tame raven. Moses, who was Mr. Jones's especial pet, was a
spy and a tale-bearer, but he was also a clever talker. He claimed to know
of the existence of a mysterious country called Sugarcandy Mountain, to
which all animals went when they died. It was situated somewhere up in the
sky, a little distance beyond the clouds, Moses said. In Sugarcandy
Mountain it was Sunday seven days a week, clover was in season all the year
round, and lump sugar and linseed cake grew on the hedges. The animals
hated Moses because he told tales and did no work, but some of them
believed in Sugarcandy Mountain, and the pigs had to argue very hard to
persuade them that there was no such place.
Their most faithful disciples were the two cart-horses, Boxer and
Clover. These two had great difficulty in thinking anything out for
themselves, but having once accepted the pigs as their teachers, they
absorbed everything that they were told, and passed it on to the other
animals by simple arguments. They were unfailing in their attendance at the
secret meetings in the barn, and led the singing of Beasts of England, with
which the meetings always ended.
Now, as it turned out, the Rebellion was achieved much earlier and
more easily than anyone had expected. In past years Mr. Jones, although a
hard master, had been a capable farmer, but of late he had fallen on evil
days. He had become much disheartened after losing money in a lawsuit, and
had taken to drinking more than was good for him. For whole days at a time
he would lounge in his Windsor chair in the kitchen, reading the
newspapers, drinking, and occasionally feeding Moses on crusts of bread
soaked in beer. His men were idle and dishonest, the fields were full of
weeds, the buildings wanted roofing, the hedges were neglected, and the
animals were underfed.
June came and the hay was almost ready for cutting. On Midsummer's
Eve, which was a Saturday, Mr. Jones went into Willingdon and got so drunk
at the Red Lion that he did not come back till midday on Sunday. The men
had milked the cows in the early morning and then had gone out rabbiting,
without bothering to feed the animals. When Mr. Jones got back he
immediately went to sleep on the drawing-room sofa with the News of the
World over his face, so that when evening came, the animals were still
unfed. At last they could stand it no longer. One of the cows broke in the
door of the store-shed with her horn and all the animals began to help
themselves from the bins. It was just then that Mr. Jones woke up. The next
moment he and his four men were in the store-shed with whips in their
hands, lashing out in all directions. This was more than the hungry animals
could bear. With one accord, though nothing of the kind had been planned
beforehand, they flung themselves upon their tormentors. Jones and his men
suddenly found themselves being butted and kicked from all sides. The
situation was quite out of their control. They had never seen animals
behave like this before, and this sudden uprising of creatures whom they
were used to thrashing and maltreating just as they chose, frightened them
almost out of their wits. After only a moment or two they gave up trying to
defend themselves and took to their heels. A minute later all five of them
were in full flight down the cart-track that led to the main road, with the
animals pursuing them in triumph.
Mrs. Jones looked out of the bedroom window, saw what was happening,
hurriedly flung a few possessions into a carpet bag, and slipped out of the
farm by another way. Moses sprang off his perch and flapped after her,
croaking loudly. Meanwhile the animals had chased Jones and his men out on
to the road and slammed the five-barred gate behind them. And so, almost
before they knew what was happening, the Rebellion had been successfully
carried through: Jones was expelled, and the Manor Farm was theirs.
For the first few minutes the animals could hardly believe in their
good fortune. Their first act was to gallop in a body right round the
boundaries of the farm, as though to make quite sure that no human being
was hiding anywhere upon it; then they raced back to the farm buildings to
wipe out the last traces of Jones's hated reign. The harness-room at the
end of the stables was broken open; the bits, the nose-rings, the
dog-chains, the cruel knives with which Mr. Jones had been used to castrate
the pigs and lambs, were all flung down the well. The reins, the halters,
the blinkers, the degrading nosebags, were thrown on to the rubbish fire
which was burning in the yard. So were the whips. All the animals capered
with joy when they saw the whips going up in flames. Snowball also threw on
to the fire the ribbons with which the horses' manes and tails had usually
been decorated on market days.
"Ribbons," he said, "should be considered as clothes, which are the
mark of a human being. All animals should go naked."
When Boxer heard this he fetched the small straw hat which he wore in
summer to keep the flies out of his ears, and flung it on to the fire with
the rest.
In a very little while the animals had destroyed everything that
reminded them of Mr. Jones. Napoleon then led them back to the store-shed
and served out a double ration of corn to everybody, with two biscuits for
each dog. Then they sang Beasts of England from end to end seven times
running, and after that they settled down for the night and slept as they
had never slept before.
But they woke at dawn as usual, and suddenly remembering the glorious
thing that had happened, they all raced out into the pasture together. A
little way down the pasture there was a knoll that commanded a view of most
of the farm. The animals rushed to the top of it and gazed round them in
the clear morning light. Yes, it was theirs—everything that they could see
was theirs! In the ecstasy of that thought they gambolled round and round,
they hurled themselves into the air in great leaps of excitement. They
rolled in the dew, they cropped mouthfuls of the sweet summer grass, they
kicked up clods of the black earth and snuffed its rich scent. Then they
made a tour of inspection of the whole farm and surveyed with speechless
admiration the ploughland, the hayfield, the orchard, the pool, the
spinney. It was as though they had never seen these things before, and even
now they could hardly believe that it was all their own.
Then they filed back to the farm buildings and halted in silence
outside the door of the farmhouse. That was theirs too, but they were
frightened to go inside. After a moment, however, Snowball and Napoleon
butted the door open with their shoulders and the animals entered in single
file, walking with the utmost care for fear of disturbing anything. They
tiptoed from room to room, afraid to speak above a whisper and gazing with
a kind of awe at the unbelievable luxury, at the beds with their feather
mattresses, the looking-glasses, the horsehair sofa, the Brussels carpet,
the lithograph of Queen Victoria over the drawing-room mantelpiece. They
were lust coming down the stairs when Mollie was discovered to be missing.
Going back, the others found that she had remained behind in the best
bedroom. She had taken a piece of blue ribbon from Mrs. Jones's
dressing-table, and was holding it against her shoulder and admiring
herself in the glass in a very foolish manner. The others reproached her
sharply, and they went outside. Some hams hanging in the kitchen were taken
out for burial, and the barrel of beer in the scullery was stove in with a
kick from Boxer's hoof,—otherwise nothing in the house was touched. A
unanimous resolution was passed on the spot that the farmhouse should be
preserved as a museum. All were agreed that no animal must ever live there.
The animals had their breakfast, and then Snowball and Napoleon called
them together again.
"Comrades," said Snowball, "it is half-past six and we have a long day
before us. Today we begin the hay harvest. But there is another matter that
must be attended to first."
The pigs now revealed that during the past three months they had
taught themselves to read and write from an old spelling book which had
belonged to Mr. Jones's children and which had been thrown on the rubbish
heap. Napoleon sent for pots of black and white paint and led the way down
to the five-barred gate that gave on to the main road. Then Snowball (for
it was Snowball who was best at writing) took a brush between the two
knuckles of his trotter, painted out MANOR FARM from the top bar of the
gate and in its place painted ANIMAL FARM. This was to be the name of the
farm from now onwards. After this they went back to the farm buildings,
where Snowball and Napoleon sent for a ladder which they caused to be set
against the end wall of the big barn. They explained that by their studies
of the past three months the pigs had succeeded in reducing the principles
of Animalism to Seven Commandments. These Seven Commandments would now be
inscribed on the wall; they would form an unalterable law by which all the
animals on Animal Farm must live for ever after. With some difficulty (for
it is not easy for a pig to balance himself on a ladder) Snowball climbed
up and set to work, with Squealer a few rungs below him holding the
paint-pot. The Commandments were written on the tarred wall in great white
letters that could be read thirty yards away. They ran thus:


1. Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy.
2. Whatever goes upon four legs, or has wings, is a friend.
3. No animal shall wear clothes.
4. No animal shall sleep in a bed.
5. No animal shall drink alcohol.
6. No animal shall kill any other animal.
7. All animals are equal.

It was very neatly written, and except that "friend" was written
"freind" and one of the "S's" was the wrong way round, the spelling was
correct all the way through. Snowball read it aloud for the benefit of the
others. All the animals nodded in complete agreement, and the cleverer ones
at once began to learn the Commandments by heart.
"Now, comrades," cried Snowball, throwing down the paint-brush, "to
the hayfield! Let us make it a point of honour to get in the harvest more
quickly than Jones and his men could do."
But at this moment the three cows, who had seemed uneasy for some time
past, set up a loud lowing. They had not been milked for twenty-four hours,
and their udders were almost bursting. After a little thought, the pigs
sent for buckets and milked the cows fairly successfully, their trotters
being well adapted to this task. Soon there were five buckets of frothing
creamy milk at which many of the animals looked with considerable interest.
"What is going to happen to all that milk?" said someone.
"Jones used sometimes to mix some of it in our mash," said one of the
"Never mind the milk, comrades!" cried Napoleon, placing himself in
front of the buckets. "That will be attended to. The harvest is more
important. Comrade Snowball will lead the way. I shall follow in a few
minutes. Forward, comrades! The hay is waiting."
So the animals trooped down to the hayfield to begin the harvest, and
when they came back in the evening it was noticed that the milk had


HOW they toiled and sweated to get the hay in! But their efforts were
rewarded, for the harvest was an even bigger success than they had hoped.
Sometimes the work was hard; the implements had been designed for
human beings and not for animals, and it was a great drawback that no
animal was able to use any tool that involved standing on his hind legs.
But the pigs were so clever that they could think of a way round every
difficulty. As for the horses, they knew every inch of the field, and in
fact understood the business of mowing and raking far better than Jones and
his men had ever done. The pigs did not actually work, but directed and
supervised the others. With their superior knowledge it was natural that
they should assume the leadership. Boxer and Clover would harness
themselves to the cutter or the horse-rake (no bits or reins were needed in
these days, of course) and tramp steadily round and round the field with a
pig walking behind and calling out "Gee up, comrade!" or "Whoa back,
comrade!" as the case might be. And every animal down to the humblest
worked at turning the hay and gathering it. Even the ducks and hens toiled
to and fro all day in the sun, carrying tiny wisps of hay in their beaks.
In the end they finished the harvest in two days' less time than it had
usually taken Jones and his men. Moreover, it was the biggest harvest that
the farm had ever seen. There was no wastage whatever; the hens and ducks
with their sharp eyes had gathered up the very last stalk. And not an
animal on the farm had stolen so much as a mouthful.
All through that summer the work of the farm went like clockwork. The
animals were happy as they had never conceived it possible to be. Every
mouthful of food was an acute positive pleasure, now that it was truly
their own food, produced by themselves and for themselves, not doled out to
them by a grudging master. With the worthless parasitical human beings
gone, there was more for everyone to eat. There was more leisure too,
inexperienced though the animals were. They met with many difficulties—for
instance, later in the year, when they harvested the corn, they had to
tread it out in the ancient style and blow away the chaff with their
breath, since the farm possessed no threshing machine—but the pigs with
their cleverness and Boxer with his tremendous muscles always pulled them
through. Boxer was the admiration of everybody. He had been a hard worker
even in Jones's time, but now he seemed more like three horses than one;
there were days when the entire work of the farm seemed to rest on his
mighty shoulders. From morning to night he was pushing and pulling, always
at the spot where the work was hardest. He had made an arrangement with one
of the cockerels to call him in the mornings half an hour earlier than
anyone else, and would put in some volunteer labour at whatever seemed to
be most needed, before the regular day's work began. His answer to every
problem, every setback, was "I will work harder!"—which he had adopted as
his personal motto.
But everyone worked according to his capacity The hens and ducks, for
instance, saved five bushels of corn at the harvest by gathering up the
stray grains. Nobody stole, nobody grumbled over his rations, the
quarrelling and biting and jealousy which had been normal features of life
in the old days had almost disappeared. Nobody shirked—or almost nobody.
Mollie, it was true, was not good at getting up in the mornings, and had a
way of leaving work early on the ground that there was a stone in her hoof.
And the behaviour of the cat was somewhat peculiar. It was soon noticed
that when there was work to be done the cat could never be found. She would
vanish for hours on end, and then reappear at meal-times, or in the evening
after work was over, as though nothing had happened. But she always made
such excellent excuses, and purred so affectionately, that it was
impossible not to believe in her good intentions. Old Benjamin, the donkey,
seemed quite unchanged since the Rebellion. He did his work in the same
slow obstinate way as he had done it in Jones's time, never shirking and
never volunteering for extra work either. About the Rebellion and its
results he would express no opinion. When asked whether he was not happier
now that Jones was gone, he would say only "Donkeys live a long time. None
of you has ever seen a dead donkey," and the others had to be content with
this cryptic answer.
On Sundays there was no work. Breakfast was an hour later than usual,
and after breakfast there was a ceremony which was observed every week
without fail. First came the hoisting of the flag. Snowball had found in
the harness-room an old green tablecloth of Mrs. Jones's and had painted on
it a hoof and a horn in white. This was run up the flagstaff in the
farmhouse garden every Sunday 8, morning. The flag was green, Snowball
explained, to represent the green fields of England, while the hoof and
horn signified the future Republic of the Animals which would arise when
the human race had been finally overthrown. After the hoisting of the flag
all the animals trooped into the big barn for a general assembly which was
known as the Meeting. Here the work of the coming week was planned out and
resolutions were put forward and debated. It was always the pigs who put
forward the resolutions. The other animals understood how to vote, but
could never think of any resolutions of their own. Snowball and Napoleon
were by far the most active in the debates. But it was noticed that these
two were never in agreement: whatever suggestion either of them made, the
other could be counted on to oppose it. Even when it was resolved—a thing
no one could object to in itself—to set aside the small paddock behind the
orchard as a home of rest for animals who were past work, there was a
stormy debate over the correct retiring age for each class of animal. The
Meeting always ended with the singing of Beasts of England, and the
afternoon was given up to recreation.
The pigs had set aside the harness-room as a headquarters for
themselves. Here, in the evenings, they studied blacksmithing,
carpentering, and other necessary arts from books which they had brought
out of the farmhouse. Snowball also busied himself with organising the
other animals into what he called Animal Committees. He was indefatigable
at this. He formed the Egg Production Committee for the hens, the Clean
Tails League for the cows, the Wild Comrades' Re-education Committee (the
object of this was to tame the rats and rabbits), the Whiter Wool Movement
for the sheep, and various others, besides instituting classes in reading
and writing. On the whole, these projects were a failure. The attempt to
tame the wild creatures, for instance, broke down almost immediately. They
continued to behave very much as before, and when treated with generosity,
simply took advantage of it. The cat joined the Re-education Committee and
was very active in it for some days. She was seen one day sitting on a roof
and talking to some sparrows who were just out of her reach. She was
telling them that all animals were now comrades and that any sparrow who
chose could come and perch on her paw; but the sparrows kept their
The reading and writing classes, however, were a great success. By the
autumn almost every animal on the farm was literate in some degree.
As for the pigs, they could already read and write perfectly. The dogs
learned to read fairly well, but were not interested in reading anything
except the Seven Commandments. Muriel, the goat, could read somewhat better
than the dogs, and sometimes used to read to the others in the evenings
from scraps of newspaper which she found on the rubbish heap. Benjamin
could read as well as any pig, but never exercised his faculty. So far as
he knew, he said, there was nothing worth reading. Clover learnt the whole
alphabet, but could not put words together. Boxer could not get beyond the
letter D. He would trace out A, B, C, D, in the dust with his great hoof,
and then would stand staring at the letters with his ears back, sometimes
shaking his forelock, trying with all his might to remember what came next
and never succeeding. On several occasions, indeed, he did learn E, F, G,
H, but by the time he knew them, it was always discovered that he had
forgotten A, B, C, and D. Finally he decided to be content with the first
four letters, and used to write them out once or twice every day to refresh
his memory. Mollie refused to learn any but the six letters which spelt her
own name. She would form these very neatly out of pieces of twig, and would
then decorate them with a flower or two and walk round them admiring them.
None of the other animals on the farm could get further than the
letter A. It was also found that the stupider animals, such as the sheep,
hens, and ducks, were unable to learn the Seven Commandments by heart.
After much thought Snowball declared that the Seven Commandments could in
effect be reduced to a single maxim, namely: "Four legs good, two legs
bad." This, he said, contained the essential principle of Animalism.
Whoever had thoroughly grasped it would be safe from human influences. The
birds at first objected, since it seemed to them that they also had two
legs, but Snowball proved to them that this was not so.
"A bird's wing, comrades," he said, "is an organ of propulsion and not
of manipulation. It should therefore be regarded as a leg. The
distinguishing mark of man is the hand, the instrument with which he does
all his mischief."
The birds did not understand Snowball's long words, but they accepted
his explanation, and all the humbler animals set to work to learn the new
maxim by heart. FOUR LEGS GOOD, TWO LEGS BAD, was inscribed on the end wall
of the barn, above the Seven Commandments and in bigger letters When they
had once got it by heart, the sheep developed a great liking for this
maxim, and often as they lay in the field they would all start bleating
"Four legs good, two legs bad! Four legs good, two legs bad!" and keep it
up for hours on end, never growing tired of it.
Napoleon took no interest in Snowball's committees. He said that the
education of the young was more important than anything that could be done
for those who were already grown up. It happened that Jessie and Bluebell
had both whelped soon after the hay harvest, giving birth between them to
nine sturdy puppies. As soon as they were weaned, Napoleon took them away
from their mothers, saying that he would make himself responsible for their
education. He took them up into a loft which could only be reached by a
ladder from the harness-room, and there kept them in such seclusion that
the rest of the farm soon forgot their existence.
The mystery of where the milk went to was soon cleared up. It was
mixed every day into the pigs' mash. The early apples were now ripening,
and the grass of the orchard was littered with windfalls. The animals had
assumed as a matter of course that these would be shared out equally; one
day, however, the order went forth that all the windfalls were to be
collected and brought to the harness-room for the use of the pigs. At this
some of the other animals murmured, but it was no use. All the pigs were in
full agreement on this point, even Snowball and Napoleon. Squealer was sent
to make the necessary explanations to the others.
"Comrades!" he cried. "You do not imagine, I hope, that we pigs are
doing this in a spirit of selfishness and privilege? Many of us actually
dislike milk and apples. I dislike them myself. Our sole object in taking
these things is to preserve our health. Milk and apples (this has been
proved by Science, comrades) contain substances absolutely necessary to the
well-being of a pig. We pigs are brainworkers. The whole management and
organisation of this farm depend on us. Day and night we are watching over
your welfare. It is for your sake that we drink that milk and eat those
apples. Do you know what would happen if we pigs failed in our duty? Jones
would come back! Yes, Jones would come back! Surely, comrades," cried
Squealer almost pleadingly, skipping from side to side and whisking his
tail, "surely there is no one among you who wants to see Jones come back?"
Now if there was one thing that the animals were completely certain
of, it was that they did not want Jones back. When it was put to them in
this light, they had no more to say. The importance of keeping the pigs in
good health was all too obvious. So it was agreed without further argument
that the milk and the windfall apples (and also the main crop of apples
when they ripened) should be reserved for the pigs alone.


BY THE late summer the news of what had happened on Animal Farm had
spread across half the county. Every day Snowball and Napoleon sent out
flights of pigeons whose instructions were to mingle with the animals on
neighbouring farms, tell them the story of the Rebellion, and teach them
the tune of Beasts of England.
Most of this time Mr. Jones had spent sitting in the taproom of the
Red Lion at Willingdon, complaining to anyone who would listen of the
monstrous injustice he had suffered in being turned out of his property by
a pack of good-for-nothing animals. The other farmers sympathised in
principle, but they did not at first give him much help. At heart, each of
them was secretly wondering whether he could not somehow turn Jones's
misfortune to his own advantage. It was lucky that the owners of the two
farms which adjoined Animal Farm were on permanently bad terms. One of
them, which was named Foxwood, was a large, neglected, old-fashioned farm,
much overgrown by woodland, with all its pastures worn out and its hedges
in a disgraceful condition. Its owner, Mr. Pilkington, was an easy-going
gentleman farmer who spent most of his time in fishing or hunting according
to the season. The other farm, which was called Pinchfield, was smaller and
better kept. Its owner was a Mr. Frederick, a tough, shrewd man,
perpetually involved in lawsuits and with a name for driving hard bargains.
These two disliked each other so much that it was difficult for them to
come to any agreement, even in defence of their own interests.
Nevertheless, they were both thoroughly frightened by the rebellion on
Animal Farm, and very anxious to prevent their own animals from learning
too much about it. At first they pretended to laugh to scorn the idea of
animals managing a farm for themselves. The whole thing would be over in a
fortnight, they said. They put it about that the animals on the Manor Farm
(they insisted on calling it the Manor Farm; they would not tolerate the
name "Animal Farm") were perpetually fighting among themselves and were
also rapidly starving to death. When time passed and the animals had
evidently not starved to death, Frederick and Pilkington changed their tune
and began to talk of the terrible wickedness that now flourished on Animal
Farm. It was given out that the animals there practised cannibalism,
tortured one another with red-hot horseshoes, and had their females in
common. This was what came of rebelling against the laws of Nature,
Frederick and Pilkington said.
However, these stories were never fully believed. Rumours of a
wonderful farm, where the human beings had been turned out and the animals
managed their own affairs, continued to circulate in vague and distorted
forms, and throughout that year a wave of rebelliousness ran through the
countryside. Bulls which had always been tractable suddenly turned savage,
sheep broke down hedges and devoured the clover, cows kicked the pail over,
hunters refused their fences and shot their riders on to the other side.
Above all, the tune and even the words of Beasts of England were known
everywhere. It had spread with astonishing speed. The human beings could
not contain their rage when they heard this song, though they pretended to
think it merely ridiculous. They could not understand, they said, how even
animals could bring themselves to sing such contemptible rubbish. Any
animal caught singing it was given a flogging on the spot. And yet the song
was irrepressible. The blackbirds whistled it in the hedges, the pigeons
cooed it in the elms, it got into the din of the smithies and the tune of
the church bells. And when the human beings listened to it, they secretly
trembled, hearing in it a prophecy of their future doom.
Early in October, when the corn was cut and stacked and some of it was
already threshed, a flight of pigeons came whirling through the air and
alighted in the yard of Animal Farm in the wildest excitement. Jones and
all his men, with half a dozen others from Foxwood and Pinchfield, had
entered the five-barred gate and were coming up the cart-track that led to
the farm. They were all carrying sticks, except Jones, who was marching
ahead with a gun in his hands. Obviously they were going to attempt the
recapture of the farm.
This had long been expected, and all preparations had been made.
Snowball, who had studied an old book of Julius Caesar's campaigns which he
had found in the farmhouse, was in charge of the defensive operations. He
gave his orders quickly, and in a couple of minutes every animal was at his
As the human beings approached the farm buildings, Snowball launched
his first attack. All the pigeons, to the number of thirty-five, flew to
and fro over the men's heads and muted upon them from mid-air; and while
the men were dealing with this, the geese, who had been hiding behind the
hedge, rushed out and pecked viciously at the calves of their legs.
However, this was only a light skirmishing manoeuvre, intended to create a
little disorder, and the men easily drove the geese off with their sticks.
Snowball now launched his second line of attack. Muriel, Benjamin, and all
the sheep, with Snowball at the head of them, rushed forward and prodded
and butted the men from every side, while Benjamin turned around and lashed
at them with his small hoofs. But once again the men, with their sticks and
their hobnailed boots, were too strong for them; and suddenly, at a squeal
from Snowball, which was the signal for retreat, all the animals turned and
fled through the gateway into the yard.
The men gave a shout of triumph. They saw, as they imagined, their
enemies in flight, and they rushed after them in disorder. This was just
what Snowball had intended. As soon as they were well inside the yard, the
three horses, the three cows, and the rest of the pigs, who had been lying
in ambush in the cowshed, suddenly emerged in their rear, cutting them off.
Snowball now gave the signal for the charge. He himself dashed straight for
Jones. Jones saw him coming, raised his gun and fired. The pellets scored
bloody streaks along Snowball's back, and a sheep dropped dead. Without
halting for an instant, Snowball flung his fifteen stone against Jones's
legs. Jones was hurled into a pile of dung and his gun flew out of his
hands. But the most terrifying spectacle of all was Boxer, rearing up on
his hind legs and striking out with his great iron-shod hoofs like a
stallion. His very first blow took a stable-lad from Foxwood on the skull
and stretched him lifeless in the mud. At the sight, several men dropped
their sticks and tried to run. Panic overtook them, and the next moment all
the animals together were chasing them round and round the yard. They were
gored, kicked, bitten, trampled on. There was not an animal on the farm
that did not take vengeance on them after his own fashion. Even the cat
suddenly leapt off a roof onto a cowman's shoulders and sank her claws in
his neck, at which he yelled horribly. At a moment when the opening was
clear, the men were glad enough to rush out of the yard and make a bolt for
the main road. And so within five minutes of their invasion they were in
ignominious retreat by the same way as they had come, with a flock of geese
hissing after them and pecking at their calves all the way.
All the men were gone except one. Back in the yard Boxer was pawing
with his hoof at the stable-lad who lay face down in the mud, trying to
turn him over. The boy did not stir.
"He is dead," said Boxer sorrowfully. "I had no intention of doing
that. I forgot that I was wearing iron shoes. Who will believe that I did
not do this on purpose?"
"No sentimentality, comrade!" cried Snowball from whose wounds the
blood was still dripping. "War is war. The only good human being is a dead
"I have no wish to take life, not even human life," repeated Boxer,
and his eyes were full of tears.
"Where is Mollie?" exclaimed somebody.
Mollie in fact was missing. For a moment there was great alarm; it was
feared that the men might have harmed her in some way, or even carried her
off with them. In the end, however, she was found hiding in her stall with
her head buried among the hay in the manger. She had taken to flight as
soon as the gun went off. And when the others came back from looking for
her, it was to find that the stable-lad, who in fact was only stunned, had
already recovered and made off.
The animals had now reassembled in the wildest excitement, each
recounting his own exploits in the battle at the top of his voice. An
impromptu celebration of the victory was held immediately. The flag was run
up and Beasts of England was sung a number of times, then the sheep who had
been killed was given a solemn funeral, a hawthorn bush being planted on
her grave. At the graveside Snowball made a little speech, emphasising the
need for all animals to be ready to die for Animal Farm if need be.
The animals decided unanimously to create a military decoration,
"Animal Hero, First Class," which was conferred there and then on Snowball
and Boxer. It consisted of a brass medal (they were really some old
horse-brasses which had been found in the harness-room), to be worn on
Sundays and holidays. There was also "Animal Hero, Second Class," which was
conferred posthumously on the dead sheep.
There was much discussion as to what the battle should be called. In
the end, it was named the Battle of the Cowshed, since that was where the
ambush had been sprung. Mr. Jones's gun had been found lying in the mud,
and it was known that there was a supply of cartridges in the farmhouse. It
was decided to set the gun up at the foot of the Flagstaff, like a piece of
artillery, and to fire it twice a year—once on October the twelfth, the
anniversary of the Battle of the Cowshed, and once on Midsummer Day, the
anniversary of the Rebellion.


AS WINTER drew on, Mollie became more and more troublesome. She was
late for work every morning and excused herself by saying that she had
overslept, and she complained of mysterious pains, although her appetite
was excellent. On every kind of pretext she would run away from work and go
to the drinking pool, where she would stand foolishly gazing at her own
reflection in the water. But there were also rumours of something more
serious. One day, as Mollie strolled blithely into the yard, flirting her
long tail and chewing at a stalk of hay, Clover took her aside.
"Mollie," she said, "I have something very serious to say to you. This
morning I saw you looking over the hedge that divides Animal Farm from
Foxwood. One of Mr. Pilkington's men was standing on the other side of the
hedge. And—I was a long way away, but I am almost certain I saw this—he was
talking to you and you were allowing him to stroke your nose. What does
that mean, Mollie?"
"He didn't! I wasn't! It isn't true!" cried Mollie, beginning to
prance about and paw the ground.
"Mollie! Look me in the face. Do you give me your word of honour that
that man was not stroking your nose?"
"It isn't true!" repeated Mollie, but she could not look Clover in the
face, and the next moment she took to her heels and galloped away into the
A thought struck Clover. Without saying anything to the others, she
went to Mollie's stall and turned over the straw with her hoof. Hidden
under the straw was a little pile of lump sugar and several bunches of
ribbon of different colours.
Three days later Mollie disappeared. For some weeks nothing was known
of her whereabouts, then the pigeons reported that they had seen her on the
other side of Willingdon. She was between the shafts of a smart dogcart
painted red and black, which was standing outside a public-house. A fat
red-faced man in check breeches and gaiters, who looked like a publican,
was stroking her nose and feeding her with sugar. Her coat was newly
clipped and she wore a scarlet ribbon round her forelock. She appeared to
be enjoying herself, so the pigeons said. None of the animals ever
mentioned Mollie again.
In January there came bitterly hard weather. The earth was like iron,
and nothing could be done in the fields. Many meetings were held in the big
barn, and the pigs occupied themselves with planning out the work of the
coming season. It had come to be accepted that the pigs, who were
manifestly cleverer than the other animals, should decide all questions of
farm policy, though their decisions had to be ratified by a majority vote.
This arrangement would have worked well enough if it had not been for the
disputes between Snowball and Napoleon. These two disagreed at every point
where disagreement was possible. If one of them suggested sowing a bigger
acreage with barley, the other was certain to demand a bigger acreage of
oats, and if one of them said that such and such a field was just right for
cabbages, the other would declare that it was useless for anything except
roots. Each had his own following, and there were some violent debates. At
the Meetings Snowball often won over the majority by his brilliant
speeches, but Napoleon was better at canvassing support for himself in
between times. He was especially successful with the sheep. Of late the
sheep had taken to bleating "Four legs good, two legs bad" both in and out
of season, and they often interrupted the Meeting with this. It was noticed
that they were especially liable to break into "Four legs good, two legs
bad" at crucial moments in Snowball's speeches. Snowball had made a close
study of some back numbers of the Farmer and Stockbreeder which he had
found in the farmhouse, and was full of plans for innovations and
improvements. He talked learnedly about field drains, silage, and basic
slag, and had worked out a complicated scheme for all the animals to drop
their dung directly in the fields, at a different spot every day, to save
the labour of cartage. Napoleon produced no schemes of his own, but said
quietly that Snowball's would come to nothing, and seemed to be biding his
time. But of all their controversies, none was so bitter as the one that
took place over the windmill.
In the long pasture, not far from the 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 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,
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. 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 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.


ALL that year the animals worked like slaves. But they were happy in
their work; they grudged no effort or sacrifice, well aware that everything
that they did was for the benefit of themselves and those of their kind who
would come after them, and not for a 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.
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
Afterwards Squealer made a round of the farm and set the animals'
minds at rest. He assured them that the resolution against engaging in
trade and using money had never been passed, or even suggested. It was pure
imagination, probably traceable in the beginning to lies circulated by
Snowball. A few animals still felt faintly doubtful, but Squealer asked
them shrewdly, "Are you certain that 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
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
"You have heard then, comrades," he said, "that we pigs now sleep in
the beds of the farmhouse? And why not? You did not suppose, surely, that
there was ever a ruling against beds? A bed merely means a place to sleep
in. A pile of straw in a stall is a bed, properly regarded. The rule was
against sheets, which are a human invention. We have removed the sheets
from the farmhouse beds, and sleep between blankets. And very comfortable
beds they are too! But not more comfortable than we need, I can tell you,
comrades, with all the brainwork we have to do nowadays. You would not rob
us of our repose, would you, comrades? You would not have us too tired to
carry out our duties? Surely none of you wishes to see Jones back?"
The animals reassured him on this point immediately, and no more was
said about the pigs sleeping in the farmhouse beds. And when, some days
afterwards, it was announced that from now on the pigs would get up an hour
later in the mornings than the other animals, no complaint was made about
that either.
By the autumn the animals were tired but happy. They had had a hard
year, and after the sale of part of the hay and corn, the stores of food
for the winter were none too 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
"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
"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, 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!"


IT WAS a bitter winter. The stormy weather was followed by sleet and
snow, and then by a hard frost which did not break till well into February.
The animals carried on as best they could with the rebuilding of the
windmill, well knowing that the outside world was watching them and that
the envious human beings would rejoice and triumph if the mill were not
finished on time.
Out of spite, the human beings pretended not to believe that it was
Snowball who had 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 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.
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, 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! "
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."
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 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
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
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,
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.


A FEW days later, when the terror caused by the executions had died
down, some of the animals remembered—or thought they remembered—that the
Sixth Commandment decreed "No animal shall kill any other animal." And
though no one cared to mention it in the hearing of the pigs or the dogs,
it was felt that the killings which had taken place did not square with
this. Clover asked Benjamin to read her the Sixth Commandment, and when
Benjamin, as usual, said that he refused to meddle in such matters, she
fetched Muriel. Muriel read the Commandment for her. It ran: "No animal
shall kill any other animal without cause." Somehow or other, the last two
words had slipped out of the animals' memory. But they saw now that the
Commandment had not been violated; for 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
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!
Fountain of happiness!
Lord of the swill-bucket! Oh, how my soul is on
Fire when I gaze at thy
Calm and commanding eye,
Like the sun in the sky,
Comrade Napoleon!

Thou are the giver of
All that thy creatures love,
Full belly twice a day, clean straw to roll upon;
Every beast great or small
Sleeps at peace in his stall,
Thou watchest over all,
Comrade Napoleon!

Had I a sucking-pig,
Ere he had grown as big
Even as a pint bottle or as a rolling-pin,
He should have learned to be
Faithful and true to thee,
Yes, his first squeak should be
"Comrade Napoleon!"

Napoleon approved of this poem and caused it to be inscribed on the
wall of the big barn, at the opposite end from the Seven Commandments. It
was surmounted by a portrait of Napoleon, in profile, executed by Squealer
in white paint.
Meanwhile, through the agency of Whymper, Napoleon was engaged in
complicated negotiations with Frederick and Pilkington. The pile of timber
was still unsold. Of the two, Frederick was the more anxious to get hold of
it, but he would not offer a reasonable price. At the same time there were
renewed rumours that Frederick and his men were plotting to attack Animal
Farm and to destroy the windmill, the building of which had aroused furious
jealousy in him. Snowball was known to be still skulking on Pinchfield
Farm. In the middle of the summer the animals were alarmed to hear that
three hens had come forward and confessed that, inspired by Snowball, they
had entered into a plot to murder Napoleon. They were executed immediately,
and fresh precautions for 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
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 being done 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 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."
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.
"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
"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 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."


BOXER'S split hoof was a long time in healing. They had started the
rebuilding of the windmill the day after the victory celebrations were
ended Boxer refused to 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 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.
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
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
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."
"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
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
The animals crowded round the van. "Good-bye, Boxer!" they chorused,
"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.
"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
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
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.


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


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.
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
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 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.



George Orwell was the pen name of an Englishman named Eric Blair. He was
born in Bengal in 1903, educated at Eton, and after service with the Indian
Imperial Police in Burma, returned to Europe to earn his living writing
novels and essays. He was essentially a political writer who wrote of his
own times, a man of intense feelings and fierce hates. He hated
totalitarianism, and served in the Loyalist forces in the Spanish Civil
War. He was critical of Communism but was himself a Socialist. He
distrusted intellectuals, although he was a literary critic. He hated cant
and lying and cruelty in life and in literature. He died at forty-seven of
a neglected lung ailment, leaving behind a substantial body of work, a
growing reputation for greatness, and the conviction that modern man was
inadequate to cope with the demands of his history.