Scene 1

Scene 2

Animal Farm.......................................................................................................................................................1

George Orwell..........................................................................................................................................1
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Scene 3

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,

Scene 4

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?

Scene 5

"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
comrades."

At this moment there  was  a  tremendous  uproar.  While  Major was  speaking  four  large  rats had crept out of
their holes and were  sitting on  their hindquarters, listening to  him. The dogs had  suddenly caught sight of
them, and  it was only  by a swift dash for  their holes that the rats saved  their lives. Major raised his trotter  for
silence.

"Comrades," he said, "here is  a  point that  must be settled.  The  wild  creatures,  such  as  rats and rabbits−are
they  our friends  or  our  enemies? Let us put it to the vote. I propose this question  to the meeting:  Are rats
comrades?"

The vote was taken  at once, and  it was agreed by an  overwhelming  majority that rats were  comrades.  There
were only four  dissentients,  the  three dogs and the cat, who was afterwards  discovered to  have 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

Scene 6

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:

Scene 7

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  white.

These three had  elaborated old Major's  teachings into a  complete  system  of thought, to which they gave the
name of Animalism. Several  nights  a week,  after Mr. Jones was  asleep, they held  secret  meetings in the barn
and expounded the principles  of  Animalism to  the others. At the  beginning  they met with much stupidity and
apathy.  Some of  the animals  talked of the  duty of  loyalty to Mr. Jones,  whom  they referred to as "Master,"  or
made  elementary remarks such  as "Mr. Jones feeds  us.  If he were gone, we should  starve to death."  Others

Scene 8

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

"No,"  said Snowball firmly. "We  have no means of making sugar  on  this farm. Besides, you  do not need
sugar.  You will have all the  oats  and  hay you want."

"And shall  I still  be allowed to wear ribbons in my  mane?" asked  Mollie.

"Comrade," said Snowball, "those ribbons that you are so devoted to  are the badge  of slavery. Can you not
understand that liberty is  worth more  than ribbons? "

Mollie agreed, but she did not sound very convinced.

The pigs  had an  even 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

Scene 9

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

Scene 10

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:

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

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 hens.

Scene 11

"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  disappeared.

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

Scene 12

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 distance.

The reading  and writing classes, however, were a great success. By  the autumn almost every animal on the
farm was literate in some  degree.

As for the pigs, they could already read  and write perfectly.  The  dogs  learned  to  read  fairly  well,  but  were not
interested  in  reading  anything  except  the  Seven  Commandments.  Muriel,  the  goat,  could  read  somewhat
better than the dogs, and sometimes  used  to  read to the others in  the evenings  from scraps of newspaper
which  she  found on the rubbish heap.  Benjamin  could read as well as any  pig, but never exercised his faculty.
So  far as he knew,  he said,  there was nothing worth reading. Clover learnt the  whole alphabet, but  could not
put words together. Boxer could not get beyond  the  letter  D.  He  would trace out A, B, C, D, in  the dust with
his  great  hoof,  and  then  would stand staring at the  letters with  his  ears  back,  sometimes shaking  his forelock,
trying with all  his might to  remember what  came next and  never succeeding. On  several occasions,  indeed, he
did learn  E, F, G, H,  but by the  time he knew them, it  was always discovered that he  had  forgotten  A, B,  C,
and D. Finally  he decided to be  content  with the  first four  letters, and used  to  write them out  once or twice
every day to  refresh his memory. Mollie  refused to  learn any but the  six letters  which  spelt her own name.
She would form these very neatly out of  pieces of twig,  and  would  then decorate  them  with a flower  or  two

Scene 13

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.

Scene 14

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.

Scene 15

This  had  long been expected, and all preparations had  been made.  Snowball, who had studied an  old book of
Julius Caesar's campaigns  which he  had found in the farmhouse, was in charge  of  the defensive  operations.
He  gave his orders quickly, and in a couple of minutes  every  animal was at his  post.

As  the  human  beings  approached  the  farm  buildings,  Snowball  launched his first attack. All  the pigeons, to
the  number of  thirty−five,  flew to and fro over the men's  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  one."

"I have no wish to take life, not even human life," repeated Boxer,  and his eyes were full of tears.

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.

Scene 16

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 field.

A thought struck Clover. Without saying anything to the others, she  went to Mollie's stall and turned over the
straw with her hoof. Hidden  under  the straw was a  little pile of lump sugar and several bunches  of  ribbon of
different colours.

Three  days  later Mollie disappeared. For some  weeks  nothing was  known of her whereabouts,  then the
pigeons reported that they  had  seen her  on the  other side of  Willingdon. She was  between the  shafts  of  a
smart  dogcart painted red and 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.

Scene 17

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

Scene 18

time on the windmill  they  would all  starve to death. The animals formed themselves  into two  factions  under
the slogan, "Vote  for Snowball and the three−day  week" and "Vote for  Napoleon and the full manger."
Benjamin was the  only animal who did not side  with either faction.  He refused  to  believe either  that food
would become  more plentiful or  that  the  windmill  would  save  work.  Windmill  or  no  windmill, he said,  life
would go on as it had always gone on−that is, badly.

Apart from the disputes over  the windmill, there  was the question  of  the  defence of the farm. It  was  fully
realised  that though the  human  beings had  been  defeated  in  the  Battle  of  the Cowshed  they might make
another and more determined attempt to recapture  the  farm and reinstate Mr.  Jones. They had  all the more
reason for doing  so because the news of their  defeat had  spread  across  the  countryside  and  made  the animals
on the  neighbouring farms more  restive  than ever. As usual, Snowball and  Napoleon  were in  disagreement.
According to Napoleon, what the animals must do was to  procure firearms and  train  themselves in the  use  of
them.  According  to  Snowball, they must send  out more and more  pigeons  and stir  up  rebellion  among the
animals on the  other farms. The one  argued that if they could not  defend themselves they were bound  to be
conquered, the other argued that if  rebellions happened everywhere  they would have no need to defend
themselves.  The animals listened  first to Napoleon, then to Snowball, and could not make  up  their  minds
which was  right;  indeed, they always  found themselves in  agreement with the one who was speaking at the
moment.

At last the day  came when Snowball's plans were  completed. At the  Meeting on the following Sunday the
question of whether or not to  begin work  on the windmill was to be put to the vote. When the animals  had
assembled in  the big  barn, Snowball stood up  and,  though  occasionally interrupted  by  bleating from the
sheep,  set forth  his  reasons for advocating the building  of the windmill. Then Napoleon  stood up to  reply. He
said very quietly that  the  windmill  was  nonsense and that he advised nobody  to vote  for it, and  promptly sat
down again; he had spoken for barely thirty seconds, and seemed  almost  indifferent as to the effect he
produced. At  this Snowball sprang to  his feet,  and shouting down the sheep, who had  begun bleating again,
broke  into a passionate appeal in favour of  the windmill.  Until now  the  animals  had  been  about equally
divided  in  their  sympathies,  but  in  a moment  Snowball's eloquence had carried them away. In  glowing
sentences he painted  a picture of Animal Farm as it might  be  when sordid labour was lifted  from  the animals'
backs. His  imagination had now run far beyond chaff−cutters and  turnip−slicers.  Electricity,  he  said,  could
operate threshing  machines,  ploughs,  harrows, rollers,  and reapers and binders, besides supplying every  stall
with its  own  electric  light, hot and cold water,  and an  electric  heater. By the time he had finished speaking,
there was no  doubt as to which  way  the vote  would  go. But  just at  this  moment  Napoleon stood up  and,
casting a peculiar sidelong look at Snowball,  uttered a high−pitched whimper  of a kind no one had ever heard
him  utter before.

At this  there  was  a  terrible baying  sound  outside,  and  nine  enormous  dogs  wearing brass−studded collars
came  bounding into the  barn.  They dashed  straight for Snowball, who only  sprang from his  place  just in  time
to escape their  snapping  jaws. In a moment he  was out of the door and  they were after him. Too  amazed  and
frightened to speak, all  the animals  crowded  through the door to  watch the chase. Snowball was racing across
the  long pasture that led  to the road. He was running as only a pig can run, but  the dogs were  close on his
heels. Suddenly he slipped and it seemed certain  that  they had  him. Then he was up again, running faster than
ever, then the  dogs were gaining on  him again. One  of them  all  but  closed his  jaws on  Snowball's tail, but
Snowball whisked it  free just in time.  Then he put on  an  extra spurt and, with  a few inches to spare,  slipped
through a hole  in  the hedge and was seen no more.

Silent and terrified, the animals crept back into the  barn.  In  a  moment the dogs came bounding back. At first
no one had been able to  imagine  where these creatures came from, but the problem was soon  solved: they
were  the puppies  whom  Napoleon  had taken  away from  their  mothers and  reared  privately.  Though  not  yet
full−grown,  they  were  huge  dogs,  and  as  fierce−looking  as wolves. They  kept close to Napoleon. It was
noticed that  they  wagged their tails  to him  in the same  way as the other dogs had been  used to do to Mr.

Scene 19

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

Scene 20

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.

Scene 21

But it was a  slow, laborious process. Frequently  it  took a whole  day of exhausting effort to drag a single
boulder to the top of the  quarry,  and sometimes when it was pushed over the  edge  it failed to  break. Nothing
could have been achieved  without Boxer, whose strength  seemed equal to that  of all the rest of the  animals
put together.  When the boulder began to slip  and the animals cried out in despair  at finding themselves
dragged down the  hill, it was always Boxer who  strained himself  against the rope and brought  the boulder to
a stop.  To see him  toiling up  the slope inch by inch, his  breath coming  fast, the tips  of  his hoofs clawing  at
the ground, and his  great  sides matted  with sweat, filled  everyone  with  admiration.  Clover  warned  him
sometimes to be  careful  not to overstrain  himself,  but  Boxer  would never  listen  to  her.  His  two  slogans, "I
will  work  harder"  and  "Napoleon  is  always  right," seemed  to  him a  sufficient  answer  to  all  problems.  He  had
made  arrangements  with  the  cockerel  to  call  him  three−quarters of an hour earlier  in the  mornings  instead of
half an hour.  And in his spare moments,  of which there were not many nowadays, he would go  alone to the
quarry, collect a load of broken stone, and drag it down to the  site  of the windmill unassisted.

The animals  were not badly off throughout that summer, in spite of  the  hardness of  their work. If they had no
more food than they had  had  in  Jones's day, at least they  did not have less. The  advantage  of only having  to
feed themselves, and not having to  support five  extravagant human beings  as well, was so great that it would
have  taken a lot of failures to outweigh  it. And in many ways the animal  method of  doing things  was more
efficient  and saved labour. Such  jobs as weeding,  for instance, could be done  with a  thoroughness  impossible
to  human beings.  And  again, since no animal  now  stole,  it was unnecessary to fence off pasture from arable
land, which saved  a  lot of labour on the  upkeep of hedges  and  gates.  Nevertheless,  as the  summer wore on,
various unforeseen shortages began to make them  selves felt.  There was  need  of paraffin oil,  nails, string, dog
biscuits, and iron for  the horses' shoes, none of which could be  produced on  the farm. Later there  would also
be need for seeds and  artificial manures, besides various tools  and, finally, the machinery  for the windmill.
How these were to be procured,  no one was able to  imagine.

One Sunday morning, when  the  animals  assembled to receive  their  orders, Napoleon announced that he had
decided  upon a new  policy.  From now  onwards  Animal Farm would engage in trade with the  neighbouring
farms: not,  of course, for any commercial purpose, but  simply in order to obtain certain  materials which  were
urgently  necessary.  The  needs of the  windmill  must  override  everything  else, he said. He  was therefore
making arrangements to  sell a stack  of hay and part of the current year's wheat crop, and later on,  if  more
money were needed, it would have to be made up by the sale of  eggs,  for which there  was always a market in
Willingdon. The hens,  said Napoleon,  should welcome this sacrifice  as their own special  contribution towards
the  building of the windmill.

Once again the animals were conscious of a  vague uneasiness. Never  to have any dealings with  human
beings, never to engage in  trade,  never to  make  use of money−had not these been among  the earliest
resolutions passed  at that first triumphant  Meeting after Jones was  expelled?  All the animals  remembered
passing such resolutions: or  at  least  they thought that  they  remembered it. The four young pigs  who had
protested when Napoleon abolished  the Meetings raised their  voices timidly, but they were promptly silenced
by  a tremendous  growling from the dogs. Then,  as usual, the sheep  broke into  "Four  legs good, two legs
bad!" and the momentary awkwardness  was smoothed  over. Finally Napoleon  raised his trotter for silence
and announced  that he  had already made all the arrangements. There would be no need  for any of the  animals
to come in  contact  with  human beings, which  would clearly be most  undesirable. He intended to take the
whole  burden upon his own  shoulders. A  Mr.  Whymper,  a  solicitor  living  in  Willingdon, had  agreed to  act  as
intermediary between Animal  Farm and the outside world, and  would visit the  farm every  Monday  morning
to receive his instructions. Napoleon ended  his  speech with  his usual cry of "Long  live Animal Farm!" and
after the singing  of  Beasts of England the animals were dismissed.

Afterwards Squealer  made  a round of the farm and set the animals'  minds at rest. He assured them that the
resolution against engaging in  trade  and  using  money  had  never  been passed, or  even suggested.  It was  pure
imagination,  probably  traceable  in the  beginning to  lies  circulated by  Snowball. A few animals still felt

Scene 22

faintly  doubtful, but Squealer asked them  shrewdly, "Are you certain that this  is not something that you have
dreamed,  comrades?  Have you any record  of  such  a resolution?  Is it  written down  anywhere?" And since it
was certainly true that nothing of the kind existed  in writing, the  animals were satisfied that they had been
mistaken.

Every Monday Mr. Whymper visited the farm as had been arranged.  He  was a sly−looking little man with
side whiskers, a solicitor in a very  small  way of business,  but sharp enough to have realised earlier than
anyone else  that Animal Farm would need a broker and that the  commissions would be worth  having. The
animals watched his coming and  going with a kind of dread,  and  avoided him as much as possible.
Nevertheless, the sight of Napoleon, on all  fours, delivering  orders  to Whymper, who stood on two  legs,
roused their  pride  and  partly  reconciled them to the new arrangement.  Their  relations  with the  human race
were now not quite the same as they had been before. The  human beings did not hate Animal  Farm any less
now that it was  prospering;  indeed, they hated  it  more than  ever.  Every  human  being  held it  as an  article of
faith that the farm would go bankrupt  sooner or later, and, above  all,  that the  windmill  would  be  a  failure.
They  would  meet  in  the  public−houses  and prove  to  one  another  by means  of diagrams  that  the  windmill was
bound to  fall down, or that if it did  stand up, then that it  would never  work. And yet, against  their will, they
had developed a certain  respect for the efficiency with  which  the animals  were managing  their own  affairs.
One symptom of this was that  they had begun to  call Animal Farm by  its  proper name  and ceased  to pretend
that it  was called the Manor Farm.  They had also dropped their championship  of Jones, who had  given up
hope of  getting his farm back and gone to  live in another part of the county. Except  through Whymper,  there
was  as yet no contact  between Animal  Farm  and the  outside  world, but  there were constant rumours  that
Napoleon was about to  enter into  a  definite business agreement  either with  Mr.  Pilkington  of  Foxwood  or
with Mr. Frederick of Pinchfield−but never, it was  noticed, with  both simultaneously.

It  was about  this  time that  the  pigs  suddenly moved into  the  farmhouse  and took up their residence there.
Again  the animals  seemed to  remember that a  resolution against this had been passed in  the early  days,  and
again Squealer was able to  convince them that  this was not the case. It  was absolutely necessary, he said, that
the  pigs, who were the brains of the  farm,  should have a quiet place to  work in.  It was also more suited to the
dignity of the Leader  (for  of late he  had taken to  speaking  of Napoleon  under  the  title  of  "Leader")  to live in  a
house  than in  a  mere  sty.  Nevertheless,  some of the animals were disturbed when they  heard  that  the  pigs  not
only took their meals in the kitchen and used the drawing−room as a  recreation room, but also slept in the
beds. Boxer passed it  off  as  usual  with  "Napoleon is always right!", but  Clover, who thought she  remembered
a  definite ruling against beds,  went  to the end  of  the  barn  and tried  to  puzzle  out  the Seven  Commandments
which were  inscribed  there.  Finding  herself unable to read more than  individual letters, she fetched Muriel.

"Muriel," she said, "read me the  Fourth  Commandment. Does  it not  say something about never sleeping in a
bed?"

With some difficulty Muriel spelt it out.

"It says,  'No animal  shall sleep  in  a  bed  with sheets ,"'  she  announced finally.

Curiously  enough,  Clover  had  not  remembered  that  the  Fourth  Commandment mentioned sheets; but as it
was there on the wall, it  must have  done  so. And Squealer,  who happened to be passing at this  moment,
attended  by  two or  three  dogs,  was able to  put the  whole  matter in its  proper  perspective.

"You have heard  then, comrades," he said,  "that we pigs now sleep  in the beds of the farmhouse? And why
not? You did not suppose,  surely, that  there was  ever a ruling  against beds? A  bed  merely means a place to
sleep  in. A  pile of straw in  a stall is a  bed, properly regarded. The  rule was  against sheets, which  are a human
invention. We have removed the sheets from  the farmhouse  beds, and sleep between blankets. And  very
comfortable beds  they  are too!  But  not more  comfortable  than  we need, I  can  tell you,  comrades, with all the

Scene 23

brainwork we have to  do nowadays. You  would  not rob  us of  our  repose, would you, comrades? You would
not have  us too tired to  carry out our duties? Surely none of you wishes to  see Jones back?"

The animals reassured him on this  point immediately, and  no  more  was said about  the pigs sleeping in the
farmhouse beds. And when,  some days  afterwards, it was announced that from now on  the pigs  would get up
an hour  later  in the mornings  than the other animals,  no complaint was made about  that either.

By the autumn the animals were tired but happy. They had had a hard  year, and after the sale of part of the
hay and corn, the stores of  food for  the  winter  were  none  too  plentiful, but  the  windmill  compensated for
everything.  It was almost half  built now.  After  the  harvest there was  a  stretch  of clear  dry weather, and the
animals  toiled harder  than  ever,  thinking it well worth while to  plod to and fro all day with blocks of stone  if
by doing so they  could raise the walls another  foot.  Boxer  would even  come out at  nights and work for an
hour  or two on his own by the light  of  the  harvest moon.  In  their spare moments the animals would walk
round  and  round  the half−finished mill, admiring the strength and  perpendicularity of  its walls and  marvelling
that  they should  ever  have  been  able  to build  anything so imposing.  Only old Benjamin  refused to grow
enthusiastic about  the windmill,  though, as  usual,  he would utter  nothing beyond the cryptic  remark that
donkeys live a  long time.

November came, with raging south−west winds.  Building had to  stop  because  it was now too wet  to  mix the
cement. Finally there came a  night  when the gale  was  so  violent  that  the  farm buildings  rocked  on  their
foundations and several tiles were blown off the  roof of the  barn. The hens  woke up squawking with terror
because they  had all dreamed simultaneously of  hearing a gun go off in the  distance. In the morning the
animals came out of  their stalls to find  that the flagstaff had been blown  down and an elm tree  at the foot of
the orchard had been plucked  up like a radish. They had just  noticed  this  when  a cry of  despair broke  from
every animal's  throat. A  terrible sight had met their eyes. The windmill was in ruins.

With one accord they dashed down to the  spot. Napoleon, who seldom  moved out of a  walk, raced ahead of
them all. Yes, there it lay, the  fruit  of all their  struggles, levelled  to its foundations, the  stones  they had
broken and carried so  laboriously scattered all  around.  Unable at first to  speak, they stood  gazing mournfully
at  the litter  of fallen stone Napoleon  paced to and fro in silence,  occasionally snuffing at  the ground. His  tail
had grown rigid and  twitched sharply from side to  side, a  sign  in  him of  intense  mental activity. Suddenly he
halted as though his mind were made up.

"Comrades,"  he said  quietly, "do you know  who is responsible for  this?  Do you  know the  enemy who has
come in the night  and  overthrown our  windmill? SNOWBALL!" he suddenly  roared in a  voice  of  thunder.
"Snowball has done this  thing! In  sheer malignity, thinking to set  back  our plans and  avenge  himself  for  his
ignominious expulsion,  this  traitor has crept here under  cover of night and destroyed our work of nearly  a
year. Comrades, here  and now I pronounce the death sentence upon Snowball.  'Animal Hero,  Second Class,'
and half a bushel of apples  to any animal who  brings  him to justice. A full bushel to anyone who captures
him alive!"

The animals were shocked beyond measure to learn that even Snowball  could  be guilty of  such an action.
There  was a  cry  of  indignation,  and  everyone began thinking out ways of catching  Snowball if he should ever
come  back.  Almost immediately the  footprints of a  pig  were discovered  in  the  grass at a little  distance from
the knoll. They could only  be traced for  a  few  yards,  but appeared to  lead  to a  hole in the hedge. Napoleon
snuffed  deeply at  them  and pronounced  them  to be  Snowball's. He gave  it  as his  opinion that Snowball had
probably come from the direction of  Foxwood Farm.

"No more delays, comrades!" cried  Napoleon when the footprints had  been  examined.  "There  is  work  to be
done.  This very  morning we  begin  rebuilding the  windmill, and we will build all through the  winter, rain or
shine. We will teach this  miserable traitor that he  cannot undo our work so  easily. Remember, comrades,

Scene 24

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  i.ne  the  quarry  was  full  of  snowdrifts and
nothing  could  be  done.  Some progress  was made in the dry  frosty weather  that followed,  but it was cruel
work, and the animals could  not feel  so hopeful about it as they had felt before. They were always cold,  and
usually hungry as well. Only Boxer and Clover never lost heart.  Squealer  made excellent speeches on the joy
of service and the dignity  of labour, but  the  other  animals  found  more  inspiration in  Boxer's  strength  and his
never−failing cry of "I will work harder!  "

In  January  food  fell  short.  The  corn  ration  was drastically  reduced, and it was announced that an extra potato
ration would be  issued to  make up for it. Then  it  was discovered that the greater  part of the potato  crop had
been frosted  in  the clamps, which had  not been  covered thickly  enough. The potatoes had  become  soft and
discoloured, and only a few were  edible.  For days at  a time the  animals had nothing  to eat but  chaff and
mangels. Starvation seemed  to stare them in the face.

It was vitally  necessary to  conceal  this  fact  from the outside  world.  Emboldened by the collapse of  the
windmill, the human beings  were  inventing fresh lies about Animal Farm.  Once again  it  was  being put about
that  all the  animals were dying of famine and  disease, and  that they were  continually  fighting among
themselves  and had resorted  to cannibalism and  infanticide. Napoleon was well  aware of the bad results that
might follow if  the real facts of the  food situation were known, and  he decided to make use  of Mr. Whymper
to spread a contrary impression. Hitherto the animals had had  little  or no  contact with Whymper on his
weekly visits: now, however, a few  selected  animals, mostly sheep, were  instructed  to remark casually  in his
hearing that rations had  been increased. In addition, Napoleon  ordered the  almost empty  bins in  the
store−shed to  be  filled  nearly to the brim with  sand, which was then covered up with what  remained of the
grain and meal. On  some suitable pretext Whymper was  led through  the store−shed and allowed to  catch a
glimpse of the  bins. He was deceived, and continued to report to the  outside world  that there was no food
shortage on Animal Farm.

Nevertheless, towards the end of January  it became obvious that it  would be necessary to procure some more
grain from somewhere. In  these days  Napoleon rarely appeared in public, but spent all his time  in the
farmhouse,  which was guarded at each door by fierce−looking  dogs. When  he  did emerge,  it was  in  a
ceremonial manner,  with an  escort  of  six  dogs  who closely  surrounded  him and growled if  anyone came too
near. Frequently he did not  even appear on Sunday  mornings,  but issued his orders  through  one of the  other
pigs,  usually Squealer.

One Sunday morning Squealer  announced that the hens,  who had just  come  in  to lay  again, must surrender
their eggs. Napoleon  had  accepted,  through Whymper, a contract for four hundred eggs a week.  The price of
these  would pay for enough grain and meal  to keep the  farm going till summer came  on and conditions were
easier.

Scene 25

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,

Scene 26

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! "

Scene 27

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."

Scene 28

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  before.

They had just finished singing it for the third time when Squealer,  attended  by two  dogs, approached  them
with  the air  of having  something  important  to  say.  He announced  that,  by  a special  decree  of  Comrade
Napoleon, Beasts  of  England had  been  abolished.  From now onwards it was  forbidden to sing it.

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