(영어소설 통독용) Animal Farm (Part 1)

(동물농장 1부) 

너무도 유명한 영어소설 '동물농장'입니다. 이것을 (1,2부 합해서) 3시간 정도만에 쉬지 않고 통독해 보시기 바랍니다. 좌우지간 다른 일이 터지기 전에 후다닥 끝내버리는 것이 이번 작전의 핵심입니다. 절대 사전 찾으면 안됩니다. 모르는 문장은 추측을 하고 넘어 갑니다. 시야를 넓게 여시고 숲을 보는 훈련을 하시기 바랍니다. 이런 책을 3시간 정도에 끝낼 수 있다면 확실한 고수의 대열에 들어서게 됩니다. 좀 힘들지만 한 번 도전해 보시기 바랍니다. 비록 이해를 100% 다 못했더라도 전혀 문제가 되지 않습니다. 이런 경험 자체가 영어에 대한 확실한 자신감을 갖게 해줄 것입니다. 건투를 빕니다^^
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Title:      Animal Farm

Author:     George Orwell (pseudonym of Eric Blair) (1903-1950)

* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *

eBook No.:  0100011.txt

Language:   English

 

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Chapter I 

 

Mr. Jones, of the Manor Farm, had locked the hen-houses for the night, but

was too drunk to remember to shut the pop-holes. With the ring of light

from his lantern dancing from side to side, he lurched across the yard,

kicked off his boots at the back door, drew himself a last glass of beer

from the barrel in the scullery, and made his way up to bed, where

Mrs. Jones was already snoring.

 

As soon as the light in the bedroom went out there was a stirring and a

fluttering all through the farm buildings. Word had gone round during the

day that old Major, the prize Middle White boar, had had a strange dream

on the previous night and wished to communicate it to the other animals.

It had been agreed that they should all meet in the big barn as soon as

Mr. Jones was safely out of the way. Old Major (so he was always called,

though the name under which he had been exhibited was Willingdon Beauty)

was so highly regarded on the farm that everyone was quite ready to lose

an hour's sleep in order to hear what he had to say.

 

At one end of the big barn, on a sort of raised platform, Major was

already ensconced on his bed of straw, under a lantern which hung from a

beam. He was twelve years old and had lately grown rather stout, but he

was still a majestic-looking pig, with a wise and benevolent appearance in

spite of the fact that his tushes had never been cut. Before long the

other animals began to arrive and make themselves comfortable after their

different fashions. First came the three dogs, Bluebell, Jessie, and

Pincher, and then the pigs, who settled down in the straw immediately in

front of the platform. The hens perched themselves on the window-sills,

the pigeons fluttered up to the rafters, the sheep and cows lay down

behind the pigs and began to chew the cud. The two cart-horses, Boxer and

Clover, came in together, walking very slowly and setting down their vast

hairy hoofs with great care lest there should be some small animal

concealed in the straw. Clover was a stout motherly mare approaching

middle life, who had never quite got her figure back after her fourth foal.

Boxer was an enormous beast, nearly eighteen hands high, and as strong as

any two ordinary horses put together. A white stripe down his nose gave

him a somewhat stupid appearance, and in fact he was not of first-rate

intelligence, but he was universally respected for his steadiness of

character and tremendous powers of work. After the horses came Muriel,

the white goat, and Benjamin, the donkey. Benjamin was the oldest animal

on the farm, and the worst tempered. He seldom talked, and when he did, it

was usually to make some cynical remark--for instance, he would say that

God had given him a tail to keep the flies off, but that he would sooner

have had no tail and no flies. Alone among the animals on the farm he

never laughed. If asked why, he would say that he saw nothing to laugh at.

Nevertheless, without openly admitting it, he was devoted to Boxer; the

two of them usually spent their Sundays together in the small paddock

beyond the orchard, grazing side by side and never speaking.

 

The two horses had just lain down when a brood of ducklings, which had

lost their mother, filed into the barn, cheeping feebly and wandering from

side to side to find some place where they would not be trodden on. Clover

made a sort of wall round them with her great foreleg, and the ducklings

nestled down inside it and promptly fell asleep. At the last moment

Mollie, the foolish, pretty white mare who drew Mr. Jones's trap, came

mincing daintily in, chewing at a lump of sugar. She took a place near the

front and began flirting her white mane, hoping to draw attention to the

red ribbons it was plaited with. Last of all came the cat, who looked

round, as usual, for the warmest place, and finally squeezed herself in

between Boxer and Clover; there she purred contentedly throughout Major's

speech without listening to a word of what he was saying.

 

All the animals were now present except Moses, the tame raven, who slept

on a perch behind the back door. When Major saw that they had all made

themselves comfortable and were waiting attentively, he cleared his throat

and began:

 

"Comrades, you have heard already about the strange dream that I had last

night. But I will come to the dream later. I have something else to say

first. I do not think, comrades, that I shall be with you for many months

longer, and before I die, I feel it my duty to pass on to you such wisdom

as I have acquired. I have had a long life, I have had much time for

thought as I lay alone in my stall, and I think I may say that I

understand the nature of life on this earth as well as any animal now

living. It is about this that I wish to speak to you.

 

"Now, comrades, what is the nature of this life of ours? Let us face it:

our lives are miserable, laborious, and short. We are born, we are given

just so much food as will keep the breath in our bodies, and those of us

who are capable of it are forced to work to the last atom of our strength;

and the very instant that our usefulness has come to an end we are

slaughtered with hideous cruelty. No animal in England knows the meaning

of happiness or leisure after he is a year old. No animal in England is

free. The life of an animal is misery and slavery: that is the plain truth.

 

"But is this simply part of the order of nature? Is it because this land

of ours is so poor that it cannot afford a decent life to those who dwell

upon it? No, comrades, a thousand times no! The soil of England is

fertile, its climate is good, it is capable of affording food in abundance

to an enormously greater number of animals than now inhabit it. This

single farm of ours would support a dozen horses, twenty cows, hundreds of

sheep--and all of them living in a comfort and a dignity that are now

almost beyond our imagining. Why then do we continue in this miserable

condition? Because nearly the whole of the produce of our labour is stolen

from us by human beings. There, comrades, is the answer to all our

problems. It is summed up in a single word--Man. Man is the only real

enemy we have. Remove Man from the scene, and the root cause of hunger and

overwork is abolished for ever.

 

"Man is the only creature that consumes without producing. He does not

give milk, he does not lay eggs, he is too weak to pull the plough, he

cannot run fast enough to catch rabbits. Yet he is lord of all the

animals. He sets them to work, he gives back to them the bare minimum that

will prevent them from starving, and the rest he keeps for himself. Our

labour tills the soil, our dung fertilises it, and yet there is not one of

us that owns more than his bare skin. You cows that I see before me, how

many thousands of gallons of milk have you given during this last year?

And what has happened to that milk which should have been breeding up

sturdy calves? Every drop of it has gone down the throats of our enemies.

And you hens, how many eggs have you laid in this last year, and how many

of those eggs ever hatched into chickens? The rest have all gone to market

to bring in money for Jones and his men. And you, Clover, where are those

four foals you bore, who should have been the support and pleasure of your

old age? Each was sold at a year old--you will never see one of them

again. In return for your four confinements and all your labour in the

fields, what have you ever had except your bare rations and a stall?

 

"And even the miserable lives we lead are not allowed to reach their

natural span. For myself I do not grumble, for I am one of the lucky ones.

I am twelve years old and have had over four hundred children. Such is the

natural life of a pig. But no animal escapes the cruel knife in the end.

You young porkers who are sitting in front of me, every one of you will

scream your lives out at the block within a year. To that horror we all

must come--cows, pigs, hens, sheep, everyone. Even the horses and the dogs

have no better fate. You, Boxer, the very day that those great muscles of

yours lose their power, Jones will sell you to the knacker, who will cut

your throat and boil you down for the foxhounds. As for the dogs, when

they grow old and toothless, Jones ties a brick round their necks and

drowns them in the nearest pond.

 

"Is it not crystal clear, then, comrades, that all the evils of this life

of ours spring from the tyranny of human beings? Only get rid of Man, and

the produce of our labour would be our own. Almost overnight we could

become rich and free. What then must we do? Why, work night and day, body

and soul, for the overthrow of the human race! That is my message to you,

comrades: Rebellion! I do not know when that Rebellion will come, it might

be in a week or in a hundred years, but I know, as surely as I see this

straw beneath my feet, that sooner or later justice will be done. Fix your

eyes on that, comrades, throughout the short remainder of your lives! And

above all, pass on this message of mine to those who come after you, so

that future generations shall carry on the struggle until it is victorious.

 

"And remember, comrades, your resolution must never falter. No argument

must lead you astray. Never listen when they tell you that Man and the

animals have a common interest, that the prosperity of the one is the

prosperity 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 been

lost to memory for generations. I will sing you that song now, comrades.

I am old and my voice is hoarse, but when I have taught you the tune, you

can sing it better for yourselves. It is called 'Beasts of England'."

 

Old Major cleared his throat and began to sing. As he had said, his voice

was hoarse, but he sang well enough, and it was a stirring tune, something

between 'Clementine' and 'La Cucaracha'. The words ran:

 

Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland,

Beasts of every land and clime,

Hearken to my joyful tidings

Of the golden future time.

 

Soon or late the day is coming,

Tyrant Man shall be o'erthrown,

And the fruitful fields of England

Shall be trod by beasts alone.

 

Rings shall vanish from our noses,

And the harness from our back,

Bit and spur shall rust forever,

Cruel whips no more shall crack.

 

Riches more than mind can picture,

Wheat and barley, oats and hay,

Clover, beans, and mangel-wurzels

Shall be ours upon that day.

 

Bright will shine the fields of England,

Purer shall its waters be,

Sweeter yet shall blow its breezes

On the day that sets us free.

 

For that day we all must labour,

Though we die before it break;

Cows and horses, geese and turkeys,

All must toil for freedom's sake.

 

Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland,

Beasts of every land and clime,

Hearken well and spread my tidings

Of the golden future time.

 

 

The singing of this song threw the animals into the wildest excitement.

Almost before Major had reached the end, they had begun singing it for

themselves. Even the stupidest of them had already picked up the tune and

a few of the words, and as for the clever ones, such as the pigs and dogs,

they had the entire song by heart within a few minutes. And then, after a

few preliminary tries, the whole farm burst out into 'Beasts of England' in

tremendous unison. The cows lowed it, the dogs whined it, the sheep

bleated it, the horses whinnied it, the ducks quacked it. They were so

delighted with the song that they sang it right through five times in

succession, and might have continued singing it all night if they had not

been interrupted.

 

Unfortunately, the uproar awoke Mr. Jones, who sprang out of bed, making

sure that there was a fox in the yard. He seized the gun which always

stood in a corner of his bedroom, and let fly a charge of number 6 shot

into the darkness. The pellets buried themselves in the wall of the barn

and the meeting broke up hurriedly. Everyone fled to his own

sleeping-place. The birds jumped on to their perches, the animals settled

down in the straw, and the whole farm was asleep in a moment.

 

 

 

 

Chapter II

 

 

 

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 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 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 just coming down the stairs when Mollie was discovered to be missing.

Going back, the others found that she had remained behind in the best

bedroom. She had taken a piece of blue ribbon from Mrs. Jones's

dressing-table, and was holding it against her shoulder and admiring

herself in the glass in a very foolish manner. The others reproached her

sharply, and they went outside. Some hams hanging in the kitchen were

taken out for burial, and the barrel of beer in the scullery was stove in

with a kick from Boxer's hoof, otherwise nothing in the house was touched.

A unanimous resolution was passed on the spot that the farmhouse should be

preserved as a museum. All were agreed that no animal must ever live there.

 

The animals had their breakfast, and then Snowball and Napoleon called

them together again.

 

"Comrades," said Snowball, "it is half-past six and we have a long day

before us. Today we begin the hay harvest. But there is another matter

that must be attended to first."

 

The pigs now revealed that during the past three months they had taught

themselves to read and write from an old spelling book which had belonged

to Mr. Jones's children and which had been thrown on the rubbish heap.

Napoleon sent for pots of black and white paint and led the way down to

the five-barred gate that gave on to the main road. Then Snowball (for it

was Snowball who was best at writing) took a brush between the two

knuckles of his trotter, painted out MANOR FARM from the top bar of the

gate and in its place painted ANIMAL FARM. This was to be the name of the

farm from now onwards. After this they went back to the farm buildings,

where Snowball and Napoleon sent for a ladder which they caused to be set

against the end wall of the big barn. They explained that by their studies

of the past three months the pigs had succeeded in reducing the principles

of Animalism to Seven Commandments. These Seven Commandments would now be

inscribed on the wall; they would form an unalterable law by which all the

animals on Animal Farm must live for ever after. With some difficulty

(for it is not easy for a pig to balance himself on a ladder) Snowball

climbed up and set to work, with Squealer a few rungs below him holding

the paint-pot. The Commandments were written on the tarred wall in great

white letters that could be read thirty yards away. They ran thus:

 

 

THE SEVEN COMMANDMENTS

 

1. Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy.

2. Whatever goes upon four legs, or has wings, is a friend.

3. No animal shall wear clothes.

4. No animal shall sleep in a bed.

5. No animal shall drink alcohol.

6. No animal shall kill any other animal.

7. All animals are equal.

 

 

It was very neatly written, and except that "friend" was written "freind"

and one of the "S's" was the wrong way round, the spelling was correct all

the way through. Snowball read it aloud for the benefit of the others. All

the animals nodded in complete agreement, and the cleverer ones at once

began to learn the Commandments by heart.

 

"Now, comrades," cried Snowball, throwing down the paint-brush, "to the

hayfield! Let us make it a point of honour to get in the harvest more

quickly than Jones and his men could do."

 

But at this moment the three cows, who had seemed uneasy for some time

past, set up a loud lowing. They had not been 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.

 

"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.

 

 

 

 

Chapter III

 

 

 

How they toiled and sweated to get the hay in! But their efforts were

rewarded, for the harvest was an even bigger success than they had hoped.

 

Sometimes the work was hard; the implements had been designed for human

beings and not for animals, and it was a great drawback that no animal was

able to use any tool that involved standing on his hind legs. But the pigs

were so clever that they could think of a way round every difficulty. As

for the horses, they knew every inch of the field, and in fact understood

the business of mowing and raking far better than Jones and his men had

ever done. The pigs did not actually work, but directed and supervised the

others. With their superior knowledge it was natural that they should

assume the leadership. Boxer and Clover would harness themselves to the

cutter or the horse-rake (no bits or reins were needed in these days, of

course) and tramp steadily round and round the field with a pig walking

behind and calling out "Gee up, comrade!" or "Whoa back, comrade!" as the

case might be. And every animal down to the humblest worked at turning the

hay and gathering it. Even the ducks and hens toiled to and fro all day in

the sun, carrying tiny wisps of hay in their beaks. In the end they

finished the harvest in two days' less time than it had usually taken

Jones and his men. Moreover, it was the biggest harvest that the farm had

ever seen. There was no wastage whatever; the hens and ducks with their

sharp eyes had gathered up the very last stalk. And not an animal on the

farm had stolen so much as a mouthful.

 

All through that summer the work of the farm went like clockwork. The

animals were happy as they had never conceived it possible to be. Every

mouthful of food was an acute positive pleasure, now that it was truly

their own food, produced by themselves and for themselves, not doled out

to them by a grudging master. With the worthless parasitical human beings

gone, there was more for everyone to eat. There was more leisure too,

inexperienced though the animals were. They met with many difficulties--for

instance, later in the year, when they harvested the corn, they had to

tread it out in the ancient style and blow away the chaff with their

breath, since the farm possessed no threshing machine--but the pigs with

their cleverness and Boxer with his tremendous muscles always pulled them

through. Boxer was the admiration of everybody. He had been a hard worker

even in Jones's time, but now he seemed more like three horses than one;

there were days when the entire work of the farm seemed to rest on his

mighty shoulders. From morning to night he was pushing and pulling, always

at the spot where the work was hardest. He had made an arrangement with

one of the cockerels to call him in the mornings half an hour earlier than

anyone else, and would put in some volunteer labour at whatever seemed to

be most needed, before the regular day's work began. His answer to every

problem, every setback, was "I will work harder!"--which he had adopted as

his personal motto.

 

But everyone worked according to his capacity. The hens and ducks, for

instance, saved five bushels of corn at the harvest by gathering up the

stray grains. Nobody stole, nobody grumbled over his rations, the

quarrelling and biting and jealousy which had been normal features of life

in the old days had almost disappeared. Nobody shirked--or almost nobody.

Mollie, it was true, was not good at getting up in the mornings, and had a

way of leaving work early on the ground that there was a stone in her

hoof. And the behaviour of the cat was somewhat peculiar. It was soon

noticed that when there was work to be done the cat could never be found.

She would vanish for hours on end, and then reappear at meal-times, or in

the evening after work was over, as though nothing had happened. But she

always made such excellent excuses, and purred so affectionately, that it

was impossible not to believe in her good intentions. Old Benjamin, the

donkey, seemed quite unchanged since the Rebellion. He did his work in the

same slow obstinate way as he had done it in Jones's time, never shirking

and never volunteering for extra work either. About the Rebellion and its

results he would express no opinion. When asked whether he was not happier

now that Jones was gone, he would say only "Donkeys live a long time. None

of you has ever seen a dead donkey," and the others had to be content with

this cryptic answer.

 

On Sundays there was no work. Breakfast was an hour later than usual, and

after breakfast there was a ceremony which was observed every week without

fail. First came the hoisting of the flag. Snowball had found in the

harness-room an old green tablecloth of Mrs. Jones's and had painted on it

a hoof and a horn in white. This was run up the flagstaff in the farmhouse

garden every Sunday 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

and walk round them admiring them.

 

None of the other animals on the farm could get further than the letter A.

It was also found that the stupider animals, such as the sheep, hens, and

ducks, were unable to learn the Seven Commandments by heart. After much

thought Snowball declared that the Seven Commandments could in effect be

reduced to a single maxim, namely: "Four legs good, two legs bad." This,

he said, contained the essential principle of Animalism. Whoever had

thoroughly grasped it would be safe from human influences. The birds at

first objected, since it seemed to them that they also had two legs, but

Snowball proved to them that this was not so.

 

"A bird's wing, comrades," he said, "is an organ of propulsion and not of

manipulation. It should therefore be regarded as a leg. The distinguishing

mark of man is the HAND, the instrument with which he does all his

mischief."

 

The birds did not understand Snowball's long words, but they accepted his

explanation, and all the humbler animals set to work to learn the new

maxim by heart. FOUR LEGS GOOD, TWO LEGS BAD, was inscribed on the end

wall of the barn, above the Seven Commandments and in bigger letters. When

they had once got it by heart, the sheep developed a great liking for this

maxim, and often as they lay in the field they would all start bleating

"Four legs good, two legs bad! Four legs good, two legs bad!" and keep it

up for hours on end, never growing tired of it.

 

Napoleon took no interest in Snowball's committees. He said that the

education of the young was more important than anything that could be done

for those who were already grown up. It happened that Jessie and Bluebell

had both whelped soon after the hay harvest, giving birth between them to

nine sturdy puppies. As soon as they were weaned, Napoleon took them away

from their mothers, saying that he would make himself responsible for

their education. He took them up into a loft which could only be reached

by a ladder from the harness-room, and there kept them in such seclusion

that the rest of the farm soon forgot their existence.

 

The mystery of where the milk went to was soon cleared up. It was mixed

every day into the pigs' mash. The early apples were now ripening, and the

grass of the orchard was littered with windfalls. The animals had assumed

as a matter of course that these would be shared out equally; one day,

however, the order went forth that all the windfalls were to be collected

and brought to the harness-room for the use of the pigs. At this some of

the other animals murmured, but it was no use. All the pigs were in full

agreement on this point, even Snowball and Napoleon. Squealer was sent to

make the necessary explanations to the others.

 

"Comrades!" he cried. "You do not imagine, I hope, that we pigs are doing

this in a spirit of selfishness and privilege? Many of us actually dislike

milk and apples. I dislike them myself. Our sole object in taking these

things is to preserve our health. Milk and apples (this has been proved by

Science, comrades) contain substances absolutely necessary to the

well-being of a pig. We pigs are brainworkers. The whole management and

organisation of this farm depend on us. Day and night we are watching over

your welfare. It is for YOUR sake that we drink that milk and eat those

apples. Do you know what would happen if we pigs failed in our duty? Jones

would come back! Yes, Jones would come back! Surely, comrades," cried

Squealer almost pleadingly, skipping from side to side and whisking his

tail, "surely there is no one among you who wants to see Jones come back?"

 

Now if there was one thing that the animals were completely certain of, it

was that they did not want Jones back. When it was put to them in this

light, they had no more to say. The importance of keeping the pigs in good

health was all too obvious. So it was agreed without further argument that

the milk and the windfall apples (and also the main crop of apples when

they ripened) should be reserved for the pigs alone.

 

 

 

 

Chapter IV

 

 

 

By the late summer the news of what had happened on Animal Farm had spread

across half the county. Every day Snowball and Napoleon sent out flights

of pigeons whose instructions were to mingle with the animals on

neighbouring farms, tell them the story of the Rebellion, and teach them

the tune of 'Beasts of England'.

 

Most of this time Mr. Jones had spent sitting in the taproom of the Red

Lion at Willingdon, complaining to anyone who would listen of the

monstrous injustice he had suffered in being turned out of his property by

a pack of good-for-nothing animals. The other farmers sympathised in

principle, but they did not at first give him much help. At heart, each of

them was secretly wondering whether he could not somehow turn Jones's

misfortune to his own advantage. It was lucky that the owners of the two

farms which adjoined Animal Farm were on permanently bad terms. One of

them, which was named Foxwood, was a large, neglected, old-fashioned farm,

much overgrown by woodland, with all its pastures worn out and its hedges

in a disgraceful condition. Its owner, Mr. Pilkington, was an easy-going

gentleman farmer who spent most of his time in fishing or hunting

according to the season. The other farm, which was called Pinchfield, was

smaller and better kept. Its owner was a Mr. Frederick, a tough, shrewd

man, perpetually involved in lawsuits and with a name for driving hard

bargains. These two disliked each other so much that it was difficult for

them to come to any agreement, even in defence of their own interests.

 

Nevertheless, they were both thoroughly frightened by the rebellion on

Animal Farm, and very anxious to prevent their own animals from learning

too much about it. At first they pretended to laugh to scorn the idea of

animals managing a farm for themselves. The whole thing would be over in a

fortnight, they said. They put it about that the animals on the Manor Farm

(they insisted on calling it the Manor Farm; they would not tolerate the

name "Animal Farm") were perpetually fighting among themselves and were

also rapidly starving to death. When time passed and the animals had

evidently not starved to death, Frederick and Pilkington changed their

tune and began to talk of the terrible wickedness that now flourished on

Animal Farm. It was given out that the animals there practised cannibalism,

tortured one another with red-hot horseshoes, and had their females in

common. This was what came of rebelling against the laws of Nature,

Frederick and Pilkington said.

 

However, these stories were never fully believed. Rumours of a wonderful

farm, where the human beings had been turned out and the animals managed

their own affairs, continued to circulate in vague and distorted forms,

and throughout that year a wave of rebelliousness ran through the

countryside. Bulls which had always been tractable suddenly turned savage,

sheep broke down hedges and devoured the clover, cows kicked the pail

over, hunters refused their fences and shot their riders on to the other

side. Above all, the tune and even the words of 'Beasts of England' were

known everywhere. It had spread with astonishing speed. The human beings

could not contain their rage when they heard this song, though they

pretended to think it merely ridiculous. They could not understand, they

said, how even animals could bring themselves to sing such contemptible

rubbish. Any animal caught singing it was given a flogging on the spot.

And yet the song was irrepressible. The blackbirds whistled it in the

hedges, the pigeons cooed it in the elms, it got into the din of the

smithies and the tune of the church bells. And when the human beings

listened to it, they secretly trembled, hearing in it a prophecy of their

future doom.

 

Early in October, when the corn was cut and stacked and some of it was

already threshed, a flight of pigeons came whirling through the air and

alighted in the yard of Animal Farm in the wildest excitement. Jones and

all his men, with half a dozen others from Foxwood and Pinchfield, had

entered the five-barred gate and were coming up the cart-track that led to

the farm. They were all carrying sticks, except Jones, who was marching

ahead with a gun in his hands. Obviously they were going to attempt the

recapture of the farm.

 

This had long been expected, and all preparations had been made. Snowball,

who had studied an old book of Julius Caesar's campaigns which he had

found in the farmhouse, was in charge of the defensive operations. He gave

his orders quickly, and in a couple of minutes every animal was at his

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.

 

"Where is Mollie?" exclaimed somebody.

 

Mollie in fact was missing. For a moment there was great alarm; it was

feared that the men might have harmed her in some way, or even carried her

off with them. In the end, however, she was found hiding in her stall with

her head buried among the hay in the manger. She had taken to flight as

soon as the gun went off. And when the others came back from looking for

her, it was to find that the stable-lad, who in fact was only stunned, had

already recovered and made off.

 

The animals had now reassembled in the wildest excitement, each recounting

his own exploits in the battle at the top of his voice. An impromptu

celebration of the victory was held immediately. The flag was run up and

'Beasts of England' was sung a number of times, then the sheep who had been

killed was given a solemn funeral, a hawthorn bush being planted on her

grave. At the graveside Snowball made a little speech, emphasising the

need for all animals to be ready to die for Animal Farm if need be.

 

The animals decided unanimously to create a military decoration, "Animal

Hero, First Class," which was conferred there and then on Snowball and

Boxer. It consisted of a brass medal (they were really some old

horse-brasses which had been found in the harness-room), to be worn on

Sundays and holidays. There was also "Animal Hero, Second Class," which

was conferred posthumously on the dead sheep.

 

There was much discussion as to what the battle should be called. In the

end, it was named the Battle of the Cowshed, since that was where the

ambush had been sprung. Mr. Jones's gun had been found lying in the mud,

and it was known that there was a supply of cartridges in the farmhouse.

It was decided to set the gun up at the foot of the Flagstaff, like a

piece of artillery, and to fire it twice a year--once on October the

twelfth, the anniversary of the Battle of the Cowshed, and once on

Midsummer Day, the anniversary of the Rebellion.

 

 

 

 

Chapter V

 

 

 

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.

 

In January there came bitterly hard weather. The earth was like iron, and

nothing could be done in the fields. Many meetings were held in the big

barn, and the pigs occupied themselves with planning out the work of the

coming season. It had come to be accepted that the pigs, who were

manifestly cleverer than the other animals, should decide all questions of

farm policy, though their decisions had to be ratified by a majority vote.

This arrangement would have worked well enough if it had not been for the

disputes between Snowball and Napoleon. These two disagreed at every point

where disagreement was possible. If one of them suggested sowing a bigger

acreage with barley, the other was certain to demand a bigger acreage of

oats, and if one of them said that such and such a field was just right

for cabbages, the other would declare that it was useless for anything

except roots. Each had his own following, and there were some violent

debates. At the Meetings Snowball often won over the majority by his

brilliant speeches, but Napoleon was better at canvassing support for

himself in between times. He was especially successful with the sheep. Of

late the sheep had taken to bleating "Four legs good, two legs bad" both

in and out of season, and they often interrupted the Meeting with this. It

was noticed that they were especially liable to break into "Four legs

good, two legs bad" at crucial moments in Snowball's speeches. Snowball

had made a close study of some back numbers of the 'Farmer and

Stockbreeder' which he had found in the farmhouse, and was full of plans

for innovations and improvements. He talked learnedly about field drains,

silage, and basic slag, and had worked out a complicated scheme for all

the animals to drop their dung directly in the fields, at a different spot

every day, to save the labour of cartage. Napoleon produced no schemes of

his own, but said quietly that Snowball's would come to nothing, and

seemed to be biding his time. But of all their controversies, none was so

bitter as the one that took place over the windmill.

 

In the long pasture, not far from the farm buildings, there was a small

knoll which was the highest point on the farm. After surveying the ground,

Snowball declared that this was just the place for a windmill, which could

be made to operate a dynamo and supply the farm with electrical power.

This would light the stalls and warm them in winter, and would also run a

circular saw, a chaff-cutter, a mangel-slicer, and an electric milking

machine. The animals had never heard of anything of this kind before

(for the farm was an old-fashioned one and had only the most primitive

machinery), and they listened in astonishment while Snowball conjured up

pictures of fantastic machines which would do their work for them while

they grazed at their ease in the fields or improved their minds with

reading and conversation.

 

Within a few weeks Snowball's plans for the windmill were fully worked

out. The mechanical details came mostly from three books which had

belonged to Mr. Jones--'One Thousand Useful Things to Do About the House',

'Every Man His Own Bricklayer', and 'Electricity for Beginners'. Snowball

used as his study a shed which had once been used for incubators and had a

smooth wooden floor, suitable for drawing on. He was closeted there for

hours at a time. With his books held open by a stone, and with a piece of

chalk gripped between the knuckles of his trotter, he would move rapidly

to and fro, drawing in line after line and uttering little whimpers of

excitement. Gradually the plans grew into a complicated mass of cranks and

cog-wheels, covering more than half the floor, which the other animals

found completely unintelligible but very impressive. All of them came to

look at Snowball's drawings at least once a day. Even the hens and ducks

came, and were at pains not to tread on the chalk marks. Only Napoleon

held aloof. He had declared himself against the windmill from the start.

One day, however, he arrived unexpectedly to examine the plans. He walked

heavily round the shed, looked closely at every detail of the plans and

snuffed at them once or twice, then stood for a little while contemplating

them out of the corner of his eye; then suddenly he lifted his leg,

urinated over the plans, and walked out without uttering a word.

 

The whole farm was deeply divided on the subject of the windmill. Snowball

did not deny that to build it would be a difficult business. Stone would

have to be carried and built up into walls, then the sails would have to

be made and after that there would be need for dynamos and cables. (How

these were to be procured, Snowball did not say.) But he maintained that

it could all be done in a year. And thereafter, he declared, so much

labour would be saved that the animals would only need to work three days

a week. Napoleon, on the other hand, argued that the great need of the

moment was to increase food production, and that if they wasted time on

the windmill they would all starve to death. The animals formed themselves

into two factions under the slogan, "Vote for Snowball and the three-day

week" and "Vote for Napoleon and the full manger." Benjamin was the only

animal who did not side with either faction. He refused to believe either

that food would become more plentiful or that the windmill would save

work. Windmill or no windmill, he said, life would go on as it had always

gone on--that is, 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. Jones.

 

Napoleon, with the dogs following him, now mounted on to the raised

portion of the floor where Major had previously stood to deliver his

speech. He announced that from now on the Sunday-morning Meetings would

come to an end. They were unnecessary, he said, and wasted time. In future

all questions relating to the working of the farm would be settled by a

special committee of pigs, presided over by himself. These would meet in

private and afterwards communicate their decisions to the others. The

animals would still assemble on Sunday mornings to salute the flag, sing

'Beasts of England', and receive their orders for the week; but there would

be no more debates.

 

In spite of the shock that Snowball's expulsion had given them, the

animals were dismayed by this announcement. Several of them would have

protested if they could have found the right arguments. Even Boxer was

vaguely troubled. He set his ears back, shook his forelock several times,

and tried hard to marshal his thoughts; but in the end he could not think

of anything to say. Some of the pigs themselves, however, were more

articulate. Four young porkers in the front row uttered shrill squeals of

disapproval, and all four of them sprang to their feet and began speaking

at once. But suddenly the dogs sitting round Napoleon let out deep,

menacing growls, and the pigs fell silent and sat down again. Then the

sheep broke out into a tremendous bleating of "Four legs good, two legs

bad!" which went on for nearly a quarter of an hour and put an end to any

chance of discussion.

 

Afterwards Squealer was sent round the farm to explain the new arrangement

to the others.

 

"Comrades," he said, "I trust that every animal here appreciates the

sacrifice that Comrade Napoleon has made in taking this extra labour upon

himself. Do not imagine, comrades, that leadership is a pleasure! On the

contrary, it is a deep and heavy responsibility. No one believes more

firmly than Comrade Napoleon that all animals are equal. He would be only

too happy to let you make your decisions for yourselves. But sometimes you

might make the wrong decisions, comrades, and then where should we be?

Suppose you had decided to follow Snowball, with his moonshine of

windmills--Snowball, who, as we now know, was no better than a criminal?"

 

"He fought bravely at the Battle of the Cowshed," said somebody.

 

"Bravery is not enough," said Squealer. "Loyalty and obedience are more

important. And as to the Battle of the Cowshed, I believe the time will

come when we shall find that Snowball's part in it was much exaggerated.

Discipline, comrades, iron discipline! That is the watchword for today.

One false step, and our enemies would be upon us. Surely, comrades, you do

not want Jones back?"

 

Once again this argument was unanswerable. Certainly the animals did not

want Jones back; if the holding of debates on Sunday mornings was liable

to bring him back, then the debates must stop. Boxer, who had now had time

to think things over, voiced the general feeling by saying: "If Comrade

Napoleon says it, it must be right." And from then on he adopted the

maxim, "Napoleon is always right," in addition to his private motto of "I

will work harder."

 

By this time the weather had broken and the spring ploughing had begun.

The shed where Snowball had drawn his plans of the windmill had been shut

up and it was assumed that the plans had been rubbed off the floor. Every

Sunday morning at ten o'clock the animals assembled in the big barn to

receive their orders for the week. The skull of old Major, now clean of

flesh, had been disinterred from the orchard and set up on a stump at the

foot of the flagstaff, beside the gun. After the hoisting of the flag, the

animals were required to file past the skull in a reverent manner before

entering the barn. Nowadays they did not sit all together as they had done

in the past. Napoleon, with Squealer and another pig named Minimus, who

had a remarkable gift for composing songs and poems, sat on the front of

the raised platform, with the nine young dogs forming a semicircle round

them, and the other pigs sitting behind. The rest of the animals sat

facing them in the main body of the barn. Napoleon read out the orders for

the week in a gruff soldierly style, and after a single singing of 'Beasts

of England', all the animals dispersed.

 

On the third Sunday after Snowball's expulsion, the animals were somewhat

surprised to hear Napoleon announce that the windmill was to be built

after all. He did not give any reason for having changed his mind, but

merely warned the animals that this extra task would mean very hard work,

it might even be necessary to reduce their rations. The plans, however,

had all been prepared, down to the last detail. A special committee of

pigs had been at work upon them for the past three weeks. The building of

the windmill, with various other improvements, was expected to take two

years.

 

That evening Squealer explained privately to the other animals that

Napoleon had never in reality been opposed to the windmill. On the

contrary, it was he who had advocated it in the beginning, and the plan

which Snowball had drawn on the floor of the incubator shed had actually

been stolen from among Napoleon's papers. The windmill was, in fact,

Napoleon's own creation. Why, then, asked somebody, had he spoken so

strongly against it? Here Squealer looked very sly. That, he said, was

Comrade Napoleon's cunning. He had SEEMED to oppose the windmill, simply

as a manoeuvre to get rid of Snowball, who was a dangerous character and a

bad influence. Now that Snowball was out of the way, the plan could go

forward without his interference. This, said Squealer, was something

called tactics. He repeated a number of times, "Tactics, comrades,

tactics!" skipping round and whisking his tail with a merry laugh. The

animals were not certain what the word meant, but Squealer spoke so

persuasively, and the three dogs who happened to be with him growled so

threateningly, that they accepted his explanation without further

questions.

 

 

 

 

Chapter VI

 

 

 

All that year the animals worked like slaves. But they were happy in their

work; they grudged no effort or sacrifice, well aware that everything that

they did was for the benefit of themselves and those of their kind who

would come after them, and not for a pack of idle, thieving human beings.

 

Throughout the spring and summer they worked a sixty-hour week, and in

August Napoleon announced that there would be work on Sunday afternoons

as well. This work was strictly voluntary, but any animal who absented

himself from it would have his rations reduced by half. Even so, it was

found necessary to leave certain tasks undone. The harvest was a little

less successful than in the previous year, and two fields which should

have been sown with roots in the early summer were not sown because the

ploughing had not been completed early enough. It was possible to foresee

that the coming winter would be a hard one.

 

The windmill presented unexpected difficulties. There was a good quarry of

limestone on the farm, and plenty of sand and cement had been found in one

of the outhouses, so that all the materials for building were at hand. But

the problem the animals could not at first solve was how to break up the

stone into pieces of suitable size. There seemed no way of doing this

except with picks and crowbars, which no animal could use, because no

animal could stand on his hind legs. Only after weeks of vain effort did

the right idea occur to somebody-namely, to utilise the force of gravity.

Huge boulders, far too big to be used as they were, were lying all over

the bed of the quarry. The animals lashed ropes round these, and then all

together, cows, horses, sheep, any animal that could lay hold of the

rope--even the pigs sometimes joined in at critical moments--they dragged

them with desperate slowness up the slope to the top of the quarry, where

they were toppled over the edge, to shatter to pieces below. Transporting

the stone when it was once broken was comparatively simple. The horses

carried it off in cart-loads, the sheep dragged single blocks, even Muriel

and Benjamin yoked themselves into an old governess-cart and did their

share. By late summer a sufficient store of stone had accumulated, and

then the building began, under the superintendence of the pigs.

 

But it was a slow, laborious process. Frequently it took a whole day of

exhausting effort to drag a single boulder to the top of the quarry, and

sometimes when it was pushed over the edge it failed to break. Nothing

could have been achieved without Boxer, whose strength seemed equal to

that of all the rest of the animals put together. When the boulder began

to slip and the animals cried out in despair at finding themselves dragged

down the hill, it was always Boxer who strained himself against the rope

and brought the boulder to a stop. To see him toiling up the slope inch by

inch, his breath coming fast, the tips of his hoofs clawing at the ground,

and his great sides matted with sweat, filled everyone with admiration.

Clover warned him sometimes to be careful not to overstrain himself, but

Boxer would never listen to her. His two slogans, "I will work harder"

and "Napoleon is always right," seemed to him a sufficient answer to all

problems. He had made arrangements with the cockerel to call him

three-quarters of an hour earlier in the mornings instead of half an hour.

And in his spare moments, of which there were not many nowadays, he would

go alone to the quarry, collect a load of broken stone, and drag it down

to the site of the windmill unassisted.

 

The animals were not badly off throughout that summer, in spite of the

hardness of their work. If they had no more food than they had had in

Jones's day, at least they did not have less. The advantage of only having

to feed themselves, and not having to support five extravagant human

beings as well, was so great that it would have taken a lot of failures to

outweigh it. And in many ways the animal method of doing things was more

efficient and saved labour. Such jobs as weeding, for instance, could be

done with a thoroughness impossible to human beings. And again, since no

animal now stole, it was unnecessary to fence off pasture from arable

land, which saved a lot of labour on the upkeep of hedges and gates.

Nevertheless, as the summer wore on, various unforeseen shortages began to

make them selves felt. There was need of paraffin oil, nails, string, dog

biscuits, and iron for the horses' shoes, none of which could be produced

on the farm. Later there would also be need for seeds and artificial

manures, besides various tools and, finally, the machinery for the

windmill. How these were to be procured, no one was able to imagine.

 

One Sunday morning, when the animals assembled to receive their orders,

Napoleon announced that he had decided upon a new policy. From now onwards

Animal Farm would engage in trade with the neighbouring farms: not, of

course, for any commercial purpose, but simply in order to obtain certain

materials which were urgently necessary. The needs of the windmill must

override everything else, he said. He was therefore making arrangements to

sell a stack of hay and part of the current year's wheat crop, and later

on, if more money were needed, it would have to be made up by the sale of

eggs, for which there was always a market in Willingdon. The hens, said

Napoleon, should welcome this sacrifice as their own special contribution

towards the building of the windmill.

 

Once again the animals were conscious of a vague uneasiness. Never to have

any dealings with human beings, never to engage in trade, never to make

use of money--had not these been among the earliest resolutions passed at

that first triumphant Meeting after Jones was expelled? All the animals

remembered passing such resolutions: or at least they thought that they

remembered it. The four young pigs who had protested when Napoleon

abolished the Meetings raised their voices timidly, but they were promptly

silenced by a tremendous growling from the dogs. Then, as usual, the sheep

broke into "Four legs good, two legs bad!" and the momentary awkwardness

was smoothed over. Finally Napoleon raised his trotter for silence and

announced that he had already made all the arrangements. There would be no

need for any of the animals to come in contact with human beings, which

would clearly be most undesirable. He intended to take the whole burden

upon his own shoulders. A Mr. Whymper, a solicitor living in Willingdon,

had agreed to act as intermediary between Animal Farm and the outside

world, and would visit the farm every Monday morning to receive his

instructions. Napoleon ended his speech with his usual cry of "Long live

Animal Farm!" and after the singing of 'Beasts of England' the animals

were dismissed.

 

Afterwards Squealer made a round of the farm and set the animals' minds at

rest. He assured them that the resolution against engaging in trade and

using money had never been passed, or even suggested. It was pure

imagination, probably traceable in the beginning to lies circulated by

Snowball. A few animals still felt faintly doubtful, but Squealer asked

them shrewdly, "Are you certain that 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 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, there must be no alteration in our plans: they shall

be carried out to the day. Forward, comrades! Long live the windmill! Long

live Animal Farm!"

 

 

 

 

Chapter VII

 

 

 

It was a bitter winter. The stormy weather was followed by sleet and snow,

and then by a hard frost which did not break till well into February. The

animals carried on as best they could with the rebuilding of the windmill,

well knowing that the outside world was watching them and that the envious

human beings would rejoice and triumph if the mill were not finished

on time.

 

Out of spite, the human beings pretended not to believe that it was

Snowball who had destroyed the windmill: they said that it had fallen down

because the walls were too thin. The animals knew that this was not the

case. Still, it had been decided to build the walls three feet thick this

time instead of eighteen inches as before, which meant collecting much

larger quantities of stone. For a long time the quarry was full of

snowdrifts and nothing could be done. Some progress was made in the dry

frosty weather that followed, but it was cruel work, and the animals could

not feel so hopeful about it as they had felt before. They were always

cold, and usually hungry as well. Only Boxer and Clover never lost heart.

Squealer made excellent speeches on the joy of service and the dignity of

labour, but the other animals found more inspiration in Boxer's strength

and his never-failing cry of "I will work harder!"

 

In January food fell short. The corn ration was drastically reduced, and

it was announced that an extra potato ration would be issued to make up

for it. Then it was discovered that the greater part of the potato crop

had been frosted in the clamps, which had not been covered thickly enough.

The potatoes had become soft and discoloured, and only a few were edible.

For days at a time the animals had nothing to eat but chaff and mangels.

Starvation seemed to stare them in the face.

 

It was vitally necessary to conceal this fact from the outside world.

Emboldened by the collapse of the windmill, the human beings were

inventing fresh lies about Animal Farm. Once again it was being put about

that all the animals were dying of famine and disease, and that they were

continually fighting among themselves and had resorted to cannibalism and

infanticide. Napoleon was well aware of the bad results that might follow

if the real facts of the food situation were known, and he decided to make

use of Mr. Whymper to spread a contrary impression. Hitherto the animals

had had little or no contact with Whymper on his weekly visits: now,

however, a few selected animals, mostly sheep, were instructed to remark

casually in his hearing that rations had been increased. In addition,

Napoleon ordered the almost empty bins in the store-shed to be filled

nearly to the brim with sand, which was then covered up with what remained

of the grain and meal. On some suitable pretext Whymper was led through

the store-shed and allowed to catch a glimpse of the bins. He was

deceived, and continued to report to the outside world that there was no

food shortage on Animal Farm.

 

Nevertheless, towards the end of January it became obvious that it would

be necessary to procure some more grain from somewhere. In these days

Napoleon rarely appeared in public, but spent all his time in the

farmhouse, which was guarded at each door by fierce-looking dogs. When he

did emerge, it was in a ceremonial manner, with an escort of six dogs who

closely surrounded him and growled if anyone came too near. Frequently he

did not even appear on Sunday mornings, but issued his orders through one

of the other pigs, usually Squealer.

 

One Sunday morning Squealer announced that the hens, who had just come in

to lay again, must surrender their eggs. Napoleon had accepted, through

Whymper, a contract for four hundred eggs a week. The price of these would

pay for enough grain and meal to keep the farm going till summer came on

and conditions were easier.

 

When the hens heard this, they raised a terrible outcry. They had been

warned earlier that this sacrifice might be necessary, but had not

believed that it would really happen. They were just getting their

clutches ready for the spring sitting, and they protested that to take the

eggs away now was murder. For the first time since the expulsion of Jones,

there was something resembling a rebellion. Led by three young Black

Minorca pullets, the hens made a determined effort to thwart Napoleon's

wishes. Their method was to fly up to the rafters and there lay their

eggs, which smashed to pieces on the floor. Napoleon acted swiftly and

ruthlessly. He ordered the hens' rations to be stopped, and decreed that

any animal giving so much as a grain of corn to a hen should be punished

by death. The dogs saw to it that these orders were carried out. For five

days the hens held out, then they capitulated and went back to their

nesting boxes. Nine hens had died in the meantime. Their bodies were

buried in the orchard, and it was given out that they had died of

coccidiosis. Whymper heard nothing of this affair, and the eggs were duly

delivered, a grocer's van driving up to the farm once a week to take them

away.

 

All this while no more had been seen of Snowball. He was rumoured to be

hiding on one of the neighbouring farms, either Foxwood or Pinchfield.

Napoleon was by this time on slightly better terms with the other farmers

than before. It happened that there was in the yard a pile of timber which

had been stacked there ten years earlier when a beech spinney was cleared.

It was well seasoned, and Whymper had advised Napoleon to sell it; both

Mr. Pilkington and Mr. Frederick were anxious to buy it. Napoleon was

hesitating between the two, unable to make up his mind. It was noticed

that whenever he seemed on the point of coming to an agreement with

Frederick, Snowball was declared to be in hiding at Foxwood, while, when

he inclined toward Pilkington, Snowball was said to be at Pinchfield.