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
'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
'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 m y 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
of England, beasts of Ireland,
Beasts of every land and clime,
Hearken to my joyful tidings
Of the golden future time.
or late the day is coming,
Tyrant Man shall be o'erthrown,
And the fruitful fields of England
Shall be trod by beasts alone.
shall vanish from our noses,
And the harness from our back,
Bit and spur shall rust forever,
Cruel whips no more shall crack.
more than mind can picture,
Wheat and barley, oats and hay,
Clover, beans, and mangel-wurzels
Shall be ours upon that day.
will shine the fields of England,
Purer shall its waters be,
Sweeter yet shall blow its breezes
On the day that sets us free.
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.
of England, beasts of Ireland,
Beasts of every land and clime,
Hearken well and spread my tidings
Of the golden future time.
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
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.
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