"Comrades," Squealer announced coldly. "Beasts of England has been abolished. It was the song of the Rebellion. The Rebellion is now completed. The executions this afternoon were the final act. That song is no longer needed." In its place, a poet-pig named Minimus wrote a new song: Animal Farm, Animal Farm, Never through me shalt thou come to harm! It was sung every Sunday morning, but to the animals, neither the tune nor the words ever felt like "Beasts of England." Anbabi Read & Revive Reading Sharing Connecting

Part 4: The Windmill and the Purges The animals labored like slaves all through the summer, working sixty-hour weeks. Boxer dragged massive limestone blocks from the quarry from dawn until night, waking up forty-five minutes before everyone else to pull alone. Supplies ran short. To buy machinery for the windmill, Napoleon announced that Animal Farm would begin trading with the outside world through a human solicitor named Mr. Whymper. The animals felt uneasy—hadn't Old Major forbidden all trade and contact with humans? But Squealer assured them that no such resolution had ever been written down. Soon after, the pigs moved into Jones’s old farmhouse. Rumors spread that they were sleeping in the beds. Clover asked Muriel the goat to read the Fourth Commandment on the barn wall. To her bewilderment, the painted words read: No animal shall sleep in a bed with sheets. "You did not imagine we sleep under sheets, did you?" Squealer said smoothly. "A bed is simply a place to sleep. A pile of straw is a bed. The rule was against sheets, which are a human invention." In November, a furious autumn storm battered the farm. In the morning, the animals rushed to the knoll and gasped in horror: the windmill was flat. Months of agonizing labor lay shattered in piles of broken stone. Napoleon marched to the ruins, sniffing the mud. He stopped and pointed toward the ground. "Comrades!" he roared. "Do you know who is responsible for this? Snowball! In sheer spite, he crept in under cover of dark and destroyed our year’s work!" A death sentence was pronounced on Snowball on the spot, with a reward of a bushel of apples for anyone who caught him. From that moment on, every accident on the farm—a broken window, a clogged drain, a lost key—was blamed on Snowball's nighttime sabotage. Winter was merciless. Starvation loomed. Napoleon concealed the food shortage from the outside world by filling the grain bins with sand and scattering grain on top before Mr. Whymper visited. To raise money, Napoleon signed a contract to surrender four hundred eggs a week from the hens. The hens rebelled, flying up to the rafters to lay their eggs so they smashed on the floor. Napoleon retaliated with swift brutality: he cut off their rations entirely and ordered that any animal giving them a grain of corn would be put to death. The hens held out for five days; nine died of starvation before the survivors surrendered. In the spring, Napoleon ordered all animals to assemble in the yard. He wore both of his medals, flanked by his snarling dogs. At a single bark, the dogs leaped forward and pinned four squealing young pigs to the earth by their ears. The dogs dragged them before Napoleon. The pigs, trembling with terror, confessed that they had been in secret contact with Snowball and had helped destroy the windmill. When their confession was finished, the dogs tore their throats out. Three hens who had led the egg rebellion were called forward; they confessed that Snowball had visited them in dreams, and were immediately slaughtered. A goose confessed to hiding six ears of corn; a sheep confessed to urinating in the drinking pool. One by one, they were executed on the spot until a pile of corpses lay at Napoleon's feet and the air smelled heavy of blood. The surviving animals crept away together to the knoll, shivering and miserable, crowding around Clover for warmth. Clover stared down at the farm with tears in her eyes. This was not what they had dreamed of that night with Old Major. They had looked forward to a world without whips and chains, where the strong protected the weak; instead, they had come to a time when no one dared speak their mind, when fierce dogs roamed the yard, and comrades were torn to pieces before their eyes. Yet she had no words to say it. All she could do was softly begin singing "Beasts of England." Squealer hurried over, flanked by two dogs.

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