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Somehow it seemed as though the farm had grown richer without making the animals themselves any richer-except, of course, for the pigs and the dogs.

Perhaps this was partly because there were so many pigs and so many dogs.

It was not that these creatures did not work, after their fashion.

There was, as Squealer was never tired of explaining, endless work in the supervision and organisation of the farm.

Much of this work was of a kind that the other animals were too ignorant to understand.

For example, Squealer told them that the pigs had to expend enormous labours every day upon mysterious things called "files," "reports," "minutes," and "memoranda".

These were large sheets of paper which had to be closely covered with writing, and as soon as they were so covered, they were burnt in the furnace.

This was of the highest importance for the welfare of the farm, Squealer said.

But still, neither pigs nor dogs produced any food by their own labour; and there were very many of them, and their appetites were always good.

As for the others, their life, so far as they knew, was as it had always been.

They were generally hungry, they slept on straw, they drank from the pool, they laboured in the fields; in winter they were troubled by the cold, and in summer by the flies.

Sometimes the older ones among them racked their dim memories and tried to determine whether in the early days of the Rebellion, when Jones's expulsion was still recent, things had been better or worse than now.

They could not remember.

There was nothing with which they could compare their present lives: they had nothing to go upon except Squealer's lists of figures, which invariably demonstrated that everything was getting better and better.

The animals found the problem insoluble; in any case, they had little time for speculating on such things now.

Only old Benjamin professed to remember every detail of his long life and to know that things never had been, nor ever could be much better or much worse - hunger, hardship, and disappointment being, so he said, the unalterable law of life.

And yet the animals never gave up hope.

More, they never lost, even for an instant, their sense of honour and privilege in being members of Animal Farm.

They were still the only farm in the whole county - in all England! - owned and operated by animals.

Not one of them, not even the youngest, not even the newcomers who had been brought from farms ten or twenty miles away, ever ceased to marvel at that.

And when they heard the gun booming and saw the green flag fluttering at the masthead, their hearts swelled with imperishable pride, and the talk turned always towards the old heroic days, the expulsion of Jones, the writing of the Seven Commandments, the great battles in which the human invaders had been defeated.

None of the old dreams had been abandoned.

The Republic of the Animals which Major had foretold, when the green fields of England should be untrodden by human feet, was still believed in.

Some day it was coming: it might not be soon, it might not be with in the lifetime of any animal now living, but still it was coming.

Even the tune of 'Beasts of England' was perhaps hummed secretly here and there: at any rate, it was a fact that every animal on the farm knew it, though no one would have dared to sing it aloud.

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