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.
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