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,
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