Snowball's Chance Read Online Free Page B

cancelled under the leadership of Napoleon, as it had been decided the whole thing was really just too much trouble, and rather tiring besides. The assembly had been replaced by marching and parading, which, though rousing at first, had itself become a drudge that was eventually phased out. Only at the occasional sporting festival (a day of races, and contests of strength, eating, and drinking) was everyone forced to wave that familiar green flag, and chant—
    “Manor Farm forever, I pledge my meat and leather.”
    With considerable apprehension, the reinstated Sunday Meeting was anticipated—as there was consensus among those not-pig that nothing good had ever happened at the Meeting, though all agreed, without exception, that as a whole everything was much better than it used to be. Why, they once were much hungrier. (And when was that? In the days before the rebellion, or after? Well, all good things came from suffering, as the pigs always said with a guttural chuckle.)
    It was known that private conferences between Snowball and Minimus were underway, and that these would largely decide the agenda and tenor of the Sunday Meeting. As the week wore on, the cheerful countenances of Snowball, Minimus, and the majority of the pigs left most of the animals feeling a sort of tenuous optimism. It seemed as if whatever was in the works wasn’t all that threatening—and the pigs, especially Snowball, were disposed to an unusual friendliness. On Thursday, each animal received one spoonful of applesauce. Snowball even helped (with his own hooves!) in tending the hayfield, the vegetable patches, and the grain. Though it was too early yet to know for sure, he said the crop seemed in good order—and he complimented every animal, at whatever task, on the fine work that he or she had accomplished.
    “We couldn’t do it without you,” he would say.
    And, remarkably, this little encouragement from such an important pigage made an empty manger seem less of an obstacle on a long afternoon. “Lunch” was but a faded memory to most of the farm animals, and when Snowball spoke of having it too reinstated, even the overseers, who, being pigs, had never themselves rescinded the pastime, were swept up in the dizzifying good humor, and let out a few vicarious yips of joy for their elated workers.
    One pig who did not share in this sunny disposition was Pinkeye. Pinkeye was the pig the most old school of the new school. And as he trailed behind Minimus in Minimus’s retinue, one could see that whatever they were to be, the reforms had left him looking like he’d eaten an old lemon. Despite talk, early in the week, that Snowballwould assume Pinkeye’s position of Next Leader, the tenure had gone unthreatened—as Snowball avowed an absolute disinterest in officialdom. Nevertheless, as the week wore on, Pinkeye’s expression grew so exceptionally dour that it made an animal wince and turn away.
That was no expression to be seen on the face of a pig with a whip!
Years ago, Pinkeye had served as Napoleon’s food taster, and the cows, who had some memory of this, joked that maybe something didn’t taste entirely right.…
    Interestingly, however, Pinkeye seemed to be getting on famously with Snowball, who was teaching him to do something called “croquet.” A box of the supplies necessary for this diversion had been delivered from downtown Willingdon, and a field was cleared from the weeds behind the Jones House that the two white boars might engage themselves in the mysterious and probably important activity.
    Finally, Sunday morning came—and after a treat of dried figs, the (new) old Sunday Morning meeting was called to order with the hoisting of the Manor Farm green flag. All the animals of the farm were in attendance. Cows, sheep, goats, horses, rats, cats, ducks, pigeons, geese, chickens, raven, and, standing with Minimus along the back wall, that disquieting retinue of black cockerels, dogs, boars, and heavily made-up sows.
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