Mr. Jones, owner of Manor Farm, had locked the henhouses as soon as night fell, but in his drunkenness he had forgotten to close the little doors. With the bright halo of his lamp dancing back and forth, he staggered across the yard, kicked off his boots at the back door, filled one last glass of beer from the barrel in the scullery, and went up to the bedroom, where Mrs. Jones was already snoring.

As soon as the light went out in the bedroom, a stir, a flutter ran through all the buildings of the farm. During the day, it had been heard that old Major, the prize-winning middleweight white boar, had had a strange dream the previous night and wanted to tell the other animals about it. They had agreed that they would all gather in the big barn as soon as Mr. Jones was out of the way. Old Major (as he was always called, though his name at the pig shows was Willingdon Beauty) was held in such esteem on the farm that everyone was willing to lose an hour's sleep to hear what he had to say.

At the end of the barn, on some planks like a raised platform, Major had already settled himself on his straw, under a lamp hanging from a beam. He was twelve years old and had lately grown rather stout, but he was still a majestic-looking pig, with an appearance of wisdom and kindness, despite the fact that his tusks had never been cut. Soon the other animals began to arrive and sit around as best suited each of them. First came the three dogs, Bluebell, Jessie, and Pincher, and then the pigs, who immediately lay down on the straw around the platform. The hens perched on the window sills, the pigeons fluttered up to the rafters, the sheep and cows sat down behind the pigs and began to chew the cud.