I felt confident in my mission. I had successfully given the animals a glimmer of hope to hang onto. The pigs had done everything to counteract my stories, but of course the animals had already heard what I had to say and they believed me. There was not much of a change on the farm after I told them of the mountain, but I let myself believe that the animals still thought about it from time to time. It was months after my return now, almost a year even. Things had been rough for the animals. They had endless amounts of work; building the windmill, tending to crops, and now there was even a schoolhouse being built for the young piglets. The animals were worn out, all but one. Boxer never stopped working. He woke earlier than the rest and slept later. He ate less and did extra work. I felt that he was trying to hold the whole farm’s weight upon his broad shoulders. He never complained, he just worked harder. However, he couldn’t go on forever. He was an old horse and his body was worn from the hours of labor. Then, one day he cracked. He was working late in the evening carrying rocks up to the windmill site when he collapsed. I had flown straight to him and shouted for the nearby pigeons to get help. Soon, all the animals came rushing towards him. He lay on his side and crimson blood dripped down his neck in a thin stream. Clover was at his side in an instant. Many of the animals rushed back to tell Squealer of Boxer’s injury and came back saying that Comrade Napoleon was arranging for him to be sent to a nearby hospital. I stepped back and breathed a sigh of relief, he would be okay as long as he got to a hospital soon.