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And then, after a few preliminary tries, the whole farm burst out into "Beasts of England" in tremendous unison. The cows lowed it, the dogs whined it, the sheep bleated it, the horses whinnied it, the ducks quacked it. They were so delighted with the song that they sang it right through five times in succession, and might have continued singing it all night if they had not been interrupted. (1.20)
Oh, we get it. The animals just like to hear themselves sing. J/K! They're just all delighted to be doing something together, and they're really taking pride in this new vision of animal harmony that Old Major has given them.
"Now, comrades," cried Snowball, throwing down the paint-brush, "to the hayfield! Let us make it a point of honour to get in the harvest more quickly than Jones and his men could do." (2.24)
When pride is helping you get the harvest in quickly (or get good grades, or put on pants every morning instead of going to the grocery store in your sweatpants ahem), it's all good. When it's making you vandalize your rival school? Maybe not so good.
All through that summer the work of the farm went like clockwork. 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. (3.3)
So far, so good. When you have to buy your clothes with your very own paycheck, you tend to take better care of them; when you work hard for yourself, you tend to be happier about it.