4.18作业（修改）

I stood before the barn, clutching my windmill blueprints, hope burning in my eyes. This was for the future of the farm, for the freedom and prosperity of all animals. Napoleon always called me too idealistic, but he couldn’t grasp that progress demands vision.
That morning, I rallied the others to discuss the windmill plan. Their eager murmurs filled the air—until Napoleon emerged with his dogs. I knew then. His voice dripped with false warmth: “A fine idea, Snowball.” But his eyes? Ice.
When the hounds lunged at me, I wasn’t surprised. Of course. In the face of power, ideals are just obstacles. I fled, their jeers echoing behind. Yet I’ll return. One day, they’ll see who truly fought for them.
 
I stood before the weather-beaten barn. The morning sun glinted off the paper, casting shadows that danced on my sweat-streaked face. Hope blazed in my chest, meanwhile, a strong sense of energy welling up in my heart
"Brothers!" My voice lingered across the yard. Clover's ears perked; Boxer heaved an approving snort. We'd build turbines that would do us a favor to undergo the tough winter, their electricity lighting stalls where straw now rotted.
The earth seemed to shudder as Napoleon's shadow fell over us. His black coat gleamed with oil, the dogs' brass collars glinting like shackles. "A fine idea," he purred,
When the hounds stung, I stumbled back, gravel biting my heels. Boxer's thunderous "Neigh!" died in his throat as Pincher's jaws snapped inches from my ankle. Pain seared up my shin, sharp as Mr. Jones' whip. They stood laughing, breath steaming in the dawn.
I fled through the gate, splinters digging into flesh. The wind carried their sneers. But as I cradled my scraped elbows, the steel rule pressing into my palm reminded me: gears don't turn in straight lines. One day, when these fields thirst for more than trampled hay, they'll hear the turbines' song.