#1 – A Hectic Morning
 

Sam is 4, May 8, Daisy 12, Halfred 15, Hamson 19, Marigold is 8 months and Hamfast is 58. (about 2 ½, 5, 7 ½, 9 ½, 12, 5 months, and 37 in Man years.)

Wedmath, 1384 SR
 

“Give it to me, May!” Daisy shrieked. The girls tore out of their room, May in the lead as she clutched a pink ribbon in her hand. “That’s the ribbon Ma gave me!”

“It is not!” May shot back, ducking behind the rocker in the parlor just in time to avoid getting her hair snatched by her sister. “Cousin Lily gave me this just last week.”

“She did not!”

“Did too!”

“That’s mine!”

“It isn’t!”

“Is too! Daddy, she has my ribbon and she’s going to ruin it!” Daisy called through the humble smial, near to tears as she again attempted to make a lunge for her sister.

May shot away at the last second and scrambled behind the settee. “Tis my ribbon as I got from Cousin Lily,” she insisted, loud enough for Hamfast to hear, wherever he may be. “She gave me it herself. Just ask her.” She pointed her tongue out at Daisy, then had to scramble away again as Daisy attempted to round the settee to get to her.

Halfred strolled down the tunnel to the parlor, a comb halfway through his wet curls and his shirt hanging loose and unbuttoned over his shoulders. He finished combing his hair and leaned against the wall to watch the cat fight. “If you leap over the settee, you’ll get to her right enough,” he supplied to Daisy. “But you have to wait for the proper moment like, so’s you can catch her at unawares.”

Daisy ignored him as she and May continued to dart back and forth on opposite sides of the settee.

“If you see her readying to leap at you, you best be getting down the hall and out the door as best you can,” Halfred now advised May. “Wait till she’s in mid-leap, as she won’t be able to stop herself then.”

“Fred, shut up!” Daisy shouted and stomped her feet in frustration. “I know it’s mine, May. You took it from my box, I saw you. Now give it back!”

“It’s mine and if you lost yours, that’s your pity. You shouldn’t be so careless with Ma’s things,” May said, and tucked the ribbon up her sleeve. It was her ribbon, and she was tired of Daisy always trying to claim her things.

“Feint going right, then jump straight over the middle. That way, you can trap her on the inside of the room,” Halfred called to Daisy from the sidelines. His next piece of advice never passed his lips, as that was the moment Hamson entered the parlor behind him and boxed him hard on the ear.

“Finish your washing up,” Hamson ordered over his brother’s surprised yelp. He was cleaned and groomed, and dressed in his most comfortable work clothes, which is to say, the clothes with the most mends and patches in them. He nudged Halfred back toward the tunnel and called to his sisters, “You best be getting to breakfast, lest you be wanting the switch from Gaffer. He’s near finished with Sammy and Goldie and he’s not in the best of moods.”

“She has me ribbon, the one as Ma gave me,” Daisy cried, not caring about anything else.

“Ma gave you lots of ribbons, and if you want to be keeping any of them, you best be stopping this foolishness,” Hamson said, but not in time. No sooner did he finish his warning than a shout of a more commanding and forceful sort rent through the smial.

“DAISY! MAY!” Hamfast was finished dressing the little ones, and he was ready to deal with the lasses.

Hamson mouthed, “I told you so,” then grabbed Halfred, who was still standing in the doorway watching the scene, and headed for the kitchen. Looked like the lads would be fixing first breakfast again.

They passed their father in the hall, and he wore a face that would curdle new milk. They relieved him of Sam and Marigold, though Hamfast hardly noticed as he thundered down the narrow tunnel toward the parlor. Halfred took Marigold and let her suckle his thumb while he headed for the pantry to fetch a bottle of milk to warm.

Sam raised his hands to Hamson and made grabbing motions, his face tight with worry. “Up,” he requested. Hamson bent down and scooped his brother up, and Sam nuzzled his face into his brother’s shoulder, his arms wrapped tightly around Hamson’s neck. Hamson patted Sam’s back reassuringly, just as their father reached the parlor.

“They’ll be all right, Sammy. Right as rain, you just wait and see,” Hamson said, entering the kitchen as the Gaffer’s scolding started in the parlor.

“I don’t be caring whose ribbon it is, or who be getting what from who. I’ll take it away and neither of you will have one, and see how that suits. Just one morning without the two of you harping like a pair of wild wolves – is that too much to be asking?”

“No, Daddy,” the sisters said, cowed for now.

Hamson pulled himself loose of Sam’s grip and plopped his little brother into his high chair as the Gaffer continued his tongue lashing in the parlor. “There you be, lad.”

“It’s loud,” Sam complained and raised his arms hopefully.

“Aye,” Hamson agreed, but turned away from his brother to dig through the larder to find food for first breakfast. “But that’s lasses for you, Sammy. Always loud, if you let them. Don’t be worrit none for them. You know plain as day Dad’ll do them no harm, for all he may want to strangle them ‘bout the neck at times.” Hamson talked as he worked, keeping his voice calm and reassuring, and this assuaged Sam for the moment.

Halfred came out of the pantry then, cold milk bottle in hand, and set about fixing a blaze in the oven, Marigold still drooling happily on his thumb. He awkwardly banked the fire one-handed, then placed the pan on the stove, poured some water from a jug into it and set the bottle standing in the middle. That done, he sat next to Sam at the table, and kept his younger siblings occupied while Hamson prepared first breakfast.

A minute later, the lasses sulked into the kitchen, neither of them looking at the other. Hamson wasted no time in giving his orders. They were running late again this morning, as they always seemed to be doing lately, and they had no time to spare. “Daisy, set the table and come chop up these vegetables as needs it. May, get the little ones things ready for taking to Missus Rumble. You’re to be helping her with her stitching and washing today as she looks after the lot of you.”

May grumbled, but turned about and headed for the nursery to first prepare a bag for the bairn before gathering up Sam’s things. Daisy uttered not a sound, but took the plates and bowls from the cupboard to set the table. Then she started water boiling for washing the dishes later, before taking her place at her eldest brother’s side. Hamfast entered the kitchen then, his arms loaded with firewood, and a pink ribbon sticking out of his shirt pocket.

Sam saw his father and his face lit up into a toothy grin. He raised his arms. “Gaffy. Up, Gaffy,” he chimed.

Hamfast smiled at his youngest son, the frown lines smoothing from his forehead, but he shook his head. “I can’t be carting you ‘round all day, Sammy, and the sooner as you learn that, the better.” He dumped the logs into the wood box and spared a moment to pat Sam on the head as he made his way over to the stove. He checked the bottle, testing the milk on his wrist. Satisfied, he retrieved Marigold to take her into the parlor, to feed her on the rocking chair where Bell always used to feed the others when they were still bairns.

Now free of his sister, Halfred helped Hamson with the rest of the breakfast preparations, and Daisy moved on to crush and strain apples for juice, occasionally cutting off a small piece of fruit for Sam to nibble on. May returned then, two bags prepared with Marigold’s and Sam’s things, as well as a satchel full of yarn and knitting she and Daisy had worked on the previous night to take back to Missus Rumble this morning.

The time passed quietly, everyone concentrating on their own tasks, and if anyone noticed the lingering tension between the two sisters, no one paid it any mind. The lasses would work it out eventually, or Daisy would find her ribbon or May would discover she left hers at the Cottons, and all would be forgiven.

First breakfast was soon finished and on the table, just as Hamfast returned with Marigold, a towel draped over his shoulder as he patted the bairn softly on her back, wincing when she pulled on his curls a bit too enthusiastically. Sam again attempted his request to be held.

“Now, Sammy, I’ll be needing at least one hand to eat with,” Hamfast said gently and took his place at the head of the table. Halfred served him and Sam, and the others all got their own plates.

Daisy sat next to Sam, and helped him eat as she fed herself. She eyed the ribbon still sticking out of her father’s pocket and sighed, knowing it was useless to attempt to get it back now. She’d have words with May over this before the day was done, but she knew it was best to wait until the Gaffer was nowhere about to hear it. She didn’t need anymore trouble than she was already in.

Hamfast turned to his sons. “You’re both to be helping Noakes this morn?” he asked.

“Yes sir,” Halfred answered. “His field needs plowing and digging up. We might get up to the Cottons’ afterwards for a spell. Cousin Tom’s needing strong backs for a barn raising.”

“Just don’t take on more than you can handle,” Hamfast said, “or you’ll be more a burden than a help, and get hurt besides most like.”

“We’ll just be hauling planks about if we go,” Hamson said. Going to the Cottons’ would depend on how long it took them to finish Noakes’ fields. If it took too long, they would make their way to market and find other work there.

“Send word up to Bag End where you’ll be then, if your plans change,” Hamfast ordered.

“We will, sir,” his sons chimed back.

“We will, sir,” Sam repeated from his high chair and splattered his eggs about with his fork. Daisy quickly grabbed the fork away from him before he could make too much of a mess and resumed feeding him until he was full before satisfying her own appetite.

The older lads finished their meal first and started clearing up the dishes and cleaning the kitchen. May finished next and took Marigold from her father, and Sam didn’t waste a second in asking to be held. Hamfast relented then, and took Sam outside with him as he went to greet the day and have a word with Daddy Twofoot and Odo Goodlove down the lane. He needed someone to take his taters into market for him and sell them for a decent price.

Inside, the older children made quick work of the breakfast dishes, and Daisy went to fetch the laundry and help May finish her chores and change the bairn’s soiled napkin. Hamson and Halfred stayed in the kitchen, preparing luncheon boxes for both themselves and their father. The lasses would eat at the Rumbles, but the lads never knew where they might be for luncheon and the Gaffer always took his own meal up to Bag End.

When they finished, they quickly cleaned what small mess they made, and called to their sisters that they were leaving, then headed out the door to start their days. They paused in front of Goodlove’s hole, and handed Hamfast his luncheon before continuing on their way, smiles and cheer on their faces. Hamfast watched them go as he leaned on the fence and spoke business and gossip with his neighbors, Sam bouncing happily on his hip.

Daisy made a quick sweep through the smial, making sure all was tidy as it should be, as May placed the bairn in her buggy carriage, tucking her away safe and tight so she wouldn’t be exposed to the sun’s bright rays. She shouldered her small bag, and Daisy met her and took the bigger burden.

“I know it was mine,” Daisy said, quietly. “I best not see you with any of my other things.”

“Fine then,” May replied. “I best not see you trying to take none of mine either.”

“Like I would want anything of yours.” 

With that, Daisy stepped out of the smial and clicked her way to the garden gate, holding it open for May as she pushed the carriage at a slow but steady pace. A few minutes later, they passed the Goodlove’s, and Hamfast set Sam down with a pat to the head. Sam, however, wasn’t ready to be let down. He hugged onto his father’s legs with an iron grip and buried his face into his father’s trousers.

Hamfast sighed. “Sammy, we can’t be doing this every morning. I’m late enough as it is.”

“Noooo,” Sam wailed, his cry muffled through fabric. His grip tightened. “I come with you.”

“You can’t, lad, and you know it. I can’t be watching over you while I work. Go on with Daisy now, like a big lad.”

“No.” Sam stared up at Hamfast, tears standing in his large, brown eyes, his lower lip quivering. “I want come, Gaffy.”

Daisy finally reached out and plied one of his hands loose from their father’s trousers. She held his hand tight and tugged gently. “Come on, Sammy. Mama Daisy will take care of you.”

“You’re not Ma.”

“I know,” Daisy said, she voice slightly tightened. “But I’ll do the best I can.”

Sam looked down at their joined hands and for a long moment did nothing. Then, reluctantly, he let his father go and let Daisy lead him away, May struggling beside them with the buggy carriage. As they reached the end of the lane, Sam looked back and waved to his father, like he did every morning, and Hamfast had the strangest feeling Sam was preparing never to see him again. For that was how it happened with his mother, just a few short months ago. Seeing Sam standing there, trying to be brave, was always the hardest part of Hamfast’s mornings.

He stood his ground though and let his children go, only lifting his hand to wave back. The distance to the Rumble’s was not great and they would not need to go more than halfway down the Hill to get there. Hamfast watched them with worried eyes until they reached their destination.

“I don’t know how you be managing it, Ham,” Daddy said to him now, and Odo hummed in agreement. “Tis a wild bunch you got there in those two lasses, a hollering near every morning seems like.”

“They’re good girls,” Hamfast said wistfully. He fingered the ribbon tucked away in his pocket, missing his Bell terribly. Had she been here to handle things, it wouldn’t have come to shouting and harsh words, and that was a fact.

“Sammy’s still taking it hard,” Odo stated.

“Didn’t Mr. Baggins say as you could take him to work with you if you needed?” Daddy asked.

“Aye, but I’m not burdening Mr. Bilbo with my affairs. Sam will get along,” Hamfast said, unconvinced even as he said it. He would give it another week or two, and if Sam’s fits didn’t subside, he would speak with Mr. Bilbo about the matter again.

“Well, I’ve business in market meself today,” Odo said, getting back to the matter at hand. “I’ll take your taters for you and not take less than as they’re worth, no charge for it neither.”

“Thank you, Odo,” Hamfast said and nodded to his friends. “I best be going on myself. Mr. Bilbo’ll be waiting, no doubt. Can’t be late again.”

“Nay, you could be late as the cows coming home and he’d not mind none, I reckon,” Daddy said in kindly jest.

Hamfast laughed ruefully and hauled himself off the fence. “He might not mind none, but them gladioli will. Good day to you.”

“Keep yourself well, Ham,” Daddy and Odo said and waved Hamfast off to his day.
 
 
 

GF 6/19/05

#2 - Pork Chops and Apple Sauce

Halfred is 22, Holly Goodlove 20, Daisy and Halfast 19, Viola Goodlove 17, Jasmine Twofoot 16, May 15, Robin Smallburrows 12, Sam and Tom 11, and Finch Fernbrook is 10 (about 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9 ½, 7 ½, 7 and 6 in Man years)

1391 SR
 

“All right now, lads and lasses, listen up,” Daisy called over the noise in the cooking tent. She clapped her hands for absolute attention and surveyed her crew critically.

The adults had been wary about letting the children cook the main dish by themselves, but Daisy had insisted they could manage it. Looking at her crew, she knew she was right.

Holly and Viola Goodlove, the daughters of Odo Goodlove and good friends to Daisy, worked as cooks for Mr. Goodbody, who was always throwing grand and impressive gatherings. They were quite accustomed to cooking for a large crowd. Jasmine Twofoot, Daddy’s third child, was May’s special friend. She lived at Number Three just as much as she did Number Two and knew how the Gaffer liked his food. Tom Cotton had brought his friends, Finch Fernbrook and Robin Smallburrows, with him. Tom was certain to be a decent cook and capable enough to complete the tasks assigned him. Daisy wasn’t so sure about the other two, but her siblings and cousin Halfast would keep an eye on them.

Daisy nodded with satisfaction as May came up beside her, finished with preparing the cooking stations. “All’s ready, Daisy,” she announced.

Daisy checked her sister’s preparations and was quite impressed. The cooking would go smoothly, as would the serving, with everything set up the way it was. There wouldn’t even be a need to move the food after it was cooked; it could be served right where it currently sat.

“Good job, May,” she praised and her sister grinned toothily, causing Jasmine to giggle. Oh dear, she’ll have to keep those two apart as much as possible if any work was to be done.

“This’ll be fair easy what with all the hands we got helping, and we’ve plenty to be cooking with for feeding everyone,” Daisy went on. From the corner of her eye, she saw movement near the center cooking station. Without turning her head, she raised her voice just slightly, making her voice stern. “Enough, that is, so long as no one goes sneaking tastes afore time. If I catch any of you at it, it’ll be your hands and that’ll be fair warning for you all.”

The younger children nodded obediently while the older children shared knowing smirks amongst themselves. Mother Daisy didn’t earn her nickname for nothing. Robin dropped the carrot that had been traveling towards his mouth and dashed over to stand with Sam and Tom, trying to look innocent.

“These’ll be your assignments,” Daisy went on. “Fred, take Tom and Finch, and cut up and steam the vegetables. Once they’re steamed good, drain them and add the vinaigrette. Just enough to coat, now. We don’t want to be overwhelming the rest of the food. May and Hal, take Sam and Robin and prepare the apple sauce. You know your way about it; make sure Robin does too. Holly, Jasmine and Viola, we’ll be broiling the pork and we best get started as that’ll take the longest.”

Halfred grumbled about his assignment. He’d rather be helping with the apple sauce, and that was a fact, but he accepted his sister’s authority in the kitchen, tent or no. He also didn’t doubt his sister’s warning against any early tasting, and vegetables were far easier to resist, for all that they looked so delicious. No doubt that was why Daisy gave him this assignment.

He led Tom and Finch to the center station, where two large baskets stood, stuffed with large, golden squash the size of kick balls, and carrots as fat as fists. Two copper drums were suspended over small fires, just enough heat to warm. He would have to remember to build the fires up once they reached the halfway mark with the dicing if the water was to be hot enough for boiling when they were ready for it. In the meantime, he handed the lads two small knives for the carrots.

“Small slices now, lads,” he instructed and showed them how to hold the carrot firm to the cutting board. “Move your fingers back as you go. If you run out o’ room for your fingers near the end, then stand the rest of the carrot up and cut sideways, like so,” he continued and demonstrated for them. “Put the slices in those bowls there till we’re finished, then we’ll put them in the water all at once.”

“Why?” asked Finch.

“Because, it’ll take us a time getting it all chopped up,” Halfred explained. “We don’t want the early carrots to be getting soggy waiting for the others. Have you ever eaten a soggy carrot?”

Tom and Finch wrinkled their noses in answer.

“Aye, that’s why, then. Now get to it,” Halfred said and watched as the lads chopped their first few carrots. “Smaller slices,” he advised after their first effort, and after that, the lads had it all in hand.

Halfred turned to the squash then. The shells of the squash were hard, and required a sharper and longer knife to cut through them easily. He sliced them open one by one, spooning out the center and peeling the shell before cutting the squash into smaller pieces.

Meanwhile, May and Halfast had taken the other two lads to the last station in the row, where two large bags of green apples sat next to two flat pans set over cold fire pits. A large vat of butter sat on the ground next to one bag of apples, in the shade. Two satchels also lay next to the butter, containing the brown sugar and cinnamon powder.

“All right, we’ll core and slice the apples and put them straight away in the pan. It’ll save time for later. Do you know how to core apples?” she asked Robin, since she knew already that her brother and cousin did. Robin nodded, but he was biting on his lower lip uncertainly. “Are you sure? Here, lad, watch me.”

She picked up a paring knife and took an apple in hand. She cut straight into the apple by its stem and cut out the middle in a circular motion, pushing the core out with her finger. “Easy as pie,” she said. “Then you cut it sideways into thin slices shaped like rings, see?”

She finished and looked up to see that she had Halfast’s attention as well. Sam was already working, going onto his third apple.

“So that’s how you want it done, is it,” Halfast said and nodded. “Good to know, or I’d have gone about it all wrong.”

Robin smiled at him gratefully and he watched them each a few times before attempting his own. Sam nodded encouragingly and after a few more attempts, Robin was confident of his job and gradually became faster.

Once Daisy was satisfied that everyone was doing their part, she joined the other lasses at the first station. Each lass had her own vat of cooking water, which was already warming over low fires. Holly and Viola had taken the first two, and Jasmine was working at the last, as close to May as she could get. Daisy took the third and commenced working. There was no need to give any instructions here: they all knew what to do.

They trimmed the fat off the pork and tossed it into the water so it could dissolve and add flavor to the meat. The pork they placed in similar vats behind them, salting and peppering them as they went, working without pause. When all the pork slices were ready, they would add them to the water for cooking.

After a time, boredom set in, and the youngest children became listless as they listened to the sounds of play and games from outside on the Party Field. Halfast and Halfred knew just the cure, an old game of theirs that would work so long as a few of the younger children didn’t know how to play.

“So, Hal,” Halfred said, “are you going to the Free Fair this year?”

“I am, Fred,” Halfast answered, catching onto the game immediately. “And I think I’ll take a hammock, if that’s acceptable o’ course.”

“Aye, it is. You can come along. I’m going to take me a hammer, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. The more, the merrier, as they say.”

“Are you going, Sam?” Halfred asked.

“Aye, I’m taking strawberries if I may.”

“You can come along then also,” Halfast said.

“Do I have to take something?” Finch, Robin and Tom asked at the same time, and everyone else grinned. Now the game could begin.

“Everyone has to take something,” May said. “I’ll take a… hmm… a mallet.”

“A mallet?” Tom asked, not understanding in the slightest. “Why’d you take that?”

“It’s just a game,” Sam said. “You have to say what you’re going to take, see, and then we’ll tell you if you can come.”

“Why wouldn’t we be able to come?” Robin asked.

“Because, if you bring the wrong thing, you can’t come. Tell us what you’re bringing,” Daisy joined in now.

“A pie?” Finch guessed. A pie sounded much more sensible than a mallet or a hammer at any rate, and it’d be much tastier too.

“Sorry, you can’t go,” the Gamgees chimed at once.

“Why not?” Finch asked, insulted. “What’s wrong with pie?”

“Nothing, only you can’t bring it,” May said. “Just listen to the rest of us and try to figure it out. What will you bring, Daisy?”

“I’ll bring a dog,” Daisy said.

“But you don’t even have a dog,” Tom pointed out.

“You, Jasmine?” Daisy said with a laugh, continuing the game.

“I can never think of anything to bring,” Jasmine complained, then began with her usual items. “Jack cheese. Viola?”

“I most certainly can never bring anything,” she said.

“There must be something,” Holly said. “How about if you bring… violets, and I’ll bring homemade stew.”

“That’s cheating,” Halfred said. “You always bring homemade something or other. Think of something else or you can’t come.”

“Since when it that a rule?” Holly shot back. “I can bring homemade whatever I wish.”

“Robin, what are you bringing to the Fair,” Daisy cut in before the argument could get out of hand and stop their work.

Robin shrugged, completely at a loss. “A rabbit?” he guessed.

“You can go!” Sam exclaimed.

“Wait a minute,” Tom said. “How come he can take a rabbit and go, but Finch can’t take a pie and go?”

“Because, that’s the rule,” May answered evasively. “I’m going to the Free Fair, and I’m taking a mouse.”

“Ew!” Jasmine exclaimed and giggled.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Finch complained.

“Just listen to what we bring,” Sam said, quite uselessly as far as his friends were concerned.

They went through several more rounds, some faster at thinking up items than others, so the game moved slowly, for all they were enjoying themselves. Or at least, most of them were. After Robin’s first successful guess, he was never able to bring anything that would allow him to go again. He, Tom and Finch were growing beyond frustrated, much to the amusement of the others. Finally, Sam took pity on them and tried to make the trick more obvious.

“Listen carefully,” he said. “May is taking a mallet, a mouse, a mitten, a mortar, and some mallow. Halfred is taking a hammock, a horse, a hobbit, a hob, and a hamper. Jasmine is bringing jack cheese, juniper, jasper, a jar and jonquil. Viola is taking violets, a violin, vanilla pudding, a vole and a vane. Daisy is taking a dog…”

“Oh!” Tom suddenly exclaimed as he got the trick. “So, if I took a tent, I could go?”

“Yes!” Halfast said.

“Or a tenpenny nail? Or ptarmigan?”

“You’ve got it.”

“I don’t get it,” Robin and Finch said, still at a loss.

“Can I tell them?” Sam asked Halfred.

Halfred nodded. “Yes, I think it’s about time they’re let in, but then we’ll have to find something else to play.”

“We can do Round Robin,” Sam suggested, then turned to his friends. “See, how it works is, you bring something that starts with the same sound as the beginning of your name. You, Robin, can come if you bring a rabbit, but you can’t come if you bring a hat, a purse, a coat or a bench. Finch, you can come if you brought a fence, or a… fff… fountain. See?”

“But you can't be carrying a fountain to the Fair,” Finch said.

“You're not actually going to be taking any of these things, Finch. It's just a game,” Holly said.

“I can go if I bring reeds?” Robin asked, and Sam nodded.

“Oh, that’s a good game! I can’t wait to play it with my brothers,” Finch said, getting it at last.

“It helps if there’s more than one person who knows how to play it,” May said.

“We’ll all three play it with our siblings together,” Robin said. “It’ll be fun! And we'll tell them that they do have to bring whatever they say to the Fair.”

“We'll wait until just before the Fair then, so they won't forget,” Finch put in, and the other lads agreed.

They went through a few more rounds to make sure the other lads did indeed get the rule. Halfred built up the fire while they were at, seeing as they were now at the halfway mark. They never paused in their work, even during their game, and the job was going quicker than they could have hoped for. When Halfred was satisfied with the fire, he went back to cutting the squash and glanced over at Sam.

“So, will you be starting the Rounds, Sam? What shall we sing about?”

“Pork chops and apple sauce, of course,” Jasmine said. “Get on with you, Sam.”

Sam blushed, not wanting to go first but there was nothing for it. He had suggested the game, so it was only proper that he start it. He thought about his first verse as he cored a few more apples.

“Well?” May goaded.

“I’m thinking,” Sam said and huffed. No, he was stalling. “Very well. Here it is then, for what it’s worth.”

Sam:

Gaffer loves his pork chops,
They go down very good,
They go with near everything,
And that’s just how it stood.

Halfred:

It stood so with the Gaffer,
And with his friend Old Tom,
And apple sauce on top of it,
Is… much better than some.

“Oh, that was horrible,” Halfred chided himself.

“It’s better than your last attempt,” Holly offered assurance. This wasn’t Halfred’s best game.

May:

Tis better than parsnips,
Tis better than crumbs,
He eats it every day now,
As witnessed by his bum.

The singing stopped as everyone burst into laughter. “Good one, May!” Jasmine said.

“Oh, the Gaffer’s ears be burning now,” Viola laughed.

“You’ve gone and ended the game, May,” Daisy said when she got her breath back. “No one’ll beat that.”

“We’ll see,” May said smugly. “Jasmine, you go next.”

“We’re going to be switched for this,” Sam snickered helplessly, sending the others into giggles again. At last, Jasmine mastered herself and went on, despite her better judgment.

Jasmine:

His bum has got quite big now,
Gets bigger every day,
We know what it’s really from,
But he says he stuffs his pants with hay.

Halfast:

And now he’s added apple sauce,
To his meal of choice,
He eats it e’ery day almost,
And never gets tired of it.

“That doesn’t even rhyme!” Tom said. “At least Fred finds rhymes.”

“I’m not good at this game,” Halfast defended himself. “You go next then.”

Tom:

Apples are his favorite
Fruit for eating plain,
He eats them in the glowing sun,
And in the pouring rain.

Viola:
 
He eats them when it’s windy,
And even when it’s snowing,
He eats them as he watches the sun
Wake up in the morning.

Daisy:

But the apples come in second,
To the pork chops that he loves,
Tis the meat that makes his mouth awater
Enough to soak his gloves.

Robin:

He’s tried to give it up now,
And eat somewhat diff’rent,
But he always comes back to it,
Just as I would warrant.

Holly:

They say that he’ll eat it,
To his dying day,
And even then, he’ll laugh and grin,
And claim his bum is hay.

Finch:

‘Cause it’ll be real big then,
As big as any house,
And it’ll all be worth it,
For pork chops and apple sauce.

Hamfast:

I think that I would rather
Wallop my children good,
For making up a silly song
In front of the neighborhood.

“Gaffer!” the children cried, and paused, horrified. How long had he been standing there?

Hamfast looked at them sternly, his arms crossed and steam all but coming out his ears. For a long moment, they stood frozen, until Hamfast’s resolve melted and he burst into tearful laughter. “They want to know if you wouldn’t mind a singing it again, and sing it louder this time so as those near the back can hear it proper,” Hamfast said and walked out of the tent, laughing the whole time.

The children remained frozen still for several more moments, recovering from the shock of discovering that everyone had heard the song. Then they started laughing too, relief and embarrassment flooding through them.

“So, an encore is it?” Halfred said. “Does everyone remember their verses?”

“Well enough, I wager,” Holly said, “but Hal, instead of ‘to his meal of choice,’ say ‘to the meal he loves so well.’ And instead of ‘he never gets tired of it,’ say ‘as his bum will tell.’”

Halfast nodded and went over this new verse in his head, then they started again from the beginning.

Before long, the water was boiling and the lasses finished with the pork. They dumped the meat into the waiting vats for broiling and washed their hands. They cleaned up their station and washed their utensils and cutting boards, then went to help the others as they finished their own dishes.

The vegetables were added to the coppers for five minutes of steaming, and the butter was added to the flat pans with the apple slices. A fire was started beneath the pans, and soon, the butter was melting into the apples and sizzling deliciously.

The vegetables were strained next, and placed back into their bowls, vinaigrette poured over them, just enough to coat. The brown sugar and cinnamon were stirred into the apples, which crumbled into soft, juicy pieces. Lastly, the pork was tested with long forks and declared ready, and Daisy threw open the tent flaps.

Almost immediately, the guests were lining up, Hamfast with little Marigold on his hip at the forefront. He beamed at his children and their friends, chuckling still. The younger lads were released to join the line. With no less than fifty relations and friends to serve, it would be some time before the servers would be able to eat and they didn’t want the younger lads to starve longer than was necessary.

The others took their places to serve the meal, three to the pork chops, two each for the sides. Daisy took her father’s plate and placed a succulent pork chop right in the center, and a smaller one for Marigold next to it. Halfred added a spoonful of squash and carrots around the meat, and May poured apple sauce over it all. They couldn’t help but laugh as Hamfast licked his lips in anticipation.

The feasting went on long into the night, and the pork chops were declared the best anyone had ever had. There was much more food, prepared by others as compliments to the main meal, and barrels of the Gaffer’s home-brewed ale and cider to wash it all down. Later, there was dancing. Holly and Viola added their beautiful voices to Jolly and Robin on the lute and Finch on the lap harp, and they played and sung many of the Gaffer’s favorite tunes. After the dancing came the cake, and then the gifts.

Marigold received a bracelet of colored-glass beads, which she immediately began to play with. Halfred received a new knapsack, as he would soon be returning to his apprenticeship to Northfarthing and his old knapsack was worn beyond repair. Daisy’s gift was a pair of new winter gloves.

May received a mathom, a pair of earnings that had once belonged to her mother. She was fifteen now, and allowed to pierce her ears, and the earrings shaped like honeysuckle bells were her favorites. Her eyes watered as she gripped the small tin bulbs in her palm and leaned over to kiss the Gaffer’s cheek.

Sam’s gift was the most unusual and caused a bit of a stir: a little blank book for journaling. Sam jumped up and nearly knocked Hamfast off his chair with the force of his hug. “My own journal!” he exclaimed, clutching the little book to him. “Thank you, Gaffer!”

After the gift giving, the dancing started anew, and nearly everyone went onto the dance floor for a few more songs. Hamfast sat back in his chair, Marigold sound asleep against his chest, and watched his other children with pride in his eyes. He smiled wide for all the Shire to see, not feeling his years in the slightest.
 
 

The End
 
 
 

GF 7/25/05

#3 - My First Camp Out

Robin is 10, Sam and Tom are 9 (about 6 ½ and 6 in Man years)
1389 SR
 

“So what do we do now?” Tom asks. He and Robin are a sitting on their blankets, which they use for sleeping rolls, and look at me. I’ve not even sat down yet and already they’re lost as to what to do.

I kneel on my own bedroll and try and think of every story Mr. Bilbo’d ever told me about his adventures. “We should hunt,” I say.

“Hunt? Whatever for?” Robin asks. “We’ve food already. Ma packed us up patties and apples and a jug of water. See?” He pats his little knapsack, stuffed near to bursting.  Missus Smallburrows must’ve reckoned we’d be gone a bit, what with all she’d crammed in there, when really we’d only be staying out the night, no more’n a hundred yards from her own house no less.

“Mr. Bilbo always hunts in his stories,” I point out.  “We ought to do this proper-like.”

“We haven’t naught to be a hunting with,” Robin says.

“We do. There’s rocks all around,” Tom says, getting into the spirit of things. Either that, or he’s just a humoring me. “We could hunt us a rabbit, or a squirrel. They say ‘tis good luck to catch one.”

“We haven’t naught to cook with either,” Robin points out.

“Oh.”

We sit quiet-like for a good long bit, wondering over the problem. Leastways, Tom and I do. Robin just a sits there a clinging to his sack for all he’s worth, like he’s worrit of starving or some such.

“I got it!” I cry and jump up, a bit too sudden-like for Tom and Robin after so much silence. They jump back, startled near out of their skins, and then they giggle for being scared of just me. “We’ll hide the food as we’ve got and make believe we’re hunting that.”

“You want us to hunt apples?” Robin asks.

“They could be goblins,” I say.

“Apples can’t be goblins,” Tom says.

“Why not?”

“Because they’re apples.”

“We’ll pretend they’re goblins,” I try again. “And the patties could be gollums, and the jug of water can be a water monster.”

Tom and Robin just sit there a looking at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Why can’t we just eat the food?” Robin asks.

“Because we’re on an adventure,” I explain. “You’re supposed to hunt on adventures. Mr. Bilbo says so.” There. They can’t possibly go arguing against Mr. Bilbo.

“We’re just in the middle of me dad’s barley fields,” Robin says, stubborn-like.

Tom just laughs and stands up, and grabs up his knapsack. “Come on. What else’ve we got to do? Where can we go a hunting so we won’t be trampling over things?”

Robin sighs, put out. His plan of hobnobbing the night away are dashed good, seems like. “Fine then, but let’s be quick about it. I’m hungry.”

We get up and go out of the makeshift tent that Mr. Smallburrows had put up for us, just a flap of tarp hanging over a couple sticks pushed into the ground. I duck back in to grab my own knapsack, then Robin points us off towards the barn. We beeline for it, cutting right through the fields, and when we get there, Tom and Robin turn to me awaiting orders.

I scratch my head and look about, not really knowing what all to be doing myself, but they’re waiting for me, so I shrug and say, “How’s about we each hide our own food, then look for the other’s to keep it fair.”

“Sounds good to me,” Tom agrees. “Just remember where you be hiding your food, so as the chickens won’t find it come morning.” He looks at Robin as he says this, seeing as Robin tends to forget things, though I don’t reckon he’d be forgetting his food anytime soon.

“How many you’ve got there, Robin?” I ask more direct like, just to be certain, and then we all count the items in our sacks.

All told, there are eight patties of cold sausage, eleven apples, one loaf of bread, two wheels of cheese, the jug of water and a water skin filled with raspberry tea. Tom was supposed to bring a water skin also, filled with apple cider, but he’d gone and forgotten it as he dashed out the door. Either that, or Jolly’d nicked it when he weren’t looking. We’re reckoning it’s the latter.

Once everything’s counted up, we go to opposite sides of the barn and hide our items. I try to think of where goblins and gollums would hide, and I put the apples in the shadows or under the bushes, and the gollums I hide near the well and the washing tubs. The tea I put near a tree, just because I can’t be thinking of anywhere else to be putting it. When we’re done, we meet up again at the front of the barn.

“Now what?” Robin asks, fair excited now as he’s warmed up to the idea.

“Now we hunt,” I say. “We have to be quiet, so as we can sneak up on them, and be careful we’re not sneaked up on ourselves.”

Tom says naught, but I can tell by his tight-lipped grin he’s trying hard not to laugh at me.  Robin just nods and says, “Too bad we haven’t got none of those cross bows as the Tooks’ve got. Then we could shoot the apples – I mean, the goblins – right through the middle, like they do at the Free Fair. That’s a fancy trick, that.”

Now Tom’s really having to fight from laughing, but he manages to get out, “We could go into the barn and get some pitchforks.”

I just shake my head at them both. “Come on then. You all know your jobs.”

With that, we head off in search of our prey. It doesn’t take too long to find Robin’s stores. He must’ve reckoned the goblins and gollums would all be near to each other, and had put them all in the same place. Never mind the fact that gollums eat goblins, and if the goblins had a known that a gollum was in their cave, they’d have killed and eaten him likewise. So even though they are well hid, once found it is no bother collecting them all together. Then Tom goes to help Robin look for my stores as I go a looking for the rest of Tom’s as Robin hadn’t found.

Now, I know for a fact that Tom doesn’t put much stock into Mr. Bilbo’s stories and humors me by listening as I ramble on about them as I do, but I’d a hoped he’d paid at least a bit of mind to them. Seems as he didn’t though, not one stitch, for he has his gollums out in the bright moonlight (Robin must’ve left a couple of those a purpose for me) and his goblins are up in the bushes, without any wargs near abouts that could a helped them get up there!

I finish up my hunt and go back to the front of the barn, the first to finish. A short while later, Tom and Robin come around the back, laughing over somewhat. Then Tom shakes his head at me. “You near hid your food too good, Sam.”

“That’s near enough a real hunt as I ever want to get,” Robin puts in. “But we found it all, and I found the most!”

“Now can we eat?” Tom asks. “Or are we going to be attacked by giant eagles next?”

“The eagles are on our side, Tom,” I say then decide it’s pointless. “Aye, let’s eat now.”

We fall into line and head back for the tent. When we get there, we split up the food equal for everyone, then settle in for story-telling. We can’t start a fire as we should of for proper story-telling, but Robin folds the tent flaps back to let in the moonlight and we pretend that’s a fire instead. What with the barley waving all about, making the moonlight flicker like so, it’s not all that hard to be pretending it’s a real fire. The night’s plenty warm, so we don’t even miss the heat none.

We lie on our blankets and settle in, and Tom goes first.

“You know as Noakes’s got that ole outbuilding where he be keeping tools and such as he might need for the outer fields without having to go back to the main barn to fetch them?” he starts. We nod. “Well, Jolly and me were out near that outbuilding a couple weeks back, resting in the shade of it, easy as you please. We do it often enough and no harm done by it neither.

“So we’re leaning there, eating a couple of plums as we’d snatched up off the ground, when Old Noakes enters the outbuilding, a grumbling to himself about some such. Then he starts a cursing up a storm, letting it out on his tools, as farmers are warrant to do at times, as you know.” Again, we nod. “Seems Mr. Otho had bought a good many sacks of grain off Noakes, then claimed the grain was bad and refused to pay for it. Noakes said words that day as Jolly and me ain’t never heard afore, not even from Pa, and you know as he can get to cursing at times, though Ma don’t like it much, not one stitch and she’s always a threatening to sew his lips shut. But Noakes now, he could a taught me gaffer a word or two that day.

“Now, I’ve the sense not to go repeating, but Jolly hasn’t. So not a week goes by when we’re in the kitchen helping Ma with the baking when Jolly drops a new bag of flour and it spills clear across the floor. No real harm in it, as it could of been swept up and used still easily enough, but Jolly went into one of Noakes’s rants and Ma nearly dropped her mixing bowl to hear it. She turned redder’n a Hobbit has a right to be, and she grabbed Jolly up by the ear, dragged him through the parlor to Pa’s study and whispers in Pa’s ear what Jolly’d just said.

“I ain’t never seen Pa so besides himself. He was lost for words, truth be told, and you know me gaffer’s always got somewhat to be saying. Pa made Jolly chomp on an old pony bit slathered with castor oil, then asked him where he a heard such speak. When Jolly said Noakes, Pa stormed out the door and near run all the way up South Lane, and I knew when he got back, we’d both have it good. Because we were eavesdropping, see, whether we meant to or not, and hearing things as we oughtn’t to besides. Sure enough, when Pa comes back, with Old Noakes right behind him, we both get laid over his knee and strapped good a couple of times. It’s just this last week we could finally sit proper.”

“That’s naught compared to what my own gaffer did once,” Robin says. “I got into my gaffer’s hard liquor once, and he caught me emptying a bottle out. After the healer come and emptied my stomach and declared me fit for living, my gaffer took a lash to me five times, right across my bum, and said if he ever caught me doing aught again, he’d make sure as I’d never sit again. After that, you couldn’t even get me to sip on mulled cider for a month.”

They look at me, expectant-like. “Well?”

I shrug. “Gaffer yelled at me once for pulling up flowers instead of weeds in Mr. Bilbo’s gardens,” I say.

“That’s it?”

“He called me a ninnyhammer also.”

“He’s never strapped you?” Tom asks, disbelieving.

“Not as I recall,” I say.

“What about your brothers?” Robin asks.

“No, though I reckon there were a couple of times as he would’ve taken Fred to knee, had Ma not stopped him,” I say, “or at least, that’s what Fred told me once.”

“But… he’s so much scarier than our gaffers,” Tom says, baffled.

I shrug again. True, Gaffer is always threatening to strap us good for this or the other thing, but when it comes right down to it, he usually settles on shaking his head and telling us how we’d let him down. That near does us in right there, and I reckon it does worse than any switch could do. If he ever did actually strap us for anything, well… I don’t rightly know how any of us would react, him included.

From there, we go on to ghost stories as we’ve heard. Now, you need to be careful when talking about ghosts, since you never know when any of the ghosts might be about to overhear it. Ghosts love to hear about themselves, see, and if they hear you speaking of them, they’ll follow you about hoping to hear more. But as there ain’t no ghosts on the Smallburrows farm, we know we’re safe talking about them.

First, and most dreaded, is old Mr. Undertow. He was a Willfoot in life, that being about a couple hundred years ago. He shot out of his hole one day, or so the legend goes, and for no particular reason at all, ran clear into The Water and drowned. Sometimes, in the midday when the seasons are in their changing, you can hear splashing in The Water, even though no hobbit’ss about to cause the racket. More than once, some innocent lass or lad would find themselves a fallen into the river thereabouts when the splashing could be heard, and that part of The Water is now avoided during those times.

Then there’s Nodinas Hatcher. Everyone knows he’d fallen into a bog out in the Bindbole Wood about a hundred years back or so, and he haunts both the forest and his old home to this day. You can hear him a whistling up on the Hatcher farm come first light, and those as go into the forest alone never come out of it again. No one goes near the Wood now, and if they do have to the misfortune of going through it, they stick to the paths.

There’s another spook as we call Scalawag, seeing as no one knows who he was in life and most reckon he was from Outside and so naturally likes causing mischief. He hangs about The Ivy Bush a times, mostly around the Harvests, and takes great joy in lifting up lass’s skirts during the dancing. More than one innocent lad has had a lass turn around on him and slap him clear across the face for doing no more harm’n being unfortunate enough to be standing there. Most folk go up to the Party Field now for the Harvests. Mr. Bilbo’s kind enough to let us common folk come up for the Harvest Moon Dance and there ain’t no way that Scalawag will be following us up the Hill. Mr. Bilbo knows the wizard Gandalf, see, and I reckon if anyone knows how to be getting rid of a ghost but good, it’d be a wizard.

Then of course, the most famous of ghosts is Bashful Beryl. Everyone likes Beryl. She hangs around about the Kissing Tree in Cartwright’s fields, at the near end of the apple orchards. She whispers into lads’ ears, telling them to kiss the lass of their choice. If she tells you, then that means the lass is your true love and you’ll be happily married one day. If she don’t tell you, then there’s naught for it but to set your cap somewhere else and hope to hear Bashful Beryl the next time out.

I remember one night last year, afore Hamson left for his apprenticeship to Tighfield, he had taken Azalea Thistleton to the Kissing Tree and waited near the whole night and clear into predawn to hear Bashful Beryl’s whispering in his ear. He never did hear it, and when he kissed Azalea anyway, it’d been less than pleasant. They’re just friends now.

Robin’s nodding off and yawning soon after this and before we know it, he’s snoring on his blanket. Me and Tom stay up a while longer yet, drawing pictures in the dirt by the moonlight. Tom’s a better hand than me at drawing, and he turns the dirt into a garden afore my eyes. Then we start to yawning and nodding off, and go to join Robin before we can fall asleep half in and half out of the tent as we are.

Missus Smallburrows wakes us in the morning, as the farmhands are arriving for work. We need to clear out and get out from under foot, so we drag everything back to the house, then go inside for first breakfast. We all look tired and puffy-eyed, and our hair has tangles like I ain’t never seen afore, but we’re smiling and telling Missus Smallburrows about our adventuring and hunting last night. She gives us looks like we’ve gone and lost our senses, but says naught about it outside of “you lads nowadays.” When we’re finished with our breakfast and cleaned up a bit, we go back outside to the barn to help with what we can.

Our first camp out is over. It wasn’t quite as I’d been expecting, but I can’t say as I didn’t enjoy myself. And even though Tom and Robin grumble about the cricks in their necks, I know they enjoyed themselves too. Elsewise, they’d not a been yammering at the breakfast table as they had been.

I go to milking the cows, with Tom and Robin on either side, and start planning our next adventure.

The end.
 

GF  11/5/05

#4 - Bell

Hamfast is 59, Hamson 20, Halfred 19, Daisy 13, May 9, Sam 6 and Marigold has just turned 2 (about 38, 13, 10, 8, 6, 3 and 15 mo. in Man years)

Foreyule 1385 SR
 

The rainfall was soft and light, but steady. After a day of the cold weather, Hobbiton was drenched in the replenishing water and the roads and lanes were turned to mud and brown puddles. At the end of the long workday, hobbits were gathered around the hearths inside their homes and smials, to spend the chilled night in comfort and good company.

The Gamgees had a fire built high in the parlor hearth and candles lit for extra light. Gaffer sat on his rocking chair, with Sammy on his right knee and Marigold cradled in the crook of his left arm. Daisy and May sat before the chair, looking up with eager faces, and before the hearth, sprawled across the worn and faded rug, were Hamson and Halfred.

“Tell us a story,” Daisy requested.

“What kind of story you be wanting?” Gaffer asked.

The children started shouting out their favorite stories, but Sam had the best vantage point. “Tell us about Mama, Gaffy,” he said.

Hamfast nodded and looked down the narrow tunnel to the front, and only, door. Beyond its round wooden shield was the weather of winter and springtime, light drizzling rain and cool soft breezes. The door shut out all sound and sight of it, but Gaffer nodded his head toward it anyway. “I met your ma on a day like this,” he started, and the other children settled in to listen to one of their favorite stories. They loved all stories concerning their mother naturally, especially this one, the one when their parents fell in love.

“Just like today?” Fred asked, for he was always the one to ask.

Gaffer nodded again and sighed at the memory. “Aye, very much like today,” he went on.

“But it wasn’t really your first time a meeting her, was it Dad?” asked Daisy next, right on cue.

“Nay, I’d known her afore I left Tighfield to be prenticed to your Cousin Holman, truth be told,” Gaffer said. “But I wasn’t more’n fourteen at the time, and didn’t think much about lasses. I had two sisters of my own, and they were all as I needed to know. Bell, now, she wasn’t more’n eight when I left, and hardly left her ma’s side in the kitchen.”

Gaffer settled into the tale, a small smile continually on the corners of his lips as he went on.

“I’d go up to visit every Yule, of course. Mr. Bilbo wouldn’t hear of me working over the holiday, once he got back and settled from his traveling. I’d spend a good two weeks visiting and helping my own dad with this or that, so I never caught more’n a glimpse of your ma, until another fifteen years had passed. That’s the year your Uncle Andy broke his collar bone and Cousin Holman and Mr. Bilbo was to spare me for the spring so as I could help him out, seeing as there weren’t no one else to be doing it.

“I was about twenty-eight at the time, and thought rather a lot of myself. Couldn’t help it none, being at that age and all, and what with the lasses carrying on as they can at times. Never knew what it was any of them saw in me, but as they were seeing it, I wasn’t complaining! But I wasn’t settling none neither. I was a hard one to pin down, truth be told, and I rather welcomed the chance to get away for a bit.

“So’s up I went to Tighfield, to stay at Andy’s and do for him what I could, and it turned out the first thing I could do for him was go into town and get feed for the chickens, and other such things as he was needing. He was in a might desperate pinch for it too, so even though it was raining like the dickens, I hitched up the pony trap and rode into town.”

“Weren’t you cold?” asked Sammy.

Gaffer nodded. “Chilled to the bone by the time I got to town. Didn’t have a hat, nor a coat, nor aught else as any sensible hobbit should have in such weather. My teeth near shattered out of my head, I was a shivering so much.”

“But you got to town all right?” asked Fred.

“That I did,” Gaffer continued. “I got to town and got my business done quick as I could be managing it.”

“And that’s when you saw her,” May sighed dreamily.

Gaffer hummed, remembering. “I was coming out of the feed mill, with three sacks of chicken feed slung over my shoulder. I plopped them into the trap and was setting to get back to Andy’s lickety-split, when up I looked across the courtyard, and there she was.”

“And there she was,” echoed Daisy.

“She wasn’t more’n twenty-two herself, and whatever she was a doing standing there that day, I never did find out. But there she was, standing in the middle of the yard with no proper cover from the rain, a parasol hanging uselessly at her side, and her face turned up to the rain, her tongue held out to catch the drops. And she were laughing. I could hear it even from where I stood, and it was the loveliest sound, like morning dew on new spring grass, sparkled with sunlight.”

Ham and Fred snickered, but Daisy and May sighed wistfully. Sammy just looked up at his father, studying the lines of the old hobbit’s face, which had gone soft and made his father look ten years younger. Goldie yawned.

“Was she the same as she was afore, when you first knew her?” Ham asked now.

“No, and yes,” Gaffer said. “She was still a scrap of a thing, but she were growing into her own and no mistake.”

“Like a rose bud about to blossom?” Fred cut in with a snicker before his father could say as much. Daisy reached over and slugged her brother with a pillow. He laughed and went back to listening to the story.

“Aye, just like that,” Gaffer agreed, with a small shake of disapproval at his daughter. “She was a beauty even then, growing out of the pretty lass she’d always been. Chestnut curls, dimples in her cheeks and a sparkle of light in hazel her eyes. That was Bell Goodchild afore and that was her then. Only, as I said, she was growing up. She was taller for one, a bit thinner here, a little rounder there. But still a child by all accounts. Hadn’t the slightest clue that all the lads turned their heads when she walked by, and if she knew they turned them, she didn’t know why. She still liked to play a bit, else she’d not be standing out in the rain like she was.”

“Did she see you?” Ham asked.

“Not at first,” Gaffer continued, smiling fondly with a sparkle in his own eyes now. He seemed to be looking off faraway and long ago, and didn’t seem to notice the small, cozy room in which he sat. Still, he shifted Goldie, who had fallen asleep, and gave Sammy more room to stretch out. Sammy cuddled into his father’s chest, to listen to the rumble of his voice and the steady, soothing beat of his heart as Gaffer continued his story.

“I don’t know how long I’d been standing there afore the shopkeeper come out to see what the problem was. Got me startled enough back to my wits to realize it was still raining and I was still dripping wet – and getting wetter by the second.

“I got myself back into the trap and set the pony to pulling. I steered slowly though and when I pulled abreast of your ma, she looked up at me and smiled all the wider, and I knew then, in that moment, that I was gonna marry me that lass.

“I tipped my hat to her, or I would of, had I had one. ‘Good day Bell,’ I says, trying to act calm-like for all I felt I’d burst right there and then. ‘Good day Ham,’ she says back and laughs up at me. She closed up her parasol with a snap and tossed it up at me. I grabbed it afore I knew what was to, and she says, ‘Looks as you be needing that more’n I do.’ ‘Thank ‘ee,’ I manage to say back and she curtsied, easy as you please. Then she turned about and ran up the road, back to her own home.”

“Then what happened?” asked Sammy, not lifting his ear from his father’s chest. He yawned and tried to keep his eyes open.

“Well, I went back to your Uncle Andy’s naturally,” Gaffer replied. “I’d a job to do, though I have to say I wasn’t much help to ole Andy that day.

“Took about a week afore I had the excuse of going into town again for more supplies and stop by the Goodchild’s house and beg leave to speak with Bell. I had to return her parasol, you see. But she was too young yet to be asking her out to court, so’s I made friends with her brother Bill instead. I’d known him well enough aforehand, and he didn’t mind me coming around to spend time with his sister.

“Course, Bell didn’t think much on me at the time; she was still too young to think on such things. But the years went by and I visited your Uncle Andy as much as I could and made myself a presence in the Goodchild house even more’n that.

“With each year, she grew more beautiful, till I almost thought myself not good enough for her. Every lad within ten miles were attempting to court her by the time I came of age, and I was worrit I’d come calling one day to find she’d been swept up by one of them, seeing as they were about all the year long and I wasn’t.”

“But that didn’t happen,” Daisy stated.

Gaffer shook his head. “Time came that I came of age. Bell was twenty-seven then and more’n ready to let the lads know she was finally starting to notice them back. Next time I come to visit, she came up to me and says, ‘Well, Ham, you’ve been hanging about the dell the last few years and I know it can’t be for me brother’s dull company. Is there aught you be wanting to ask me?’ I goggled at her a bit and she smiled at me cheekily. I could never think too clear-like when she smiled at me so, and I was as near to coming undone that day as I’d ever been. It took me a good bit to get me wits about me again. Then I says, ‘Well, Bell, I reckon I do want to asking you somewhat. I was wondering if you’d be agreeable to marrying me?’ And to me continuing astonishment, she said yes. She could of had any lad of her choosing, and she chose me.”

“And she never regretted it?” Fred said with a grin.

“Oh, I’m sure she regretted it plenty,” Gaffer laughed, “but she put up with me anyway. Remember that lads, when you start courting. Romance and passion are all well and good, but if you want to be happy into your elder years, you’d be better off marrying a lass as can tolerate you. Adoration only goes so far.”

“Well, so much for you, Fred,” Ham said with a grin. “You’ll not find a lass who’ll put up with you, much less adore you.”

“Good,” Fred said, scrunching up his nose. “I’ve no interest in lasses.”

“You’ll change your mind,” Gaffer said with a knowing nod. “Just you wait.”

“I won’t,” Fred insisted before turning to his brother. “And same goes for you. Why’d any lass want to put up with you and your smelly feet.”

“Because I’m charming,” Hamson said, still grinning. No one could deny that.

“What about us, Gaffy?” May asked.

“For you lasses, I tell you this: find a lad who’ll do everything he can to make you happy, even if he ain’t always successful.”

Against his chest, Sammy yawned and fell asleep at last. Ham and Fred took their youngest siblings to their beds and the lasses took out their knitting. Hamfast looked on them sadly, but fondly. They were the spitting image of his Bell, lovely and graceful, and they knew what they wanted. He’d have a time of it when they came into their own and started courting, a headache for which he was not quite prepared. But they also had his Bell’s good sense and that was saying something.

He looked up at the caricature hanging over the mantle, a young Bell Goodchild smiling eternally down at him, and remembered again the lass he had fallen in love with on a rainy afternoon thirty years ago. Even after all these years, if he closed his eyes while outside in the rain and concentrated hard enough, he could almost think he was back in that long ago day, looking down at his Bell as she smiled up at him, reaching out to catch her parasol that, even to this day, leaned against the wall beside the chair in his bedroom, just in case he needed it.

End of this ficlet.
 

GF 12/11/05

#5: Nibbler

Daisy is 20, May 16, Sam 12, Marigold nearly 9, and Hamfast 66 (about 13, 10, 7, 6, and 42 in Man years)

Winterfilth 1392
 

“Shhh!”

“Be quiet!”

“That’s what ‘shhhh’ means!”

“Someone needs to get blankets.”

“I’ll get them!”

“And I’ll get milk.”

“I’ll get a fire going.”

“Where’s Gaffer?”

“I don’t know, but be ready to pout when you see him.”

Daisy put a hand on her hip and looked askance at May. “Don’t you think we’re a bit too old for that?” she asked.

May shook her head. “You can never be too old to pout at Daddy, especially when it works so well.”

Daisy looked at the small bundle of black, white and orange fur, the only part of the wee kitten visible beneath May’s buttoned coat.

The Gamgee children had been on their way home from Missus Rumble’s, walking huddled together to keep as much of the drizzle off them as they could, when they had hear a desperate and altogether despondent mewing coming from a copse of trees lining the right side of the road. They had gone to investigate and had found this poor lost kitten trying to hide from the rain under a sparse bush. Upon hearing their approach, the kitten had darted out and started rubbing itself against Daisy’s legs, as if it knew it would have to win her over before having any hope of being taken inside to warmth and shelter. The kitten needn’t have worried, for Daisy’s heart melted as soon as she saw the drenched and shivering calico emerge from the shrubs and she had scooped it up in an instant, only to have it wrested away by May a moment later. May had made a little pocket for the kitten on the inside of her coat and now the kitten was purring with delight.

Daisy smiled at the kitten and held her hands out for it. “We need to be feeding it,” she said in her motherly tones and May obligingly handed the kitten over. She had to get the fire going at any rate.

“Mew!” the kitten protested the loss of its warm shelter, but it instantly burrowed itself into the hollow between Daisy’s neck and shoulder. It balled itself up tight and started purring again.

“Do you really think Dad’ll make us get rid of it?” Sam asked as he and Marigold returned with the blanket and a bowl of milk. Sam stood up on tiptoe to finger the kitten’s nose and scratch beneath its chin. “I mean, so long as we take care of it and all. It’s not like it won’t feed itself once its old enough. It won’t cost us naught to keep it.”

“I know that,” Daisy said, “but we got to convince Dad of that, and now that I think on it, if we all pout together at just the right time, Dad’ll have to say yes.”

“Can I hold it?” Goldie asked from beside her brother. Daisy nodded, so Goldie bent down and carefully put the bowl of milk on the floor, careful not to spill a drop. Then she stood and held her arms out, but Daisy shook her head.

“Sit on the chair first,” Daisy instructed. When her little sister was settled, Daisy turned to Sam. “Put the blanket on her lap. We’re going to put the kitten in the blanket and make it a little nest. You two can watch it and feed it the milk while May and I see to supper.”

Sam eagerly obeyed and Goldie nearly bounced out of the chair in her excitement. She wasn’t only going to get to hold the kitten, but she was going to get to watch over it too! She sat as still as she could once the kitten was in her lap and waited until Daisy stopped fussing over the blanket. Only the kitten’s little furry head and wide blue eyes could be seen by the time Daisy was done, and it lay on Goldie’s lap purring away as it had always been.

“The kitten likes me!” Goldie said to Sam, who nodded in agreement.

Daisy and May went to the kitchen to begin supper and Sam fetched the bowl of milk from the floor. He sank into the chair next to Goldie and held the bowl just below the kitten’s nose. The kitten sniffed cautiously a few times, then stuck out a small pink tongue and eagerly started lapping up the milk. Goldie snickered. “It looks funny when it does that,” she said. “Do you think it’s a girl or boy cat?”

Sam shrugged. “Didn’t get a good enough look to tell,” he said. “We’re going have to know so as we can name it proper.”

“Let’s name it Patches, because of all the colors,” Goldie said.

Sam considered this for a few moments. “That’s a good name,” he said, “but that seems more like a girl cat’s name. What if it’s a lad? He’d need something more rascally I reckon.”

“Then what should we name it if it’s a lad?” Goldie asked, still watching the kitten intently. “Look! Its tongue folds backwards! That’s how it drinks the milk!”

Sam nodded. “Aye, it does as that.” He had already known that, having watched the cats and dogs on the Cotton farm perform this same task numerous times before. He went back to scratching the kitten on its head, amazed at how soft the fur was now that it was starting to dry off a bit. “How ‘bout Nibbler, if it’s a lad,” he suggested at length.

“Nibbler,” Goldie said, testing the word on her tongue. She said it a few more times, then smiled. “That’s a good one.”

The milk was soon gone and the kitten began sniffing around for other things to eat. It nibbled on Goldie’s fingers, then started tasting Sam’s shirt sleeve but finally gave that up as a lost cause. The kitten returned its nose to the bowl and licked up whatever tastes still lingered there.

“I think its still hungry,” Sam observed. “I’ll get more milk and ask Daisy what all we can feed it. Don’t move.”

Goldie nodded and barely noticed when Sam got up and left. She was completely enthralled with the kitten and she was wondering just how one could tell if a kitten was a lad or a lass, when she heard the door open and her father come in.

“Hullo Gaffer!” Daisy, May and Sam greeted from the kitchen. Daisy and May started to earnestly chatter away, speaking over each other in their haste to keep their father from going into the parlor just yet. “You must be chilled! The stove fire’s going; it’s much warmer here than in the parlor.” “We’re making beef stew, thick and hearty for a chill evening.” “Did you get word about Uncle Andwise?” “What about Hamson?” “You look mighty tired, mayhap you should go lie down for a bit.”

In between all this, Sam crept back into the parlor with more milk and a few pieces of mashed beef from the stew. He poured the milk over the beef to cool the meat and make it softer as Daisy had been advising him to do when their father came home. When the mash was ready, he took a small bit of meat and held it out to the kitten, who greedily ate it up, purring so loudly they thought for certain the Gaffer would hear it. Bit by bit, Sam fed the kitten and Marigold even got to give it a nibble or two. They failed to notice how completely silent the smial had become, what with the kitten’s purring and all, and didn’t notice their audience until the food was gone and Sam was getting up to get more.

Sam stood up from the chair and turned to head back into the kitchen and gulped as he looked up into his father’s carefully expressionless face. He knew Daisy had wanted to wait until they were all together and so could gang up on Gaffer more effectively, but he couldn’t help asking, “Can’t we keep him, Gaffy?” and pouting ever so slightly.

Gaffer looked down at his son, then over at Goldie, who was also putting in a good pout, then at the kitten, who was curling up in its blankets, now fed and satisfied. Its purrs filled the room as it moved about in its blanket trying to find a comfortable position to lay down. It pawed at the blankets, fluffing them up a bit more here, flattening them out a bit there, then circled about a few times and finally lay down. It rested its little head on the edge of the blanket near Goldie’s hand and lazily reached out its tongue to give her fingers one last lick. Then it yawned, wide and long, and soundly went to sleep, purring all the while.

“That kitten most likely belongs to someone,” Gaffer said.

“But it was out in the rain all alone and cold!” Sam said.

“And it was so hungry,” Goldie added. “We found it, so its ours now. Can we keep it? Please!”

“We’ll take very good care of it,” Sam put in. “We’ll feed it, until its old enough to hunt that is, and we’ll make sure as it gets milk and water, and we’ll clean up after it and…”

Hamfast held out his hand. “Hold now, Sammy. I’ve no doubt you’d all give it the best care in the world, but whoever that kitten belongs to, they must be missing it something fierce by now. We’re going have to give it back.”

“But it’s ours!” Goldie said.

“We found it,” Sam said. “It came to us.”

Daisy and May were crowding into the room now. Daisy was old enough to understand that what her father said was right, but it didn’t mean she liked it. “Whoever it belongs to, they left it out in the rain, hungry and cold. We can’t be giving it back to someone like that,” she reasoned.

“Mostly likely, it snuck outdoors when no one was watching,” Gaffer said. “That’s what kittens do. We’ll ask around in the morning who it belongs to.”

“And if it don’t belong to no one?” Sam asked hopefully.

The children held their breaths and looked up at their father with yearn-filled eyes. “Can we keep it?” May dared to ask. “Please.” And then as one, all four children lowered their heads and peered up at him through their lashes, every one of them pouting.

Gaffer sighed, defeated. “You can keep him,” he promised and couldn’t help laughing when they jumped up and down and cheered. Only Goldie refrained from jumping, since the kitten was sleeping on her lap, but she did bounce a bit and grinned up at their father like a fool.

“Thanks Gaffer!” they said and Hamfast just chuckled some more.

“Only if we don’t find its proper owner,” Gaffer reiterated to which the children readily agreed, though they fervently hoped the owner wouldn’t be found.

Daisy and May went back to cooking and Sam returned the bowl to the kitchen. He came back an instant later to resume sitting next to Marigold and lightly fingering the kitten’s soft furry head.

Gaffer sat in his chair by the fire and watched his two youngest children caring for the kitten. He supposed he would live to regret his promise should they not find the owner, but he trusted his children to keep their word and see to the kitten’s needs. He didn’t much care for pets himself, but seeing as cats generally took care of themselves once they were old enough, he didn’t reckon it would be too much of a hassle to keep it – once the children came down from their swoon over having it in the first place that is.

Dinner was quickly finished and on the table. Goldie tried to bring the kitten to the table to lay on her lap while she ate, but Hamfast put his foot down against it. “He’ll be fine on his own for half an hour,” he assured, but was obliged to find a small box to put the kitten into until they could finish eating. Marigold was convinced the kitten might get lost again otherwise, and Hamfast saw the simple wisdom in that. Kittens were prone to roaming.

The children ate their quickest meal to date, so eager they were to get back to the kitten. Sam stayed behind to help Daisy and May with the cleaning up, and then they sat around the fire cooing over the newest addition to their family. Sam told Daisy and May the names he and Goldie had come up with and Daisy quickly checked the kitten over. “It’s a lad,” she said. “Nibbler it is then.”

“I was hoping for a Patches,” Goldie said, but she quickly got over her disappointment when the kitten rolled over onto its back and stretched. “Awww! It’s so cute!”

“Can he sleep with me tonight?” Sam asked.

“It can sleep in its box,” Hamfast said.

“He, Dad. He’s a he,” Sam said. “Want to hold him?”

And before Hamfast could protest, Sam scooped the little calico up and plopped him onto his father’s lap. Nibbler instantly started kneading the Gaffer’s lap, turning its purr up to fill the room again. Hamfast sat still, watching the kitten warily, but Nibbler wasn’t having any of that. He had quickly become accustomed to the affectionate attentions of his new siblings, and the kitten wasted no time in nudging its white-and-orange head beneath the Gaffer’s hand and holding it there expectantly. When the Gaffer didn’t move to pet him, Nibbler wriggled his head about, then kneaded the Gaffer’s lap and maneuvered itself until its tiny little body was all but sheltered beneath the Gaffer’s large hand. Then it nipped lightly at a finger and wriggled his head again.

“He wants you to pet him,” Daisy supplied.

“Pet the kitten, Gaffy,” Goldie said. “You’re going to hurt his feelings.”

Sam just smiled innocently at his father and Gaffer grudgingly lifted his hand and pet the kitten. Nibbler rolled over and let Hamfast pet its belly and neck and before too long, the Gaffer was grinning down at the kitten. “He is rather a cute thing, ain’t he?” Gaffer conceded.

Nibbler did wind up sleeping with Sam that night. The lasses figured there were enough bodies in their one bed as it was and since Sam was by himself, he would get to sleep with the kitten. Sam nearly squeezed Nibbler in his excitement, but caught himself before he could harm the kitten. He carried Nibbler, blanket and all, to his room and was soon curled up on his side, the kitten cocooned beneath the bend of his arm.

The morning dawned bright and clear, and after first breakfast, the Gamgees left their smial on their sad mission. They had to find Nibbler’s owner if they could and return the kitten to its rightful home. Gaffer knew the kitten could likely have come from anywhere, from as close as the outskirts of Hobbiton to as far away as Overhill and beyond. He was determined at least to check the homesteads around the Hill and down into town, and possibly even to Bywater.

They spent a long day walking around the countryside, each taking turns to hold Nibbler. They called all over Hobbiton and well into Bywater before the day ended and no one they talked to knew anything of a missing kitten. With each home passed, the children grew more and more hopeful that they wouldn’t find Nibbler’s owner, and by the time Gaffer called an end to the search at sunset, they were fairly bouncing up and down with uncontained excitement.

“Does this mean he’s ours?” May asked.

“Aye, I suppose it does,” Gaffer said. “Granted, should the owner ever turn up, having heard it through the mill as we’ve got him, we’ll have to give it up.”

“But he’ll be ours by then,” Goldie said, clutching the kitten possessively to her. “Nibbler wouldn’t even know no one but us,” Sam put in. “We can’t just let some stranger take him,” Daisy added.

Hamfast threw up his hands. “Very well, very well, I see your point. We’ll give the owner a week to show himself, and after that, well, Nibbler’ll be ours flat out.”

“Yay!” the children cheered, and they skipped alongside Gaffer all the way down Bywater Road to their smial on the Hill.

When they arrived home, they quickly made a permanent home for the kitten, cutting the box down to a more accessible height for the little cat, and filling it with spare rags and old towels. A chipped tea saucer became Nibbler’s bowl and the dented tin bin that had previously held the spare rags became its chamber pot, which Sam filled with dirt and soil from the garden. It was generally agreed that while the kitten belonged to them all, Sam was in the most need of company at nights, so everything was moved into his room, where the kitten slept every night tucked under Sam’s arm, or in the curve behind his knees, or even draped around the crown of his head or along the length of his hip.

Even Gaffer wasn’t immune to Nibbler’s charms and the kitten could often be found curled up on Hamfast’s lap at nights after dinner, purring softly and contentedly as the Gaffer pet him. May found some string to make toys with and the children spent their nights playing with the kitten, laughing as he went chasing after the ever-elusive string. They soon discovered that it had quite a talent for kick ball, and Daisy made it several small tightly-coiled balls of yarn to bat around the floor and chase after. Goldie would often play catch with Nibbler, rolling the balls along the floor one after the other, picking them up as the kitten went chasing after another one.

The week came and went, and no one ever came calling on the kitten, and indeed not even a whisper of a hint of where the kitten had come from had been heard. So the kitten was officially named Nibbler Gamgee, and Hamfast was surprised to discover that he was every bit as happy about it as his children were.
 

The end.
 

GF 1/27/06

#6 – Scavenger Hunt

Daisy 22, May 19, Sam is nearly 15, and Marigold is 11 (About 14, 12, 9 and 7 in Man years). With a splash of Frodo.

16 Rethe, 1395 SR

The spring thaw would be upon the Shire in a few short days but for the winter-chilled hobbits, the warmer weather and the clearing of the night sky could never come soon enough. Hobbits all over the Shire were growing restless as they waited for the weather to turn and the rivers and ponds to warm. They yearned for green grass and blooming flowers, for fertile and pliant soil to prepare for planting.

Farmers sharpened and oiled their tools for the tilling and sowing to come, post messengers fingered their lighter cloaks and shorter breeches with longing, and parents everywhere tried not to go mad with their children’s constant complaints of boredom. For by this point in the cold weather, the children had grown tired of the rain and the occasional flurry, and were ready for chasing butterflies and feeding calves and were becoming as restless as hobbits with ants down their breeches.

The parents of Bagshot Row and the Hill had found a cure for this common ailment, and on the third Highday of Rethe, just after second breakfast, they gathered their children together on the Party Field. The children came, knowing already the fun to be had and the prize to be earned. Every year at this time, the children partook in a scavenger hunt and whoever was first to bring back all the required items won a day of no chores.

A large tent had been put up in the center of the field and a fire started within, so the parents could have somewhere warm to sit and wait while their children ran about and found their items. The Goodloves, Proudfoots and Gamgees of Bagshot Row were there, and were as the Rumbles, Harfoots, Lightfeathers, and Willomeres from further down the Hill. All together, there were thirty-two children awaiting their instructions, and the chatter as they waited was becoming a roar.

“I just know we’re going to win again,” said the youngest Willomere lass.

“I’ve been keeping me eyes open o’er the last week or so,” said Tory, the Harfoot’s only lad. “I know where to find everything.”

“We don’t even know what we’re looking for yet,” one of Rumble lasses reasoned.

“I’ll still know where to find it,” he replied.

“Look at them, so smug as all that,” May Gamgee said, pointing at the Willomere children. “I know they cheated last year.”

“They did not,” Daisy said with a sigh.

“Our team’s going to be all lads,” said a Lightfeather lad, “and we’re going to beat everyone else.”

“Well our team’s going to be all lasses,” said Holly Goodlove, “and we’re going to win.” Jasmine Twofoot nodded in agreement.

Finally, Odo Goodlove stood up and banged his mug of cider on the table. “Right now, children, listen up,” he said in his loud and booming voice. The din died down immediately. “Split up into teams of four and then we’ll tell you what all you’ll be needing to get.”

Marigold slid her hand into Sam’s and stood close to his side. Daisy and May stayed with their siblings, knowing that every year there were numerous flowers to be picked on the list and that Sam would know where to find them without having to think. Daisy was the best at haggling at the market and May was daring enough to complete the more difficult challenges, if any. Goldie was too young to really do anything, but if there was a tight spot someone needed to squeeze into, she would be perfect for the job. Their best chance of winning was to stick together.

The other children split up to join their friends, with a few other siblings staying together, and within a few short minutes all teams were set and waiting.

“Good job!” Odo said with a nod. “This is what you’ll be getting, so pay attention as I’m only telling you the once. You’re each to get a green rock no bigger than your thumb; five bags of cooking spices from market, two leaves, two ground and one powdered, all of them different; a wee basket full of young berries, two different kinds; dandelion sprouts; a bouquet of late winter flowers that’s to include lungwort, spurge, daphne, camellia, and quince; four hour-long candles from market; a bundle of twigs, twelve sticks of wood total for each child; rope to tie the twigs with from the roper; a dozen marked goose eggs from Woodrow’s flock; and a bit of wood in the shape of a robin. Here’re your bags and things. Come and get them.”

One member of each team went to retrieve their baskets while the others went over the specifics of the list again, memorizing it with little effort. In case any of the children should forget anything, the basket contained the bags for the spices, ribbon for the bouquet and rags to wrap the stems in, a small basket the size of an apple for the berries, a crate for the eggs, a pouch for the dandelion sprouts, and the larger basket itself would be for carrying the wood. All they need to really remember were the rocks, the candles and the robin.

Odo clapped his hands for attention once more so he could give the final instructions before the children went on their way. Thirty-two sets of eager and impatient eyes looked in his direction.

“Now, for the rules. You’re to stay with all your teammates at all times, which means no splitting up. No getting help from anyone other than your teammates. When you get hungry, you’re to come back here for eating, unless you’re up at Woodrow’s, in which case you’re to eat there. And lastly, the first one back here with all the items wins. Let the hunt begin!”

The children cheered and dashed off in all directions, including the Gamgees. Daisy and May took over planning their strategy as Sam and Marigold followed closely.

“Everyone’ll be going to market for the spices, candles and rope first, so we’ll do that later,” Daisy said. “We’ll have to keep our eyes out for those rocks, as those’ll be hardest to find.”

Sam and Goldie nodded, and Goldie immediately started looking for rocks wherever she thought they might be hiding amongst all the mud and slush.

“We can get a bit of wood right off, and I can start whittling that into a robin,” Sam said.

They made their way toward The Water by cutting over the slopes of the Hill rather than down the road with the other children. Soon enough, the lasses were searching under a copse of trees for a bit of wood big enough for their brother to work with while Sam walked along the river’s edge, searching for dandelion sprouts. The pesky weed always showed itself there first.

“Here Sammy,” Goldie piped happily behind him after a while. He turned around to see his little sister struggling with a fat branch with many smaller branches attached to it.

Sam laughed and patted his sister on the head. “Good job, Goldie. You found us some twigs at least. We’ll strip these off and count them out, though we won’t have aught to bind them with ‘til we get to market.”

“What about the birdie?” Goldie asked.

“‘Tisn’t thick enough for whittling, less I make a very small one.”

“A bairn birdie?” Goldie asked hopefully.

Sam laughed. “Aye, a bairn robin for my bairn sister.”

Goldie crossed her arms and pouted. “I ain’t a bairn, Sammy.”

“So you don’t want the wee robin then?” Sam asked.

“I do.”

“Go fetch our sisters then and tell them we’ve got it,” Sam said as he pulled out a pocketknife.

Goldie dashed off and Sam proceeded to strip the twigs off the branch. His sisters returned, May and Daisy holding several twigs of their own, and they sat down to sort them out, Daisy helping Marigold count as the younger lass tended to forget the proper order of the numbers. When they were done, they had three and-a-half bundles, and May used the ribbon for the bouquet to wind between each bundle until they could acquire some rope. As May rearranged the other items around the wood, Sam sawed off an end of the branch to make a whittling block he could begin to work with.

“Any luck with the sprouts?” Daisy asked as they stood up and brushed the snow from their knees and legs.

Sam shook his head. “We might have better luck closer to market and we can find the rest of your twigs at the next copse.”

May nodded and the siblings walked along The Water toward the Bridge. “We need to be figuring out where we can find what we need. Where would the berries be growing so early and where can we be getting all the flowers for the bouquet? We’re going to be spending enough time looking for these rocks, we don’t need to be wasting any more than we need to be.”

They were silent for a moment as they considered the question. Everyone knew well enough where to find the berries when spring was fully upon them and the bushes were heavy with the sweet fruits, but finding any of them now was near impossible, even for so little a basket as they needed to fill.

“There might be some blueberries beyond town out toward the Tooklands,” Daisy suggested. “Naught as you could eat or make preserves from though. We could use the juices to make a dye and stain that table in the parlor like Gaffer’s been wanting. If we make the berries into a thick tea first, that’ll do the trick neat enough.”

“Very well, that’s one,” May said. “We need two.”

They walked in silence again and didn’t say anything until they reached the next copse of trees. Daisy instructed Goldie to retrieve the last six twigs and the lass did so with only mild hesitation. She counted correctly and was rewarded with hugs and kisses from each sibling. She beamed up at them with joy and hugged her six twigs as they continued along The Water.

“We could get the other berries when we get the crimson and gold – the quince, that is – and use that to make preserves, that is, if the berries are growing yet,” Sam suggested at last. “There’s some along the Road going towards Bywater, on The Water side.”

“And what of the other flowers, Sam?” Daisy asked.

Sam answered immediately, not even looking up from his dual tasks of shaping the wood and digging through the mud with his feet as he continued to search for sprouts. “The lungwort and spurge grows wild on the way to Woodrow’s, camellias we can find almost anywhere, and the daphne grows along the fields around Goodheart’s.”

May hissed inwardly. Goodheart and Woodrow were on opposite ends of Hobbiton, and they were currently standing between them both. “Where else can we find daphne?”

“Other than Flora’s shop?”

“We’re not supposed to buy the flowers, Sam, you know that,” Daisy said.

“There’s some up near Overhill, or going out towards Cartwright’s orchards,” Sam said unhelpfully. Both locations were even further away from Woodrow’s farm than Goodheart’s.

“Goodheart’s it is then,” May decided. They would just have to be quick about it and hope no one else beat them there.

“What about Mr. Baggins?” Goldie asked now. “He has all sorts of flowers.”

“We do have all those things growing there,” Sam confirmed as he shuffled along but Daisy shook her head.

“We’re not allowed to go on gentry land,” she stated. This was true at all times, not just for the hunt. Gentry land was off-limits unless one had a proper purpose for being there.

“We can ask Mr. Bilbo. I’m sure he’d not mind none,” Sam said.

“Then that’d be asking for help,” May said. “No, we’ll go to Goodheart’s. We’ll have to be going out that way for the quince anyway. Now, any ideas at all of the rocks?”

Everyone shook their heads but Sam, who suddenly stopped and stooped over. He dug into the earth that his feet had just exposed and fisted his hand around the cold, hard dirt. When he stood up, he opened his fist and began plucking out small, green sprouts. Daisy handed him the pouch for the weeds and Sam placed them inside, rechecked the dirt for any stragglers, then stooped down again.

“What’re you doing Sammy?” Goldie asked and crouched down to watch her brother.

“There’s a lot more,” he said and started rooting around for the other sprouts.

May sighed and reached down to pull up her siblings. “We’re not here to weed, Sam. Now, we know just about where to be finding everything but the rocks, so here’s what we’ll do. We’ll go to Woodrow’s first, getting the lungwort and spurge on the way, and hopefully get to his farm before any of the others can get there and rile up the geese. That’ll make it easier to get the eggs. We’ll get elevenses there, then come back into town the back way so as we can detour towards Tookland for the blueberries. We’ll get the rope first when we get into town as the roper’s at the edge of the market, then get the candles and the spices. By then, the other children should be cleared out as well as most of the morning shoppers and we’ll have less time to be waiting to buy our purchases. We’ll come back up the Hill to drop off our things as we’ve got so far and get some luncheon. Then we’ll cut down over the Hill to The Water to get the quince and back across the Road to Goodheart’s for the daphne. We won’t have to worry about the camellias as we’ll come across those eventually. Hopefully, we’ll have the rocks by then also. If not…” May trailed off and shrugged.

Daisy and Sam nodded, approving the plan, and Goldie skipped ahead to the Bridge. They bypassed town center and headed east down the Road towards Woodrow’s lands. They walked briskly at first to keep warm and paused occasionally to search for the rocks or toss wet slush-balls at each other.

A hundred yards or so from the farm, they spotted the flowers that Sam had promised. The lungwort had spear-like dark green leaves, spotted with white, and hugged the ground near the shade of some trees. Its flowers were a soft blue-purple and were funnel-shaped, and many blooms grew densely on a single stem. The spurge grew closer to the road, its green leaves tinged with purple and its blooms were a bright and vibrant yellow that would put a canary to shame.

They plucked six stems of each flower, packing them in mud to keep them from wilting, covering the roots with the rags. Sam tied the rags around the stems expertly, then Goldie reached down and tossed a fat, cold slush-ball directly at Sam’s face. The slush-ball fight resumed, and by the time they reached Woodrow’s farm, their hair and clothes were drenched and their faces were flushed red with the exertion.

They quieted when they reached the farm and looked around, perking their ears as they approached the coop. They were pleased that no other children could be heard. They were the first to arrive as they had hoped, and when they rounded the barn to the coop, they found the geese happily lazing about or eating at their troughs. Their nests were at the very back of the coop along the barn wall and several of the eggs had been marked with circles in anticipation of the hunting children.

“Who’s going in?” Sam asked.

“I’ll go!” Goldie offered as she stared at the geese with wide and fascinated eyes.

“No Goldie, geese can be nasty things,” Daisy said. “May and I will go in. You two stay here.”

The older lasses took the crate from the basket and entered the coop through the gate. They were not afraid of the geese but moved slowly and cautiously so as not to startle the large and domineering fowl. Sam and Goldie sat down a safe distance from the fence to watch, and Sam resumed his whittling of the robin.

The egg gathering went smoother than expected, with the lasses only being chased as they were on their way out of the coop. They made it through the gate untouched and carefully packed the crate of eggs with hay placed near the fence for this purpose. Once the eggs were secure, the children made their way to the house and knocked upon the back door.

Missus Woodrow opened the door a moment later and smiled at them. “Hullo, Missus Woodrow,” the Gamgees greeted.

“My first customers and just in time for elevenses,” she laughed and stood aside to let them in. “Lay your things down here and I’ll get you all big, steaming bowls of sausage and porridge. There’s muffins as well and some hot cocoa or apple cider as you please.”

The Gamgees sat and allowed themselves to be served. Missus Woodrow’s cooking was some of the best in Hobbiton and the hobbitess shuffled about the kitchen and fussed after them as they ate, giving them seconds and thirds before they had to ask for it. They ate slower than they normally would have and stayed longer than was wise just for the enjoyment of being mothered over, but at last, they had to go. Daisy stood first and her siblings followed suit. They thanked the old gammer with hugs and kisses, then picked up their baskets and were on their way again. Missus Woodrow stood at the door and waved them off.

Sam finished whittling the robin on their way to the outskirts of Hobbiton and handed the bird down to Goldie for safekeeping. She had long ago given up her hold of the twigs she had counted and she now took the robin and clasped it tightly in her tiny hands. Sam would occasionally make such things for her if she hinted enough, and she already had a minnow, a lark and a sparrow. She wondered how long it would take to get a goose from him.

They reached the fields just north of the East Road and Daisy pointed to the bushes that usually had the early blueberries. They approached it at a quick pace and were dismayed to see they were not the first ones there. Many sets of tiny hobbit footprints were in the snow all about the shrubs, but the bushes had not been plucked dry. They looked for the biggest berries they could find, so as they wouldn’t need as many to fill half of the small basket. By the time they were finished, there was a nary a berry left on the bushes.

“I hope no one else tries to come here,” May said.

“They’ll have to go elsewhere if they do,” Daisy said, “but if we see anyone else, we’ll warn them off this way.”

“Now for the rope,” Sam said and led the way to the roper’s yard.

He stopped almost as soon as he started though when they passed a nearby flowering shrub. “Camellia,” he said and bent over the evergreen bush to smell the white blooms, colored pale-yellow at their centers. Sam wasn’t surprised to see that none of the flowers had been plucked yet, as the blooms were often confused for peonies by those who didn’t know what to look for.

He instructed Goldie on how to cut the blooms from the shrubs, cutting the stems close to the parent branch so as not to impede or disfigure the growth of the shrub. Then they packed those with dirt for safekeeping and continued toward the roper’s at the edge of town.

“Hullo, Sam and Misses!” Reed greeted them as they entered the yard. He gave them a bashful nod, though there was no need for it. “What’re you needing? Bits of rope like the others?”

“Aye, just four,” Sam said and Reed reached behind him for a set of rope already held aside for more searchers.

“You’re the last ones to be fetching rope,” Reed told him.

“We figured as we would be,” Sam said. “How much?”

Reed waved his hand. “Take it. Your cousin Hal twined that hisself anyhow. Wouldn’t make no sense to be a charging you.”

“But we have to pay you something. It’s a hunt,” Sam explained.

“How about a farthing then?”

Sam was about to protest further, but Daisy came up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Sounds fair enough to me,” she said and laid a farthing upon the counter. “Thank you kindly, Reed.”

Reed smiled shyly, turning crimson, and shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, ‘tis naught, Daisy. Anything for you… and your siblings,” he said. “Here, how about I throw in a bit of straw yarn for the wee robin there. It’d make a nice bow.”

“Thank you Reed,” Daisy said and Goldie handed over the robin for Reed to tie the yarn around its neck. Goldie took the robin back and hopped out of the small yard, the others following.

“I think he’s sweet on you, Daisy,” May said once they were making their way through the various market stalls and booths.

Daisy looked at May with a bewildered look and laughed. “Reed Garland? He’s twice my age!”

“He did give us the rope for next to naught,” Sam stated. “He’s never done that afore, and Hal makes a lot of his rope.”

“What does it mean by he’s sweet on Daisy?” Goldie asked.

“It means he likes her,” Sam said.

“Why wouldn’t he like her?” Goldie asked.

“It means he likes her as something other than a friend,” Sam continued, confusing Goldie even more. “Like, he wouldn’t be opposed to marrying her at some point in the future.”

“Oh,” Goldie said. Then her eyes widened and she exclaimed, “OH!” Then she started to sing:

Daisy and Reed are ‘neath the Kissing Tree

“Thank you for that, Sam,” Daisy said sarcastically. “Now I’ll get to listen to this all day.”

Waitin’ for Bashful Beryl to say, “Kiss she.”

“You’re welcome,” Sam replied with a smile as May stood back and laughed.

First comes the Promise, then comes the marriage

“Goldie, be quiet!” Daisy hissed as they reached the more populated part of the market. The last thing she needed were rumors about her and Reed being intended, both for her sake and for Reed’s.

They reached the vendors for the candles and spices and Goldie was thankfully too preoccupied with the various items on display to continue with her song. May grabbed the candles as Daisy and Sam selected the spices: cumin and poppy seeds, ground cinnamon and ginger, and leaves of rosemary. These were not so easy to purchase as the rope had been, and May and Daisy had to do much haggling over the price of their orders before both sides were satisfied.

They were on their way out of market and headed towards the Bridge when May poked Sam on the shoulder. “Isn’t that Master Frodo?”

Sam looked to where she was pointing, and sure enough, Frodo Baggins was standing further ahead on the edge of the Road leading out of the market, one foot on the road and one foot off, a package from the postmaster’s in his hands. He was talking with a young lass about Daisy’s age, and he looked very uncomfortable indeed. His shoulders were drawn up nearly to his jaw line and his free hand was fidgeting with the things in his pocket, and all the while he was discreetly looking about as he nodded along with whatever the lass was saying.

Sam figured it best to leave Frodo to his business but couldn’t help throwing up his hand and waving as they walked past. “Hullo Master Frodo!” he called, remembering just in time to address him properly; they were not in the comfortable confines of Bag End after all and he had been lectured enough by his father about being too familiar with his betters even there.

Frodo spun around and stared at Sam with an expression none of the Gamgee children could rightly read, then suddenly Frodo was coming toward them, near to running he was walking so fast. “There you are!” he exclaimed. “I nearly forgot you were to come and fetch me. Has the Gaffer got Bilbo’s ale ready then?”

“What?” Sam asked as Frodo stopped before them.

“Just go along with it, please, I’m begging you,” Frodo whispered, desperation evident. Daisy looked over Frodo’s shoulder and saw the young lass watching them with a bemused and thoroughly put-upon expression on her pretty face.

“Oh, all right then,” Sam said and raised his voice so the lass could hear. “Aye, Master Frodo, the ale’s barreled and corked and ready for rolling up the Hill.”

Frodo turned back to the lass and shrugged helplessly at her. “Duty calls,” he said. “I’ll speak with you again, Myrtle.” Then he waved good-bye and followed the Gamgees over the Bridge and up the Hill.

“What was that about, Master Frodo?” Sam asked and was rewarded by a flick on his ear from behind him.

“‘Tis none of your business, Samwise,” Daisy chided.

But Frodo didn’t seem to mind Sam’s curiosity or consider it rude. He just laughed ruefully and said, “That was Myrtle Chubb. She’s taken a liking to me of late and corners me whenever she gets the chance. I didn’t think I’d ever get away from her this time. I owe you one, Sam.”

Daisy and May did their best not to smile, turning their faces down to the ground when the corners of their mouths crept up anyway. Goldie started humming the Kissing Tree song again, having enough sense at least not to sing it out loud using the names of her betters. Sam cocked his head at Frodo and asked, “Why would you be wanting to get away from her, Master Frodo?”

“She’s a rather aggressive young lass,” Frodo said evasively. “She rather reminds me of someone else I know and would sooner forget if I could.”

“Why’s that?”

“That tale is not suitable for your ears,” was all Frodo would say.*

Sam just nodded though none of it made any sense to him. Still, he promised himself that if he ever saw Myrtle Chubb speaking with Frodo again, he would find a way to interrupt.

They reached the Party Field then and separated. The Gamgees waved goodbye to Frodo as the young master continued up the Hill to Bag End and Sam suddenly had a revelation. He turned to his sisters with a grin on his face and a secret in his eyes.

“What?” they asked.

“I know where we can find the rocks.”

They ate luncheon quickly and ran out of the tent, taking only what they needed to gather the rest of their items. They had been pleased to see that only two other teams had reported back so far and that they had not left nearly as many items as the Gamgees had. Of course, that in no way meant they were in the lead, so they didn’t dawdle when they left the Party Field.

They had four items left to retrieve: the quince and the berries, the daphne and the rocks. Daisy carried the small basket for the berries and Sam carried the larger basket that had been cleared of all other items, now left in the care of their father. The lasses paused halfway down the Hill before turning to their brother and asking, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Where are these rocks?” May asked.

“Oh, they’re Frodo’s,” Sam answered.

“Sam,” Daisy started, but Sam held up a hand.

“It’s not on his land and there’s no asking for help. He keeps them up near The Water by the Bywater Pool, hidden like, and he told me a long time ago as I could take any as I wanted whenever I wanted,” Sam explained. “I just never have.”

“Why does he have rocks hidden by The Water?” May asked.

Sam shrugged. “Can’t say, but they’re there and no one else will know to look for them. I don’t reckon Master Frodo still goes out there too often, but the last time I had a look-see, it was quite a big collection. He’s bound to have green rocks of some sort.”

“No bigger than our thumbs?” May asked as they continued down the Hill again, over the slope and fields towards The Water. Going by the Road would take far too long, and if they needed to go to Bywater Pool anyway, they might as well take the most direct route possible.

Sam shrugged again. “We’ll see when we see,” he answered. “If not, we might be able to break some of the rocks to smaller sizes.”

They reached The Water as the sun finally peeked out from behind the clouds. The sun warmed them instantly and they removed their coats and lifted their faces to the bright rays. Sam pointed out plants, trees and flowers to Marigold, teaching her how to tell them apart, and May and Daisy followed behind and talked about all the things they would do once spring was upon them.

They were still a half-mile away from the Pool when Sam stopped and headed toward an elm tree. He walked around the tree looking for a root that came out of the tree at a sharp angle, then split into two smaller roots that ran parallel to each other until one stopped and the other bent to the left at a shallow angle. This smaller root was marked with an “F” rune and just beneath it, buried in the dirt, would be the box of rocks.

Sam had his theories about Frodo’s rock collecting days, but he wasn’t about to share them with his sisters. He had learned over the years that it had been a habit that Frodo had picked up while living in Buckland, and Sam suspected that he kept up the habit after moving here so as to have something familiar to do. Once he had settled in a bit and acquired friends of his own, though, he had stopped digging through the dirt for its treasures and now spent his time with his head raised to the sky. Sam could remember many a night sitting on the roof of Bag End, pointing at the stars, though he knew better than to count himself as one of Frodo’s friends.

At last, Sam found the root he was looking for and settled down to dig. The ground was packed hard but Sam was used to that. He simply took his pocket knife back out and used that help him dig, being mindful to keep the sharp edge pointed away from himself and toward the tree. Soon enough, his knife hit tin and within another minute, Sam had the box unearthed. Moving over to sit down on a root, Sam dusted the tin box off and waited until his sisters were anxiously standing over him. Then he opened the lid.

There were far more rocks than even he remembered, all of them of different sizes, shapes, colors and textures. There were small, smooth ones, flat and good for skipping across the Pool, or round and fat ones good for fitting into a sling. There were brittle ones, dark and ash colored that would crumble with enough pressure, and there were porous ones, scattered with holes like a dried up sea sponge, or so Frodo had told him once. Some were clear in color, others were cloudy or mixed with various shades or striped through with vibrant contrasts.

His sisters made soft exclamations over the collection and gasped in shock when Sam turned the box over and dumped out the contents. “What? We’re not going to find aught elsewise,” he reasoned.

His sisters joined him on the ground and started picking through the rocks, placing them back into the box as they went. They found two small emerald green rocks, smooth and round, almost immediately. Sam and Goldie took those for their own. May and Daisy were not so lucky. There was one other green rock, cloudy and of a light shade similar to new grass, but it was twice the size of their thumbs. Sam took it anyway; they could try to hammer it into smaller pieces or find some other way to break it. One other rock looked promising in size, but May insisted it was blue while Sam and Goldie couldn’t make up their minds and finally placed it somewhere near the middle.

“That one is out,” Daisy finally stated. “We’ll just have another dispute with the judges if we take it back.”

“Why can’t we just take two of these rocks and paint them green?” Goldie asked when they reached the last rock in the collection and placed it into the box.

“Because they didn’t say we could do that,” Sam pointed out.

“But they didn’t say we couldn’t,” Goldie countered.

“They didn’t say we could.”

“They didn’t say we couldn’t.”

“Stop it, you two,” May said and stood up. “We’ll have to make do with what we have. We’re wasting time. Bury that up Sam and let’s get to Goodheart’s.”

The sun was hidden behind clouds again by the time they left the elm tree, but the day was still warm and they kept their coats off. They left The Water behind them almost immediately, cutting across the fields south toward the Road. Goodheart’s farm was close-by and Sam knew how to get to the daphne quick enough from here.

They arrived at Goodheart’s from the west side of his land and circled around toward the lane leading to the front of the house. Then they walked down the lane toward the Road, but Sam veered them off again before they could reach it. The vegetable fields ran parallel to the Road and on the very edge of the fields were several tall shrubs of daphne. Sam beamed back at his sisters and quickly plucked the purplish-pink blooms, then just as quickly covered the stems.

With that done, they walked the short distance to the Road and followed it east to the very borders of Hobbiton. There they found the quince as promised. The flowers lived up to their nickname of Crimson and Gold, being dark red on the petals and golden at their centers, but much to their dismay, there were no quince berries to be found. The season was still too young and the fruit had not made an appearance yet. Sam packed the quince stems as his sisters tried to think of a solution.

“There’s early raspberries,” Daisy said, “but those are out all the way towards Overhill. There has to be something around here.”

“What about blackberries?” May asked.

“Those are carted in from Waymeet.”

“What about cranberries?”

“There’s some grown out toward Tookland, about five miles or so, but none around here, not this early.”

“What about boysenberry?”

“Yes! There’s some near to town, off the Road,” Daisy said.

“If it’s near to town, then the other teams may have got it already,” Sam pointed out.

“It’s our best hope. Let’s hurry.”

Daisy lifted up Goldie and the siblings ran as quickly as their feet would carry them. Not more than five minutes later, they were stumbling off the Road a half mile from the eastern edge of town center and down the slope to a small groove. Under the groove grew boysenberry bushes and those too were plucked dry.

“Drat it!” May hissed.

“May!” Daisy exclaimed.

May ignored her sister and stamped her foot in frustration. “Where else? Where else can we look that won’t take us halfway across the Shire?”

“You could go back to Mugwort’s,” Goldie suggested.

Sam nodded. “He sells berries and leaves out those as aren’t sold at market for anyone who wants them. He has that big glass house of his and grows his strawberries early.”

“Of course!” May said. “He’s always got at least a few left over and he’d just be leaving market. We can get there before the others if we hurry.”

So they dashed off again, back to the Road, right through town center, and back towards Woodrow’s. They did not need to go as far as before though. Mugwort’s farm was only two miles outside of town center and they were there in ten minutes. They ran all the way up the lane to the greenhouse and came to a sudden stop at the door, huffing and panting and hoping desperately that the farmer had enough left over for their purposes.

Mugwort appeared from within the glass house just a few short seconds later. “Hullo, young Gamgees,” he exclaimed. “I expect you be waiting for extras.”

They nodded, too winded to say anything in reply. Mugwort laughed and went back inside.

“Please have enough,” May squeezed out as she regained her breath. “Please have enough. Pleasehaveenough pleasehaveenough.”

“Stop asking for help,” Daisy chided.

“I’m not asking, I’m begging. I’m not losing to the Willomere’s again.”

Mugwort came back then, laughing still, and set out a basket full of small but ripe berries. Daisy quickly reached up and took a handful, then a second. There was just enough to fill their basket to the top.

“Might as well go ahead and finish them off,” Mugwort said. “You look as though you need it.”

“Thank you,” the children chimed and May divided the few remaining berries for them each. They waved gratefully to the farmer, who laughed again and went back inside to wait, ready to grab more “after market extras” should any more other desperate children show up at his doorstep.

The Gamgees strolled up the lane back to the Road, happily munching on their strawberries, which were soon gone. They had nearly everything they needed to gather. Now, they just had to break that rock in half.

“Are you sure Master Frodo won’t mind us taking them?” Daisy asked, still a bit uneasy about the source of the rocks.

“Not at all,” Sam said confidently. “Now, look for two rocks, large ones, so as we can place the green one between them and break it that way.”

They found these rocks quickly enough. Sam placed the green rock on the flattest part of one of the boulders, and with May, Daisy and Sam working together, they were able to lift the other boulder over the first. “Stand back, Goldie,” Sam warned and she stood well behind her siblings to wait and watch. On the count of three, they dropped the boulder. It bounced off the first boulder and rolled away a bit, but it did the job they had wanted it to. The green rock was broken and shattered into three pieces, two of which were just small enough to fit the criteria.

The siblings jumped up and down and embraced with joy. They were finished and it wasn’t even time for tea yet. They had to be the first ones done!

They set off again, running for all their worth, Daisy once again holding Goldie. They reached the Hill and tore up the Lane, slowing as the slope gradually grew steeper. By the time they reached the Party Field and the pavilion, they were sweaty and out of breath, but they handed over their items and beamed happily at their father as Hamfast slowly unwrapped the flowers and placed them with the rest in a vase. As he was doing that, Odo came and looked over their things.

“You got everything, including the rocks,” he said in surprise. “How in the world did you find the rocks?”

Hamfast laughed. “I’ve very resourceful children. I told you it wouldn’t stump them for long,” he said proudly, to which his children nodded and then waited for the verdict.

Odo could only nod in agreement. “Aye, that you do, Ham. Well, you’ve won and…” whatever else Odo might have said was cut off as the Gamgee children erupted into cheers and jumped up and down, then commenced to kiss their father and hug the breath out of Odo.

“We won! We won!”

“A day of no work!”

“We can do whatever we want!”

“I want my robin back!”

Hamfast chuckled and handed Goldie her robin, then interjected between his children’s celebrations. “Now, you can’t all be taking the same day off.”

“But Gaffer!”

“It won’t be no fun it we can’t all have the same day off!”

“We’ll work twice as hard the next day, promise!”

“Besides, you’re coming with us,” Daisy put in.

“I am?” Gaffer asked.

“Of course you are. We won, so you won too.”

Then without waiting for a response, his children sat upon the ground and started planning their day off, their plans taking them out of the smial and into the countryside at the first sign of the thaw. Hamfast sat back and listened to his children’s plans, chiming in only when they started to get too fantastical with their ideas, and together they filled up their day from cockcrow to sundown as they waited for the other scavengers to return.
 
 

End of this ficlet. More to come.
 

GF 2/2/06
 
 
 

* - Frodo’s tale might not be suitable for Sam’s delicate ears, but you can find out why Frodo would be shying away from an aggressive young lass by reading “A Night to Forget,” which takes place the spring prior to this fic. :)

#7 – To Learn His Letters

Bilbo is 99, Hamfast 63, Frodo and Halfred 21, Sam 10 (or about 63, 41, 13, and 6 in Man years)

Spring 1390 SR

Halfred woke to the familiar but forgotten feel of his little brother pressed into his side. Sam’s little fingers were tangled in Fred’s hair, and a sleep-heavy arm was draped over his tummy. Fred smiled down at the small form that was wedged so snuggly into his side, then carefully reached up to disentangle his curls from Sam’s grasp before sitting up and stretching. He smoothed out his hair and looked about his room with fondness. He hadn’t expected to have missed it as much as he had during the long winter in Gamwich, but now that he was back he was surprised to discover just how deep his homesickness had grown. 

He attempted to slide over to the other side of the bed, only to find that Sam had molded around him again. Fred patted Sam on his sleeping head, wriggled free again, then slipped out of bed. Sam hadn’t said anything when Fred returned five days ago, but the fierceness of his hug when he greeted Fred had said plenty, and Daisy had said more. She confided in Fred that Sam had missed his brother terribly and even Gaffer was regretting sending Fred off for the winter to be prenticed to their Gamwich relations. Sam wasn’t ready to be on his own yet, but Gaffer had hoped that the winter, with its Yule holiday and Fred’s birthday in Solmath to allow for visits home, would help to ease Sam into the idea of losing his brother for good next year. Sam had managed, though he hadn’t slept well unless Goldie was with him and when she wasn’t, he often wound up in the Gaffer’s bed.

Fred had also missed his family at times but his days in Gamwich kept him so busy from sun up to sun down that he was usually asleep the moment his head hit the pillow, and he’d had no time for thinking and yearning during the days. Even so, there were times when a wave of homesickness would come upon him fierce and strong, usually when he was doing mundane and ordinary things, like sweeping the ashes from the hearth, chopping vegetables to put in the evening stew, or even winching water from the well. In those moments, he would realize just how far away from his home and family he was, a three day ride if the weather was good, and he too would dread the following summer, when he would be off for the crags and cliffs of Little Smithy in Northfarthing where he would likely spend the rest of his days amongst his Gammidge relationship making tiles, slates and bricks. Never mind that it was his choice, that he wanted to go there. It was a long lonely way from home and he was beginning to rethink his decision. His only consolation was that his first cousin on his mother’s side, Hale Goodchild, who he met on a visit to Tighfield some years back and had become quick friends with, would also be prenticing to Little Smithy next year and they would be making the trip together.

For the time being, he counted himself lucky to have this extra year or so with his family, and that he was able to return home so often during the winters. Yule had been just like the old days, for he had picked up Hamson from Tighfield on the way and it had been the Gaffer and the six siblings again. For his birthday, he spent a delightful week doing not much of anything other than visiting friends and catching up on local gossip and naturally handing out presents. All the gifts had gone over well and while he couldn’t give grand or even ordinary gifts, the mathoms he had brought had been received with delight. All of them that is but one.

Sam had loved his gift beyond measure but their father had not been so certain about it. Halfred had searched every inch of the barn and workshop on his great-great uncle’s land until he found a spare bit of chalk and a fair-sized slate slab that would serve as a writing tablet. He found a dust cloth to go along with it all and wrapped the slate and chalk inside the cloth. Sam had mentioned during Yule that Mr. Bilbo had offered to start teaching Sam his letters come spring and Fred wanted Sam to be prepared for when the time came. Seemed their dad had different ideas, for he had cornered Fred in the parlor after the cake-cutting and gift-giving.

“Why’d you have to go and give Sam that fool gift?” Gaffer asked. “I’d just got him to forget about them lessons and there you go reminding him again.”

“Why’d you want Sam to forget them for?” Fred asked, confused.

“Ain’t no point the likes of us learning any letters,” Gaffer said. “He don’t need to read to know how to water and trim the flowers. Tis nothing but a waste of time, to my way of thinking. Besides, he’s supposed to be prenticed to me come spring, and he can’t learn his job if he’s tucked away inside Bag End all day.”

“Oh, stop your complaining, Dad,” Halfred said, making quite bold to give his dad so much sauce. Gaffer lifted an eyebrow at him and Fred had to speak quick to get himself out of a scolding. “I just mean, it won’t harm nothing none either. Lessons don’t take all day, or they don’t need to anyhow, and they won’t be every day either. Sam will still be there to help you plenty. Besides, Ma wanted Sam to learn his letters, so he’s learning them.”

That had been in Solmath and from what he has been able to gather since his return home, Gaffer had done nothing more than send Sam down to the post master to learn to mark his name. This was nothing out of the ordinary, as most hobbits who couldn’t read at least learned to spell their names. They would take a day or two off work to take lessons with the post messengers, and once they could spell their names well enough to be legible to others (and on legal documents), they were back to work in a blink of an eye.

That was good enough for Gaffer, but their Ma had wanted them all to learn their letters. Their dad of course had been square against it, so she finally talked him into letting at least one of the children learn and that child had been Sam by default. Hamson and Halfred were going to be apprenticed one day and that would hardly be a help to her and Dad for them to learn. The lasses too would get married some day and move off to live near their husband’s families, so it was Sam she had made the Gaffer promise to get his lessons. Ma had thought there was something different about Sam, though not different in a bad way, and she hadn’t wanted him cheated of any opportunity. Gaffer hadn’t exactly agreed with her, but he hadn’t exactly said no either and as far as Fred was concerned, that was consent enough.

So now it was up to Halfred to make sure Sam got that opportunity as Ma had wanted him to have. He knew that if he left it up to his dad, Sam wouldn’t be getting any more lessons and that was flat, so he decided last night that he’d get up early today and be ready to go up to Bag End after first breakfast to have a talk with Mr. Bilbo directly. He figured that if he could talk to Mr. Bilbo and find out just what all Sam would need to learn his letters proper, he could then make a proper argument with Gaffer over it. He said nothing of this to Sam though, not wanting to get the lad’s hopes up if it came to nothing.

Fred slipped into his day clothes and tiptoed out of the room. He found his sisters already awake and filling the smial with the smells of cooking. He went into the kitchen to help them, keeping an eye on the light outside. When it was nearly time for the Gaffer to be waking, he went back into his room and roused Sam.

“Wake up Sam,” he said gently and waited until two drowsy hazel eyes were peering up at him. “Out of bed, sleepy head. Breakfast’s almost ready and we’ll all be going up to work at Bag End together.”

“You’re coming?” Sam said around a yawn. He rubbed his eyes and blinked up at his brother.

“Aye, I am at that.” He helped Sam up and into his work clothes. Sam shuffled in front of him into the kitchen, where Gaffer was already seated. They smiled at their dad and took their seats. Marigold was in a similar state of half-awareness as Sam. She sat in her seat, rocking back and forth ever so slightly as she yawned. May and Daisy served them all and they ate with appreciative grunts.

After breakfast, they left the smial, each to their own destination. May and Goldie were going to the Cottons, where May worked helping Mother Cotton while Goldie played with the Cotton children. Daisy was off to help the Widow Rumble, and the lads and the Gaffer headed up the Hill to Bag End.

Fred wasted no time in trotting up the walk path to the green front door. Gaffer gave him a questioning look but let him go about his business. Fred suspected that his father knew what he was doing, and that Gaffer was confident he’d hear nothing but a ‘no’ for his efforts. Well, if it turned out that way, so be it, but Halfred wasn’t going to give up without a fight. If Mr. Bilbo thought he had seen Gamgee stubbornness before, he had another thing coming to him!

Fred pulled on the bell and waited. As luck would have it, Master Frodo answered the call. He looked at Fred with surprised delight and quickly opened the door wider to let him into the front entrance. “What a delightful surprise!” Master Frodo said. “I heard you were back, but I didn’t expect to see you so soon. What brings you up the Hill?”

“Morning to you, Master Frodo. I’m helping me Gaffer today, but I’ve another reason for coming also,” Fred answered. “I was wondering if Mr. Bilbo might be able to see me?”

Master Frodo’s brow crinkled instantly. “I’m sure that he could. I hope nothing is wrong.” He led Fred into parlor and motioned for him to sit. “Can I tell him what the call is about?”

Fred sat on the edge of a chair and nodded, “Aye, Master Frodo, it’s about Sam and him learning his letters.”

Master Frodo’s features darkened further at this. “I heard that your father said no. Poor Sam must have been crushed, but it’s my fault really. I suggested it to Sam before even speaking with your father or Bilbo. I didn’t realize it would all be so complicated. I’ll apologize to him if you like; I was planning to do so anyway.”

Fred shook his head. “Nay, Master Frodo. I’m not here for that, though I’m right glad to hear you’re all for Sam learning. I’d not mind for a bit of back up on this. You see, I’m here to see about Mr. Bilbo teaching Sam.”

“But your father said no.”

“I know that right enough. I’m here anyway,” Fred said then smiled sheepishly. “I’m the troublemaker in the family, you might say. I’m always causing Dad grief, so I may as well do something useful while I’m at it. So is Mr. Bilbo here then? May I speak with him?”

“Of course, I’ll get him for you,” Master Frodo said and went in search of the Master of the Hill.

Fred settled back into the chair and looked around the parlor as he waited. He’d always loved the Bag End parlor. There was something so stately and yet accessible about it, though why that was Fred couldn’t say. All he knew was that he needn’t fear touching anything here for fear of smudging it and that he could sit wherever he liked, even here in the Master’s favorite rocking chair.

Mr. Bilbo entered the room a few minutes later, with Master Frodo fast on his heels. Master Frodo leaned against the doorway to the room, keeping himself out of the dealings, but remaining an active observer all the same. He gave Fred a determined look, small and fleeting, but there all the same. Fred had his support in this.

Mr. Bilbo sat upon the chair next to Fred. “Good morning, Master Halfred,” Mr. Bilbo said with a cheery smile and a twinkle in his eye. “Frodo tells me you’re here to start trouble.”

Fred smiled in return. “Well, I’m hoping it won’t come to that, but I do want to talk to you about teaching Sam to read.”

“I’ve already spoken with your father about that,” Mr. Bilbo said, predictably enough, though with a twinge of regret in his voice as well. “He’s set against it and I’m not going to go against his wishes.”

“I’d not ask you to do that sir,” Fred reassured. “I just need some questions answered, so as when I go to the Gaffer, I’ll be able to argue with him effective-like.”

Mr. Bilbo laughed at this and Master Frodo gave a soft chuckle from his view at the doorway.

“I’ll answer your questions, Master Halfred, so long as you answer one of mine first,” Mr. Bilbo said and waited for Fred’s nod. “Why do you want Sam to learn?”

“Because Ma wanted it,” Fred answered, simple but honest. From the corner of his eye, he noticed that Master Frodo stood up straight and stepped into the room somewhat. Fred plowed ahead, explaining his mother’s reasons for choosing Sam and how much it had meant to her. “Plus, Sam actually wants to learn. He told me at Yule that you were going to be teaching him his letters in the spring, and when I gave him a slate and chalk for me birthday, he nearly burst with pride. He wants it bad, I know he does Mr. Bilbo, but he’d not say anything against Gaffer, and Gaffer ain’t going to give him permission so long as he thinks it’ll take too much time away from the garden. So that’s why I’m here. To work out a schedule like. If I have that afore I talk to Gaffer, it’ll help mightily.”

Mr. Bilbo seemed to be thinking about the request, but Master Frodo’s mind was already made up. He stepped further into the room and said, “What could it hurt, Bilbo? We owe it to Sam to try. All Hamfast can do is say no again.”

“This is a family affair, Frodo, and is not for us to get involved in,” Mr. Bilbo said, though he sounded more instructional than anything else. He didn’t seem to be denying Halfred’s request and he proved this by continuing, “However, I don’t see any harm in hypothesizing a schedule. Now, Master Halfred, what sort of schedule were you thinking of?”

Fred shrugged. “That’d be your telling, Mr. Bilbo. I’d not know about any of that. What’s the usual schedule like?”

“Well, the usual schedule would include more than just reading and writing. It would include history and the study of annals and family trees, arithmetic, and theory, as well as specialized subjects depending upon the pupil: music, art, politics and negotiation, law.”

“Bilbo, you’re making his head spin,” Master Frodo said.

Fred nodded. That was quite a lot of studying to his mind. No wonder gentlehobbits had no time for anything else.

“I’m sorry, Halfred,” Mr. Bilbo said. “For just learning to read and write, well, it would still depend greatly on Sam, on how quickly he can catch on. But the schedule need be no more intense than three or four lessons a week, two hours for a session, if any progress is to be made.”

“That much?” Fred asked. That was nearly a whole day’s worth of work. “And if Sam proves to be a quick learn?”

“I imagine I could send work home with him, to do in the quiet hours before sleep,” Mr. Bilbo said. “In that case, I could see cutting it back to one hour a session.”

“How soon could he start?” Fred asked next.

“As soon as your father says yes,” Mr. Bilbo replied. “He could come up in the mornings when Frodo is having his lessons. Frodo can more or less see after himself and he could keep Sam company and give him extra encouragement when it’s needed. Learning can be a slow and frustrating business when you’re first starting out.”

“We’d not be able to pay you none,” Fred said. He had a feeling this was something his father worried about also, though he never mentioned it. The thought of your employer working to teach your children wasn’t one that the Gaffer would be comfortable with. “But I’ll hire myself on as errand-lad or messenger or anything else extra you need me to do to make up for it.”

“That would hardly be necessary,” Mr. Bilbo said, “though if you think it would help your father accept the offer, I could find things for you to do. Is there anything else?”

Fred bit the inside of his cheek and nodded. This was going to be the biggest hurdle with winning his father over and he worried that he wouldn’t hear what he wanted to hear. “Would it help Sam with his gardening, or anything else?”

Mr. Bilbo hummed and sat back in his chair, noodling this out. While the Gaffer could be whimsical and acquainting about minor pursuits if it would only take an hour or two of his children’s time, he was set against prolonged activities if he could see no practical purpose for it. “I fear the answer to that question is no,” Mr. Bilbo finally said. “Anything Sam will need to learn about the gardens, your father already knows, and what he doesn’t know, he can simply ask someone else.”

“What about contracts? Legal matters?” Master Frodo put in. “A family in Buckland was conned once into paying more than they agreed to verbally for some service or another. It took Uncle Rory weeks to get the mattered straightened out, but since the family had no witnesses besides themselves contesting the contract, they had to pay in the end.”

Mr. Bilbo shook his head. “No, if Hamfast suspects that a contract, or the contract-writer, is trying to swindle him, he can always go to a post messenger to have it read. It’s standard procedure.”

“But that would cost him money, or at the least a keg of ale or sack of potatoes which he could have traded for something else,” Master Frodo said.

“Dad’s only ever signed two contracts,” Fred said unhelpfully. “The deed for the smial and his marriage contract. Everything else is done with a shake of hands.”

“Well, don’t farmers have to know how to read to keep their books and ledgers?” Master Frodo asked now, frustration evident in his voice and face.

“They know just enough to get by for what they need it for, but we ain’t no farmers,” Halfred said.

They went back to thinking and the room fell silent. How long they remained there thinking and coming up with nothing, Fred couldn’t say, but the impatient knock that sounded at the front door after a time was enough for him to know that he had kept his father waiting too long. He stood up and bowed to the masters. “Thank you for trying to help,” he said.

“We’ll think of something,” Master Frodo promised. “There has to be a convincing enough argument, even if I have to make it up.”

“Frodo, we are not conning the Gaffer into letting Sam learn to read,” Mr. Bilbo said sternly, and Fred could see that an argument was brewing between the two of them.

“That won’t be necessary no how,” Fred said quickly. “I’ll have to make do on what I got and hope it’s enough. If anything, I can always hope that Gaffer gets sick enough arguing about it that he’ll agree to it just to shut me up.” He smiled at them both as another impatient knock sounded. “I’d best be going now.”

Master Frodo walked him to the door and saw him out. Fred followed his father about the gardens for the rest of the day, his thoughts lost to the task of organizing the points of his argument. He was missing the most crucial point of them all, but he hoped that if he could win all the others it wouldn’t matter in the end.

It wasn’t until Highday that Fred was able to approach the Gaffer. He didn’t want the other children about when he and Gaffer talked about Sam learning his letters, and so he’d had to wait. Sam was always at Bag End with them, learning how to be a good gardener, and so there was never an opportunity to approach him then. Besides that, any attempt to talk to his father while on the job would be ended before it got started.

Highday morning finally dawned and Fred waited impatiently for the noon hour. Now Daisy and May were spending their afternoon off playing with their friends at Number One and Number Two, and Sam and Marigold were at the Cottons watching the chicks hatch from their eggs. Gaffer was outside puttering about in his garden so Fred made him some tea and called him inside to eat. He didn’t even wait for his father to sit down before bombarding him.

“I want to talk again about Sam learning his letters,” he said and plowed ahead when Gaffer started to protest. “It’d not take any extra time away from you teaching him about the garden. Why, up to this year, he was spending half the days in Bag End anyway and you’ve never missed his help none.”

“I already told you no, Halfred. You best let this drop,” Gaffer said, still poised in pulling out his chair from the table.

“I won’t,” Fred said, setting his jaw and crossing his arms. “You said it’d take too much time. Now, I talked to Mr. Bilbo and he did say it’d be a couple of hours a day, but that right there is already less than what Sam was spending in the smial already. If you do need the help, I’ll come up a day a week and help make up for it.”

“There’s more to it than just that,” Gaffer started, but Fred remained before him.

“And I talked to Mr. Bilbo about being compensated. He said I could do extra errands for him to trade for him teaching Sam. That way, it wouldn’t be free and you’d not have to owe nothing. I’d be working for it.”

“And after you leave?”

This stopped Halfred for only half a second. “Sam could do extra errands. He’ll be old enough by then.”

“No.”

“But why not?” Fred asked. “You’ve no reason to be saying no. Sam’ll learn the garden, he knows half of it already just by watching you all this time. He don’t need that much instruction. This isn’t going to get in the way of him learning his trade.”

“No,” Hamfast repeated. “There’s no point in it.”

“But Sam wants to learn! More importantly, Ma wanted him to learn. You’re just going to ignore her wishes?”

This was too much for his father. Hamfast pushed the chair aside and came to stand before his son, hands clenched. “Don’t you dare accuse me of ignoring your mother’s wishes!” he shouted. “She wanted you lads to stay home till you were tweens afore I prenticed you and I’ve done that. She wanted the lasses to be allowed to start courting once they reached twenty-eight, and I’ll do that too so long as the lad she’s courting is properly afraid of me.”

“So then what does Sam get?” Fred asked, not backing down. “She wanted Sam to learn and you never said her no.”

“I never said her yes either, and Sam gets to stay home and keep it after I’m gone,” Hamfast said. “Now, I could see the point in keeping you lads about the hole a little while longer than is normal, and I could see the point about getting to know the lads my daughters are planning to marry some day, but there ain’t no point in Sam knowing how to read.”

“I’ll think of one,” Fred promised. “I’ll think of one and then you’ll have to say yes.”

“You go on ahead and do that then,” Gaffer said, then sat down with a thump and spooned sugar into his tea.

Fred did think about it. He thought long and hard about it and every time he came up with nothing that would satisfy the Gaffer’s demands. He even had the other working lads trying to come up with scenarios that would make sense for Sam to know how to read. At Cartwright’s, Goodheart’s, Noakes’, and even the Woodrow’s, he had everyone spending just as much time noodling over the problem as they spent bending over their spades. He even stopped in at Bag End on a couple of Highday afternoons to see if Master Frodo had been able to come up with anything, and always he came away with nothing useful. Not that it stopped him from trying to convince his father to change his mind. It became a ritual of sorts. Every Highday, once the younger children were out of the smial, Halfred would find his father and bring up the topic again, to the same results. It got to the point that Hamfast would say “No” upon seeing him and not let him get a word out edgewise before trotting off for a sup and a bite at the Bush with Daddy Twofoot and Odo Goodlove.

At last, desperate, he tried the argument about the family Master Frodo had told him about during that first talk. Gaffer had simply shrugged and said, “That’ll learn them to be signing somewhat without getting it read to them first.”

“But they’d have to pay for that. If you ever needed to sign for something, you’d have to pay for it to be read too. You could save money if Sam knew how to read,” Fred said.

Gaffer only quirked his head at the lad. “So I should send Sam off for a couple of hours each day, losing the money he’d earn otherwise if he was helping me, on the off chance that I might someday want to save a couple o’ quid on a post messenger if I’ll ever need to have a contract read to me?”

After that, Fred realized he needed to go straight to the source. He took to searching out the gardeners of Hobbiton and Bywater in between his various jobs and asking them if there had ever been an instance that they needed to know their letters for something. He received nothing but blank stares and ‘no, can’t say as I have’ in reply. He asked the cartwrights, the smiths, the bakers, everyone he could think of, and every time he got the same response. If it varied at all, it was to say, ‘well, I suppose there’s always the post messengers, ain’t there?’

It was now the middle of Thrimidge and Fred was beginning to believe he’d never win this argument for Sam. He sat on the edge of The Water, kicking his feet in the cold water, and frowned at his reflection forlornly. He was supposed to be going to Noakes’ farm to help with the branding of the calves, but instead he was sitting here moping over his lost efforts. If only it wasn’t for those blasted post messengers!

Fred gave The Water a final splash with his feet and stood up. If he was too late for Noakes, his father would give him a lecture to last him till Yule. He followed the river into Bywater to Noakes’ farm and arrived just in time for the branding. He chatted with the lads there in between rubbing the numbing balm on the calves’ hindquarters. None of them could think of a reason for him to take to Gaffer either, but Cort Noakes did ask, “Well, why did your ma want him to learn? Seems as she had a reason.”

“A cause she'd thought it'd be useful,” Fred answered.

“Useful how?”

Fred didn’t know the answer to that question, but he knew who did. Again he waited until Highday afternoon and this time when he went to his father he sat down with him in the garden and raised his hand for peace before the Gaffer could tell him no again. Gaffer put down his trowel and sat back on his haunches, eyeing his son warily.

“Just answer me one question and answer it fully please. Why exactly did Ma want us all to know our letters?” Fred asked.

Hamfast let out a mumbled breath and looked up at the slightly clouded sky. “A cause of this time your grandma took sick,” he said and went back to tending the flowerbed. “The healer couldn’t stay there all day with them, so she gave your ma the herbs and whatnot she’d need and told her how to be making them up and giving them to your grandma, and your ma couldn’t remember the half of it. Scared her a good bit and she kept worritin about how she was going about it all wrong and that your grandma'd be the one as suffered for it. But your grandma got better anyhow and went on to badger us all for another thirty years.”

Fred gaped at his father in disbelief and for several minutes could only look at him with his mouth hanging open as his father went about his planting. “Well,” he managed at last and forced himself to find his voice. “Well, don’t you think that’s important! Gaffer! What if you get sick after all of us are up and gone and Sam has to be here to care for you alone? He’d not be able to remember what the healer says either, he’d be too worrit to even listen. But if he could write it all down…”

“Now you're starting to sound like your ma, going off and worritin on a fancy. The chances of something like that happening are nil to none,” Gaffer said stubbornly.

“Like with Ma?”

Fred regretted saying it the moment the words left his lips and the look on his father’s face, like someone had just punched him in the gut and knocked the wind right out of him, made him feel completely retched.

“I’m sorry,” he said hastily. “I know that was different. But it’s the same really. If you got sick and the healer couldn’t be here and Sam was alone and couldn’t remember what to do and you end up dying, he’d blame himself even if it had nothing to do with the medicines, even if it was just your time, you know he would.”

He had to stop then, for the tears that were threatening to come and that he could see sitting in his father’s eyes. He was unable to stop thinking of his mother’s last weeks, the healer or her apprentice stopping in every few hours to administer the medicine and check on her progress. It had just been her time, there was nothing to be done for it, other than to send the lasses and Sam away for the worst of it, so they wouldn’t have to see their mother deteriorate as quickly as she had.

It had been hardest on Sam. Marigold was just a bairn, barely more than six months, and the other lasses were at least old enough to understand what death was. Not Sam. He’d been four at the time, just out of his fauntling years, and he had gone about the smial and gardens for weeks after looking for their ma, not able to accept that the body they’d buried had been her, so certain that she would turn up at any moment.

It was all so clear to Fred now, why their mother hadn’t backed down on Sam learning his letters, even long after she had given up the fight for the other children. Sam was always the one who would be taking over for Gaffer at Bag End. Sam was always the one who would be staying on at Number Three, the one who would be here with Gaffer into his old age. Now that Sam had already lost one parent to a sudden illness, that would make it all the harder on him if it were to happen again and him feeling useless to help.

“He'd not blame himself. He's got more sense than that, for all that he hardly shows it,” Gaffer grumbled at length.

“He would too blame himself. Why, he blamed himself for a week after finding that little sparrow in the woods and not being able to save it. He kept saying as he should have found it sooner. And with ma… He thought if he’d just stayed here with her, she’d not have left. You can’t do that to him Gaffer,” Fred managed at last, his voice tight, nearly strangled at the memories that came back so suddenly and vividly. He pushed them aside as best he could and continued. “Even if it ain’t likely to happen again, do you really want to risk that? It scared Ma enough that she wanted us to learn, and you’re always saying that of all us kids, Sam’s the one who’s most like her. It’d scare him too, especially after losing Ma like that.”

Gaffer’s shoulders sagged and he hid his face behind his soiled hands. His shoulders began to shake and Fred reached out to take him into a tight embrace, resting his head on the top of his father’s shoulder, as if he were no more than a teen. “Just, give him a chance to learn,” he whispered. “What harm will it do?”

The next morning, Halfred, Gaffer and Sam once again made their way up the Hill to Bag End, only this time, Sam was happily clutching his writing slate in his arms and bouncing excitedly between his father and brother, chattering away about all the things he hoped to learn today. He had the notion that he would be able to learn all his letters in just one day, as he had learned to spell his name, and neither Fred nor Gaffer could get a word in edgewise to suggest it might take a bit longer than that.

Sam revealed then that he had practiced writing his name nearly every day on the writing slate so he wouldn’t forget how. Gaffer’s eyebrows shot up at that but Sam didn’t notice. He took his chalk from his breeches pocket and tried to show them as they walked how he could spell his name. Fred saw their father trying to hide a grin at that, and he smiled openly himself when Gaffer reached down and patted Sam on the head when he finished his scribbling and held the slate out for them to see.

“That’s a fine job, Sam,” Gaffer said. “Just you mind Mr. Bilbo today and you do everything he says.”

“Yes sir!” Sam said, and ran ahead of them through the gate when they reached Bag End. Mr. Bilbo was already waiting for him, standing in the open door. Sam bounced right up to him and inside without a backward glance and Bilbo waved Fred and Gaffer good morning as they rounded the gardens to the tool shed to begin their daily work.
 
 

The End
 

GF 2/22/06

# 8 - A Mother’s Work

Hamfast is 55, Bell 49, Hamson 16, Halfred 12, Daisy 9, May 5 and Sam is 1 (about 35, 31, 10, 7, 5 ½, 3, and 6 months in Man years)

1381 SR

There’s so much noise and commotion, I feel my head will burst. Everyone needs something done and I seem to be the only one they think can do it.

“These breeches need darning,” Hamfast says, holding up a worn-out pair of breeches that have seen better days. He’s wearing his second-best breeches, the ones that don’t quite fit right around the waist and that make him itch on the inside of his legs. “If I’m to be helping the Cottons with their sowing, I need somwhat as I can be comfortable in.”

“Fred and I are supposed to bring sticky buns to the sowing party at the Noakes’,” Hamson informs me now. He and Halfred have to be on their way in under an hour if they’re to be at the Noakes farm on time to begin the sowing. Hamfast will be dropping them off on his way to the Cottons, so his breeches need to be done in the same amount of time.

“Don’t forget the sandwiches!” Halfred calls from his room across the way, where he’s still getting dressed. He comes out now with his shirt buttons half done up and in the wrong holes, and his braces hanging down unhelpfully, his breeches sagging a little as he hasn’t filled them out yet. “We were supposed to tell you last night, Mom, but we forgot. Missus Noakes was wondering if you could make some of those cucumber sandwiches as you make so well. There’ll have to be enough to feed forty for luncheon.” He smiles innocently, as further down the tunnel, the lasses shriek.

A half-minute later, Daisy and May come running into the kitchen, darting around their father’s and brothers’ legs. May is running away from Daisy, who is in hot pursuit. “You pulled out my hair!” Daisy cries and I see she is holding a spot on her head and that May is clutching a hairbrush.

“I didn’t mean too!” May says and wisely hides behind her father.

“I told you as you were pulling too hard,” Daisy accuses, her hands on her hips. “Mom! She pulled out my hair!”

“You lasses stop it, right now,” Hamfast orders. “Your mother is busy. She needs to sew up my breeches.”

“She has to make our sandwiches,” Hamson and Halfred say as one.

“I need my hair done proper!” Daisy says, her lower lip wobbling.

“I’m hungry,” May says from behind her father. “My stomach won’t stop grumbling and I couldn’t concentrate.”

They start talking over each other, and from my room, the bairn starts to cry. “Now you’ve woken your brother!” Hamfast hollers and silence falls over the kitchen as the bairn wails.

I sigh and remind myself that I love my family and wouldn’t trade them for aught. Then I hold out my hand for the breeches. “Ham-dear, see to Sammy while I stitch up your breeches. He just needs to be changed it sounds like. Hamson, Halfred, finish making breakfast. Daisy, you can wait until after breakfast for your hair to be brush. I know it hurt when May accidentally pulled it out, but that’s no reason to carry on so. Be a big lass. May, help Daisy to peel all the cucumbers that we have, then blend the seasonings like I showed you last time.”

“Yes, Mom,” the children agree. Hamfast hands me his breeches and goes to change the bairn. I go to the parlor and get the sewing kit from a drawer in the tea table. I sit in my chair by the hearth and have the breeches stitched before Hamfast brings Sammy, still whimpering slightly, and hands him to me. We switch the breeches for the bairn, and I sit with Sammy while I feed him and rock him, singing softly. His little lashes tickle my breast as his eyes flutter closed and his little hand grabs into my skin to anchor himself where he is. I gently nudge a finger under his fist and thankfully he grabs hold of that instead.

I can hear Hamfast in the kitchen now, helping to fix breakfast and letting into the lads for waiting until the last minute to tell me about the food I am expected to make. By the time Sammy is fed and satisfied, breakfast is on the table, and the lasses are making progress on slicing the cucumbers. I see that they’re all fed, sit Sammy in his highchair, and take over the task of making the sandwiches.

“Aren’t you going to eat, Mom?” Hamson asks.

“I’ll eat shortly. You lads need to hurry up and eat, and Halfred, you’re not leaving the smial looking like that.”

I don’t have enough for forty sandwiches, so I cut them in thirds and add into the basket the remaining meat cakes from yesterday’s dinner that I had stored in the larder for my luncheon today. Then I dig around for some treats and come up with sweet biscuits and butterscotch drops. I bag these into separate satchels and add them to the basket and wrap the basket into a blanket.

“That’ll have to do,” I state as the lads finish eating and take their nearly-clean plates to the washbasin. Hamfast finishes at the same time.

“Let’s go,” he says and heads outside, leaving his plate on the table. Hamson and Halfred start to follow.

“Fred,” I say in my no-nonsense tone. “What did I say?” He turns and faces me, and subjects himself to my inspection. I button up his shirt correctly and stuff the tails into his breeches, which I also button up before he can protest. Then I snap the braces into place and grab the hairbrush off the table without looking for it and run it through his hair several times, ignoring him as he cringes.

“Now you’re going to pull out my hairs,” he complains.

“Serves you right for not getting yourself ready timely,” I say. I turn him around and pat him on the bum, declaring him ready to go. The lasses snicker as he goes to join his brother and father outside. “The basket!” I call after him and he comes back, plucks the basket from the counter and dashes outside again.

The lasses finish eating and I gently brush out Daisy’s hair, pulling it back with a ribbon. May wants her hair braided and that takes more time. All the while, Sammy sits in his highchair, blathering to himself and playing with some cucumber squares that someone had given him earlier. He smacks a fat, chubby hand over one of the squares, attempts several times to grab it up into his fist before succeeding, then stuffs the square into his mouth, smiling triumphantly as he munches on it. I laugh at him fondly and send the lasses to play outside in the garden as I wash the dishes and alternately eat what’s left of breakfast. There are lukewarm eggs and bacon still in the frying pan, and I eat directly from the pan rather than dirty another dish.

I’m halfway through the dishes when Sammy squeals happily. I turn around to find that he has discovered a way of catapulting the cucumber squares from his tray and onto the kitchen walls. I gobble down the last bites of food, finish washing the breakfast dishes and set the frying pan in the washbasin to soak. I then clean up Sammy’s hands and face, tickling him as I do so and laughing as he squeals with delight. As he’s laughing, I clean up the rest of the squares from his tray in one quick swipe of the rag. I clean the rag in the dishwater and quickly wipe down the wall and the floor around Sammy’s chair. I hand him a clean rag dipped in fresh water to munch on when he starts squirming and fussing, then quickly put away the dishes, wash the frying pan and clean up the kitchen to a sparkle.

“Daisy! May!” I call through the kitchen window. “Come in and watch your brother while I dress, and then we’ll go to Missus Rumble’s.”

“Yay!” the lasses exclaim. They come inside, blessedly free of dirt or grime and still looking prim. Daisy struggles to get her brother from his highchair and carry him to the parlor. I make sure they’re playing contentedly with some woodblocks before retreating to my room.

I close the door and lean against it, sighing deeply. Finally, some time to myself. I pour water into the ewer and step out of my dressing gown, ready to taking a standing bath and trying to decide which dress I should wear. I haven't worn the pink one with the yellow flowers in a while, and it would be nice and cool for the day, which was already growing warm. I dip the washcloth into the water and start to wash my neck.

Then I hear a thud from the parlor and I close my eyes before May even says, “Oooh! Daisy! I’m telling! MOM! Daisy knocked over the lamp!”

“I did not!”

“You did too!”

“I did not!”

“You did too!”

“It was Sammy!”

On cue, Sammy starts to cry.

With another sigh, I abandon my bathing, pull on the first dress I lay my hands on and go to the parlor to sort out who did what.

A mother’s work is never done.
 
 
 

GF 5/14/06

Sam reflects on the events that led to him becoming a spy for the Conspiracy – in three ficlets.

This is for Dreamflower, who won a drabble from the “stump the author” challenge on lj. She requested a drabble about Merry’s first approach to Sam about the Conspiracy. Erm, I got a little carried away. It’s just a *wee* bit longer than a drabble. ;D

My Conspiracy

Spring 1393 SR
Frodo is 25 and Sam 13 (about 16 and 8 in Man years)

Master Frodo calls at me from the back door and leads me to his room. He closes the door and leans down to look me in the eyes, and he’s real serious by the way he talks but I can see a twinkle of mischief in those blue eyes of his also. He’s up to somewhat and he needs my help with it, which is fine by me. I do for Master Frodo from time to time and never mind none what all he comes up with for me to do.

“I’ve something to ask you Sam,” he says, “a mission, if you’re willing and have the time.”

“What’s that, Master Frodo?” I ask.

“Oh, it’s nothing really,” he says, which is his way of saying that it is something. He’d not be asking for my help if it weren’t. So I wait real quiet and expectant-like ‘til he continues. “Mistress Tuttle has been making hints in my direction regarding her daughter Tulip. I think she might be planning something, but I don’t know what. I do know, however, that she always goes down to market on Trewsday mornings and that she visits with the weavers for a time while she’s down there. Do you think you could manage some transactions for me tomorrow morning at the market and bring me back any little tidbits you might pick up while you’re down there?”

“Daisy’ll have to come with me,” I say, for I’m still not allowed to be a running errands like that by myself.

Master Frodo doesn’t like this but he ain’t got no choice but to accept it. So next morning, Daisy and I trot down to market to fetch things for Gaffer as we need in the smial. When I see Mistress Tuttle arrive and head for the weavers’ booths, I make my excuses ‘bout having to fetch for Master Frodo and I trot off at a smart pace afore Daisy can say aught. I sneak through the booths until I come to where the weavers are and I pretend to browse while I perk my ears towards Mistress Tuttle. She and her friends ain’t a bothering to keep their voices down none, so I have no trouble overhearing what all they got to say. When I have the information I need, I grab whatever’s near at hand, purchase it from the coin as Master Frodo gave me, and meet up with Daisy as she’s making her way up the Hill.

That afternoon, Master Frodo finds me while I’m working alone in the side garden, wending the vines in the trellis. Gaffer’s off away in the lower gardens and Mr. Bilbo is probably hiding away in his study or taking one of his short little hikes down to the Water, so we’re all alone.

“So?” he asks.

“You were right, sir. Mistress Tuttle wants you to court Miss Tulip. She’s going to come up tomorrow morning and ask Mr. Bilbo if you could tutor Tulip in her Shire history. Seems as Tulip has a sudden wanting to learn all about the Fell Winter,” I say.

Master Frodo nods and I can see as he’s got a plan already forming in his head. He’s real smart like that. “You did good work, Sam-lad,” he says, smiling proudly, which would be award enough but he goes on a talking. “You and your father should join us for tea today and I’ll get you some bread pudding for all your hard work.”

The next day, Mistress Tuttle comes up the walk path and spends some time speaking with Mr. Bilbo. When she comes back out, her face is pinched up and she don’t look too happy. She’s actually muttering under her breath when she walks past my Gaffer and me as we’re trimming the hedgerow. Gaffer mutters somewhat about ungrateful hobbits a wasting the master’s time, but I just keep my head down and keep trimming.

I find out later as Master Frodo got Mr. Bilbo to agree on insisting to tutor Tulip himself, what with Mr. Bilbo having lived through the Fell Winter and all. Mr. Bilbo might not have liked tricking Mistress Tuttle, but he also weren’t about to force Master Frodo to do something as he didn’t want to be a doing. Mr. Bilbo don’t ask Master Frodo how he got his information, but next time Mr. Bilbo sees me, he tips me a wink and pats my head.  

Summer 1411 SR
Frodo is 42, Sam 31, Merry 29, Pippin 21 (27, 20, 18 and 13 in Man years)

The master’s having another bad day.

He weren’t too happy last week when he opened his front door and found Master Merry and Master Pippin standing there, and unannounced at that. They’ve been doing that a lot lately, coming by without leave and staying for a week or two or longer. Only this time, Master Folco and Master Fatty have been coming down from Overhill every day too and the four of them are near to driving Mr. Frodo out of his wits.

Mr. Frodo don’t tell me naught but I can see these visits are beginning to wear on him. He loves his cousins dearly and is pleased they like visiting as often as they do, but sometimes – most times actually – the master likes to be on his own, free to do what he wants and go where he likes. With Master Merry and Master Pippin here, they keep asking him where he’s going, can they go along, why don’t my master settle down already, that last topic being one guaranteed to rise my master’s ire more’n aught else they might say. They seem to think that with no one about to keep an eye on him – I don’t count seemingly – that my master will up and run away without a moment’s notice soon’s they turn around and take their eyes off him.

Mr. Frodo puts up with it for as long as he can but after a week of having them underfoot, his patience is wearing thin. I hear the strain in his voice when he greets his cousins good morning and I know well enough what that tone means. So do they but they don’t pay it no heed.

I’m under the kitchen window seeing to the kitchen garden, pruning what needs pruning and pulling the stray weed here and there where I see them starting to shoot up. The ripened vegetables need pulling up also and so I keep a couple of baskets next to me, one for the food and one for the weeds and clippings. I’m there to work and not listen, but I can’t help but overhear everything as is being said.

“Morning Frodo,” Master Pippin says, chipper as can be. “Merry and I made second breakfast.”

“I was thinking that we could go down to the Pool and do some swimming,” Master Merry says. “It’s been so warm these last few days, a good swim would be quite refreshing. After that, we can…”

“That sounds splendid, Merry,” Mr. Frodo says, interrupting his cousin, which just goes to show how worn to the nerves he is. He don’t hardly interrupt no one, what with being raised better’n that, so for him to do so now means that he’s near the end of his tether. If his cousins know what’s best for them, they’ll be backing away slowly and leaving Mr. Frodo alone today. Mr. Frodo goes on to say just that, only more polite-like. “You and Pippin should fetch Fatty and Folco while you’re at it; you will all have a grand time, though you may find it difficult getting Fatty and Folco near the water. I think I shall stay here and get some work done. Those accounts won’t balance themselves, after all.”

“You won’t be coming?” Master Pippin says.

“It won’t be the same without you there, Frodo,” Master Merry goes on. “I have the whole day planned of things we can do together.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Frodo says and I find myself holding my breath as I dig up the carrots. There’s about to be a confrontation here, or my name isn’t Gamgee. Sure enough, when Mr. Frodo continues, his voice is real tight and overly calm. Reminds me of the stillness in the air, almost expectant-like, just afore a storm hits. “And why is that, Merry?”

“Why is what?” Master Merry asks, and from the sounds of it, he can smell the storm coming just as easy as I can. I can’t be too sure though as there never is any telling with Master Merry.

“Why is it that you are suddenly so determined to plan every single minute of my existence?” Mr. Frodo says. He’s trying to sound flippant, but the strain of it only makes him seem that much more a tempest. He must notice this and decide to give it up, for he continues normal-like. “Believe it or not, I am quite capable of minding my own affairs. I do not need you or anyone else to govern what I do.”

“That’s not what we’re doing,” Master Pippin says.

“Isn’t it? What are you doing then? Spying on me? Making sure I don’t take off into the Blue like Bilbo did?”

“Of course not,” Master Merry says but we all know that Mr. Frodo has the right of it.

“You know, lads,” Mr. Frodo says, and his voice is dripping with sarcasm now, for all that it sounds so sweet, “if you’re that concerned about me leaving, then why don’t you just have Sam spy on me for you. He’s here all the time after all and it would really be much more convenient for everyone involved.”

“Sam?” Master Merry says, and there are any number of things as can be read into the tone he uses, too many for me to make heads or tails of, but one becomes obvious when he continues. “And I suppose you’re going to tell us next that we shouldn’t bother worrying about you at all because your gardener lad takes such perfect care of you.”

A long pause follows this and I know without peeking that Mr. Frodo is giving Master Merry his icy Baggins glare. When he finally answers, his voice is even tighter. The clouds are setting to burst open if this continues too much longer. “You want to leave this room. Now.”

They do just that. A few moments later the back door opens and slams, and Master Merry goes storming around the smial to the back garden, Master Pippin trailing along behind him. Neither of them notice me sitting in the vegetable patch. Silence reigns in the smial and I wait a few minutes afore standing and peeking into the kitchen to find Mr. Frodo sitting at the table, his head resting in his hands and his shoulders slumped under his dressing robe.

I brush off my breeches and take my clippers to the lower garden. I select some roses and delphinium, and a bit of the acanthus, lilacs and sage. I peek into the kitchen window when I get  back and make sure my master’s still sitting there. Then I sneak inside to his bedroom and put the flowers in the vase that he keeps on the bedside table, filling the vase with water from the ewer. He’ll find the flowers later when he comes in to change into his day clothes, and they’ll make him smile.  

Rethe 1418 SR
Note: This vignette takes place during the same timeframe as Chapter 5 from “The Trouble With Love”.
Sam is not yet 37, Merry is 35 (about 23 and 21 in Man years)

Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin arrive just in time for luncheon. I don’t see them for more than a few moments but from what I see of them, they don’t look too happy. Mr. Merry looks a positive wreck, like he ain’t slept well in some time, and Mr. Pippin’s just trying to keep up with him and cheer him up. They glance over in my direction as they tether their ponies to the garden fence, then they disappear into Bag End.

About an hour later, Mr. Pippin comes out and I help him take the ponies down to The Bush for stabling. As we go down the Hill, Mr. Pippin lets out all about Mr. Merry and Miss Estella. Seems Miss Estella finally up and declared her heart to Mr. Merry but Mr. Merry went and turned her down, claiming he don’t love her, which is just a bold-faced lie if I ever heard one. According to Mr. Pippin, Mr. Merry felt as he couldn’t claim Miss Estella for his own acause of the upcoming possibility that Mr. Frodo would be leaving us and Mr. Merry going with him and possibly never coming back. Not to mention that Miss Estella is courting another lad to boot. So Mr. Pippin offered to take the ponies to The Bush to give Mr. Merry time to talk to Mr. Frodo about his heartache, though Mr. Merry won’t be telling Mr. Frodo the full truth of it either.

It’s plain as a pikestaff that Mr. Pippin is wound up with worry for Mr. Merry, more so than for Mr. Frodo at the moment. After all, Mr. Pippin’s always been a hobbit as lives in the present, and Mr. Merry is in pain now, whereas Mr. Frodo won’t be leaving for who knows how long. We stable the ponies and take a pint while we’re there. When we get back, Mr. Pippin goes inside and I go back to work.

I don’t see Mr. Merry until that night. He comes out to the shed as I’m putting my tools away for the evening. In the moonlight, he don’t look nearly so forlorn except that the shadows make the bags under his eyes look darker. He lingers outside the shed making small talk about the weather and the crops until I finish cleaning my tools and putting them in their place. I step out the shed and he leads me partway down the Hill to the Party Field. We sit against the Party Tree and look out over Hobbiton, little lights twinkling here and there in the distance and all along the bridge over the Water.

“I got your letter,” he says once we’re settled. So it’s straight to business. I guess after speaking out his troubles to Mr. Frodo, he’s not wanting to repeat them. I guess also that concentrating on Mr. Frodo helps the heartache to feel less sharp. “You said Frodo acquired more foreign maps. What else can you tell me?”

“I don’t got much more,” I admit. “Truth is, Mr. Frodo’s usually pretty good about putting everything away so I don’t see it. He does go down to the Road a’times and speaks with the Dwarves when they pass through. I see him going down the Hill sometimes when Gaffer and me are out smoking our pipes. Once I heard tell he was seen talking to Elves.”

Mr. Merry don’t say anything for a while. He’s absorbing what he’s heard and he’s thinking right fierce on it. He licks his lips and hugs his chest against a sudden chill wind. “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” he asks. “Every year, Frodo grows more restless. This year he’ll be fifty, the same age as Bilbo when he went on his adventure. You know what this means, don’t you?”

“That Gandalf’s due to show up and whisk Mr. Frodo away on a quest to hunt treasure,” I say, only half-joking. Truth is, I’ve been keeping a sharp eye out for the wizard since the beginning of the month. If there’s one thing I learned from my studies with Mr. Bilbo, it’s that history has a habit of repeating itself. “You don’t really think Mr. Frodo’s planning on leaving, do you?”

“I do. If he’s to have any hope of seeing Bilbo again, he’ll have to go soon. Pippin and I have no way of knowing when he might be getting ready to leave. We can’t start visiting unannounced too often or he’ll get suspicious.” Mr. Merry looks up at the stars and sighs. “Sam, I hate to ask this of you…”

“Ask me what?” I say.

“You’re the only eyes and ears we have here,” Mr. Merry says. “You need to spy on him.”

“Ain’t that what I’ve been doing?” I ask.

“To a degree,” he replies, “but it’s not enough. Just observing him isn’t going to help. You need to find out everything you can about his activities. I need to know not just who he’s talking to, but what he’s talking to them about. I need to know what he doesn’t tell anyone. That means following him, when you can, reading his journals, his correspondence, checking his accounts. Where is he spending his money and for what? If we get enough clues, we might be able to piece together what he is planning. You’ll have to lie to him, possibly several times.”

“What if he catches me?” I ask.

“Tell him anything he wants to hear, whatever it takes to keep his confidence.”

“And what if he figures out what I’m doing and he tells me to stop?”

“Tell him you will, then be more discreet.”

Now it’s my turn to look up at the stars and sigh. This is going far beyond observing and overhearing. This is poking my nose in my master’s business and that goes against everything my father ever taught me.

“Look, Sam, I know this is going to be difficult for you and I’m asking a lot, maybe too much,” Mr. Merry says. He squeezes my shoulder encouragingly. “But it’s for Frodo’s own good. If it helps, he did tell me once that I can have you spy on him for me.”

“He didn’t mean it like that though,” I say, “but I can choose to ignore that.”

“He told you about that?” he asks, shocked, and I can’t blame him. All these years, he never knew I overheard what he said about me that morning.

“I was in the garden working,” I confess. “I wasn’t trying to listen.”

“So you were spying even then?” he says and he smirks to cover up how awkward he feels. “Why Sam, I do believe you were born to spy on Frodo, to be a part of our little Conspiracy. You’ve a natural talent and you shouldn’t let it go to waste.”

“I won’t. I’m in it to the end, Mr. Merry, on the condition I can go with you when you all leave,” I say.

“You’d leave the Shire?” Mr. Merry says. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by that. You always would do anything for my cousin.”

“Even spy on him, seemingly.”

“He’ll be angry when he finds out.”

“He can only ever stay angry for so long,” I point out.

“True enough,” he admits. “What about Rosie?”

“I ain’t promised her nothing yet,” I say, “and she ain’t asked me to, what’s more.”

“Maybe she’s just waiting for you to make a move,” he says. “Maybe she’ll get tired of waiting.”

“Then she gets tired of it,” I say. “There’s not much as can be done about it now.”

We’re silent for several minutes, each of us lost in our own thoughts, me of Rosie and him of Estella. He lost his only chance with his love in order to protect Mr. Frodo, and I look to be taking the same risk. My hands shake a little as I think on it, but I push it off as the cold and tuck my hands under my armpits to warm them.

After a time, Mr. Merry holds out his hand for a shake, as good as any legally-binding contract with seven signatures in red ink. “We have a deal then.”

“That we do,” I agree and shake his hand. The pact is sealed and just like that, the Conspiracy is formed. I feel a weight come over me as I let go Mr. Merry’s hand and the burden nearly chokes me for a bit until I can push the fear down to my gut and put aside my panic. Mr. Merry squeezes my shoulder again and he keeps it there until I nod, indicating I’m all right now.

He stands and holds his hand out to me and helps me to my feet. We walk back to the gate at the edge of the Party Field. He turns to go up the Hill and I turn to go down. After a few paces, he stops and turns back around to face me.

“Sam,” he calls.

“Yes sir?” I say, turning around.

“I take it you heard what I said about you before, that day in the kitchen?”

“Aye.”

“I didn’t mean it. Not then, and certainly not now.”

“I know that now, Mr. Merry. Don’t you go fretting on it.”

“Pippin and I will be leaving for Tuckborough at the end of the week. Frodo will be coming with us. We should be able to keep him for a week at least, if you want to get started,” he informs me.

“He always leaves me a key,” I say and I almost feel sick, knowing the trust my master puts in me to do that, knowing I’m about to betray that trust in the worst possible way. But then I think of living in the Shire without Frodo here to cheer it up and make it glow. I think of Mr. Frodo wandering the wilds with no friends to keep him company on the long road, and of all the troubles Mr. Bilbo faced on his adventure, and what if Mr. Frodo runs into trouble of his own and has no one there as can help him. I swallow down the nausea and wave good night to Mr. Merry. I turn and head down the Hill, and I know, with everything that I am, that my life will never be the same again.

The end.

GF 1/30/07

This was written for Marigold’s Challenge 37. The challenge this time was to write a hobbity story in which someone learned something about another culture. My starter sentence was “Surely you can’t be serious,” said _____.

Betas: Marigold and Llinos

This is a sequel to my Challenge 36 stories “The Birthday – Minas Tirith” and “The Birthday – Hobbiton”, but it is not necessary to have read those to understand this one. 
 
 
 
First-place winner in the 2007 MEFA Awards.

A Kingly Discussion

Spring, 1425 SR

“Surely you can’t be serious,” said old Farmer Cotton, looking at the letter held reverently in the Gaffer’s hand. “That there letter’s from the King hisself?”

The rest of the crowd at The Ivy Bush were just as skeptical. The fair spring weather had a lot of hobbits out of their homes and enjoying the beer and good company of the inn this Hevensday evening and the Gaffer was quite pleased with the attention he commanded for this most important occasion.

“That it is,” he said smugly. “My Sam brought it down and read it to me just this afternoon.”

He held the letter up higher so that everyone could see it. The letter was written on vellum, a fine translucent parchment considered to be quite fancy and valuable. Only the richest hobbits could afford it and even they only used it sparingly for their most important legal contracts. The Gaffer turned the letter around to stare at the strange markings that covered it, the light from the fireplace making the parchment glow from behind with a warm hue. He slid his fingers along the edge of the letter, amazed at its smoothness. To think, the King had written a letter to him.

“Well, let’s see it then,” said the smith.

The Gaffer quickly pulled the letter out of reach. He glared cautiously at the smith, looking down at his coal-stained hands. The other hobbits were no better, their hands covered with hints of their day’s labors despite much scrubbing and washing to make themselves presentable. The Gaffer was not about to relinquish this pretty vellum to just anyone, lest it be stained and ruined by grubby hands.

After a while, he turned the letter back around and held it up but kept it close to himself. Those there that knew their letters stepped closer and leaned forward to analyze the bold and curving letters drawn upon the vellum. It was a fanciful script to their way of thinking.

“Are you sure that ain’t from the Queen?” joked the new miller, a young chap from Overhill named Thatcher and distantly related to the Sandheavers of Nobottle. Thatcher had taken over the mill after the Troubles, when Sandyman was chased off for a traitor.

The others laughed but the Gaffer scowled at the hobbit. “It’s from the King,” he repeated. “Sam says as he was raised by the Elves and they’re the ones as taught him his letters. It ain’t no fault of his that he writes funny for a fellow, if you ask me.”

“So what does it say?” asked young Noakes. He didn’t care much for a history lesson on the King, but if they were going to be talking about this letter, then he wanted to know what it said.

The Gaffer allowed Farmer Cotton to take the letter after the farmer thoroughly wiped his hands with a wet towel and dried them on a clean handkerchief. Cotton ran his hands along the smooth almost silk-like parchment, then squinted at the flowery handwriting. He held the letter far enough away so he could read it. He cleared his throat and the inn grew silent. Even the innkeeper stopped wiping the counter to listen.

“To Master Hamfast Gamgee, son of Hobson,” he began.

“How’s he know who your daddy is?” asked the miller, looking for some proof that the letter wasn’t from a king living far off in the south.

“And why’d he include him in the letter when he’s been long gone these last forty-one years?” added Farmer Goodheart.

“Sam says as the Big Folk ain’t very good at keeping track of their relations,” Gaffer said with a sad shake of his head.

“I’ve heard Captain Merry and Captain Pippin use the same such phrase when talking about the Big Folk they met on their travels,” put in the innkeeper.

“You mean as all they can remember is who their parents are?” asked Cotton.

“Well, they know their siblings too and some of their first cousins I daresay, though Sam did once tell me a story about a pair of siblings that oughtn’t be repeated in polite company,” the Gaffer said, frowning at the half-remembered tale. He scratched his head and shrugged. “That might explain why some of those ruffians as worked for old Pimple weren’t the brightest folk in the world, if you take my meaning.”

His audience shook their heads, their expressions ranging from befuddlement to outright scandal. “They ought to do somewhat about that,” said a serving lass and the others mumbled their agreement.

“Now it ain’t so widespread as all that, I don’t think,” the Gaffer said. “Sam assures me as most folk can at least go back one generation, and the King himself can trace his lineage all the way back to the First Age. That’s some seventy generations.”

Everyone was mightily impressed by this and one lass in the back all but swooned. With such a King in charge, no more such mistakes would ever take place again, they were certain.

Cotton cleared his throat and continued, stumbling now and again on the bigger words. “To Master Hamfast Gamgee, son of Hobson. I am very much obli—obliged to you for your kindness and thoug—thoughtfulness in agreeing to pose in the family portrait that Samwise sent to me in honor of Frodo and Bilbo’s birthday.”

“So that party Sam threw was for the Birthday,” said a hobbit near the back, as though this statement clarified a long-debated topic.

“Tisn’t right, throwing parties for those as are gone,” said Goodheart. “Mr. Frodo was odd for doing it all those years, when he should’ve just celebrated his own birthday and be done with it.”

The Gaffer’s hackles rose at this, as did Cotton’s. “Now see here,” began the Gaffer. “Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo did a lot for folk while they was here and if my Sam sees fit to continue to honor them, then that’s his business and none of yours.”

“And Mr. Frodo did a sight more than what we know about,” Cotton added, “if I understand a’right everything Sam and Rose has told me. I won’t be having any bad speak of Mr. Frodo or my son-in-law while I’m around to hear it. Besides, if the Tooks can go on celebrating the Bullroarer’s triumph over the goblin king every year with their tournaments, then I don’t see no reason why Sam can’t honor his master if he’s a mind to do so.”

“Peace, friends,” said Goodheart, hands raised for mercy. “None of us think any ill of Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo, nor of your Sam, even if he is starting to crack what with him living up there at the Bag End and all.”

“I heard as Bag End was haunted,” said a fellow by the door.

“That were just a prank the young master played on his cousins,” said the Gaffer hotly. “There ain’t no ghost up at Bag End making anyone cracked, and those as go repeating false rumors don’t know their nose from a twig on the ground. Neither of the masters were cracked, and neither is my Sam, and I’ll crack you and anyone else as says so.”

“Here now. There ain’t no harm in being a little cracked, so long as you can keep your sense about you,” said the miller sensibly. “We all love Sam. We’d not have a Shire if it weren’t for him replanting it all. We owe him a great debt and we won’t be forgetting it soon.”

Everyone heartily agreed to this and many raised their mugs in toast and drank to Sam’s health, which appeased Cotton and the Gaffer greatly.

“What else does the letter say, Mr. Cotton?” asked young Noakes. He was getting impatient with all this talk and he had to be leaving soon if he didn’t want an earful from the missus come morning.

Farmer Cotton found his place and read some more. “Thank you also for allowing Pippin to send me a bottle of your homebrew. The beer was most delicious and hardy and every bit as strong as Merry and Pippin warned me. My wife and I were able to enjoy it over many nights.”

“Over many nights?” repeated the smith. “Your brew is hardy enough, Ham, but whoever heard of one little bottle lasting that long? A barrel, to be sure, but a bottle?”

“According to the Captains,” began the innkeeper, “them Big Folk don’t have much in the way of constitution. They reach the bottom of their mugs rather quicker than hobbits, for being so large as they are. Same thing when it comes to eating. Why, they hardly ever take thirds or fourths, and sometimes they don’t even take seconds!”

This announcement was greeted with much head shaking and muttering. The hobbit near the door said, “No wonder them ruffians always left so much food to go to ruin.”

“It’s a wonder they can keep their strength up to get aught done,” said the serving lass. “Do Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin ever say anything on the matter of them boots the Big Folk wear?”

“Sam says it’s a’cause their feet are weak and they blister just by walking on grass,” said the Gaffer.

“And these are the folk as are running things?” said the smith. “No wonder it comes to warring.”

“Now, now, don’t go getting ahead,” said the Gaffer. “My Sam says as the King and his folks are civilized and they’re not like them ruffians that were running things here. They have some sense at least, and some manners.” He indicated the letter as proof.

“Still, Men are Men and they all got the same weaknesses I suppose,” said Thatcher.

“Is that all the letter says then?” young Noakes asked Cotton.

“There’s a little more,” Cotton said and finished reading. “Let me also take this opp—or—opportunity to commend you on raising such a practical and stout-hearted son. If not for Samwise, Frodo would not have been able to complete his Quest and the Darkness would have prevailed. Samwise will be remembered and honored in Gondor and in all free lands for many years to come. With my respect and gratitude, El—Elis—Ilsar—Telc— why but he do got himself an odd name.”

“Sam pronounced it for me, but I can’t rightly recall how it goes,” the Gaffer said. “He did say as it’s an Elvish name, what with him being raised by them and all. Means something like ‘hope strides’ or some such. I reckon that’s why Sam and the Captains call him ‘Strider’.”

“Why was he raised by Elves?” asked Cotton, thinking there must have been better folk than that to raise a child, even if it was just a man-child.

“He was orphaned young and his mother had him hid with the Elves, or something along those lines,” said the Gaffer. “As he was the last King and all, and the Enemy would be a hunting him, she figured he’d be safer there. Though I don’t rightly know how that factors into him wandering about in the wilds later on like he did. Seems to me the best way to stay hid is to stay put, not go off fighting in wars and walking into the dark lands and all. But then, he was raised by Elves. He can’t be expected to be very practical I suppose.”

“And he’s the King?” said the hobbit by the door.

“Big Folk have an odd way of picking their leaders,” said young Noakes, shaking his head. “Lor’ bless us if we ever elect a Mayor as lived with Elves and wandered about in the Blue. But I guess you can’t expect much of folk who can’t keep their relations straight, not to mention can’t hold their liquor or vittles, and bruise their feet just by walking on ‘em.”

The others nodded in agreement and even the Gaffer couldn’t argue with that. He took the letter back from Cotton, folded it reverently and tucked it safely into the inner pocket of his waistcoat.

The King might be peculiar, but the man had saved Sam’s life and was kind enough to take time from his busy day to write the Gaffer a thank you letter. He was an all right fellow, as far as the Gaffer was concerned.

The end.

GF 1/29/07

A/N - The ghost story referred to is from “Pimpernel, Pervinca and Pearl’s Perfectly Plotted Prank” from my “Of Merry and Pippin” series. Sam’s observation of Men feet is from “Foot Notes” from “Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Hobbits”.

The Smallest Gift

6 Astron, 1380 SR

Bell had felt the pains beginning as she prepared to go to bed that night. She didn’t think much of it though, as she still had three weeks before the birth according to the healer, Miss Camellia, who had visited her the previous day. She shrugged the pains off as false labor and said nothing to Hamfast as they climbed into bed. No need to worry him over a few minor pains after all. If he knew, he would insist on getting the healer and she didn’t want to bother Miss Camellia over a couple of early contractions.

They got into bed and Bell spent several minutes trying to find the most comfortable position she could. Hamfast waited patiently until she was settled, then snuggled up next to her and slung a protective arm around her. A minute later, he was fast asleep. Slumber came to Bell slowly and even when she eventually drifted off, she remained acutely aware of everything around her: her husband snoring softly, May coughing two rooms away, Halfred getting up for a late night snack, and the bairn becoming more restless.

Shortly before midnight, the pains became slightly more pronounced, waking her completely when her water broke. She looked down at her soaked sheets in wonder. She had never been early before. With all her previous pregnancies she had been late to deliver; Halfred she had actually carried almost two weeks past term. Yet her legs, dressing gown and sheets were undeniably wet.

She contracted again, the pain surprisingly easy to bear, unlike with the other children. She wondered at this too as she shook Hamfast gently. “Ham,” she whispered.

Hamfast mumbled something in his sleep and stretched reflexively before snuggling closer to his wife.

“Ham,” Bell whispered again, shaking him harder. “The bairn’s setting to come.”

This woke Hamfast in an instant. He blinked and yawned and looked bleary-eyed at his wife. “What?”

“The bairn’s coming,” she repeated.

“You’re not due for three more weeks,” he protested.

“I’m about to be due in three more minutes,” Bell said. “Fetch the healer for me, and don’t go forgetting your jacket. It’s cold out.”

Hamfast first retrieved every available pillow in the smial and propped her up into a sitting position. He bunched up the soaked sheets, tossed them into a corner and grabbed a thick wool blanket from the linen chest which he draped loosely over his wife. He woke Hamson and assigned the child to sit next to Bell. A cold blast of air swept into the room as Hamfast left to retrieve the healer.

Bell smiled warmly at her eldest son. Hamson would be fifteen soon and though he remembered the births of his sisters, this would be the first time he was entrusted to sit with his mother. Then again, this was the first time Bell would be delivering at night and delivering early. Her sisters, who had helped her with all her previous deliveries, weren’t due to arrive for another two weeks.

Hamson watched worriedly, cringing every time Bell winced and started breathing heavily. To keep his mind off what was happening, Bell sent him to gather all the candles in the smial and set them around the room and light them for the healer. This kept him busy until Hamfast and Miss Camellia arrived, then both father and son were chased from the room so the healer could work in peace.

An hour later, the newborn’s wails filled the smial. Halfred and Daisy woke now also, but May continued to sleep, oblivious to the new addition to the family. Halfred and Daisy stumbled from their rooms and, drawn by the firelight in the parlor, they joined their father and Hamson there as the bairn’s wails were silenced. Daisy rubbed her eyes and climbed into her father’s lap.

“What’s crying?” she asked.

“Your new little brother or sister,” Hamfast announced, feeling much relief at another successful birth.

“Can we see it?” Halfred asked, crawling onto the settee to sit beside his father. Hamson yawned tiredly on his father’s other side.

“When Miss Camellia’s got your ma and the bairn cleaned up and presentable, she’ll come and fetch us,” Hamfast said and began counting the long, slow minutes until that time.

The children were dozing again by the time Miss Camellia came to the parlor. “You have a strong and healthy son, Master Hamfast,” she announced and helped him wake the children. She carried Daisy as the lads trudged behind, and led the way to the bedroom, where Bell sat in bed, surrounded by the glow of dozens of candles.

Camellia put Daisy down and the children crowded around the bed to peer closely at the bairn, asleep in his mother’s arms.

“He’s pink and wrinkled,” Halfred announced.

“He’s so small. Were we that small when we were born?” Hamson asked.

“Not quite this small, but close enough,” Hamfast said, beaming proudly at his wife and newborn son.

“He smells funny,” said Daisy after pecking a small kiss on the bairn’s pointed bald head.

“Did his head get squished by something?” Halfred asked.

Bell laughed. “He’s new is all, and he’s a bit early. It’s going to take him a while to fill out and start looking like a normal bairn.”

“What’s his name?” asked Daisy.

“Samwise,” answered Bell.

“Samwise?” Hamfast repeated, not very sure he liked this name.

“It will keep him humble,” Bell replied, reading her husband’s mind. “Besides, it’s twice as good as Andy’s.”

Hamfast chuckled. “I’ll be sure to mention that next time as I see him,” he promised but knew the joke would be lost on his brother, who was as bright as his name suggested.

Bell handed the bairn to him and Hamfast stared down in wonder at his tiny, pink, smelly, squash-headed son. Samwise yawned in his sleep and Hamfast would swear, just as he had when each of his children were born, that he had never seen anything so beautiful before in his life. He sat down next to his wife as Camellia shepherded the children from the room, and together he and his wife stared at their son.

“Samwise Gamgee,” Hamfast said, testing the feel of the name on his tongue. “I guess as we’ll be calling him Sam or Sammy anyhow, it’s naught to be worriting over.”

“He’s going to be special, Ham,” Bell said in hushed whisper. “He’s going to be important to a lot of folk. He’s a gift to the world.”

“Is he now?” Hamfast asked. “Well, one’s thing certain. If he stays as ugly as he is, he’s going to have trouble finding himself a wife.”

Bell smacked him on the arm and laughed. “Give him back to me, you mean oaf, and go get him some milk for when he wakes. I haven’t started flowing yet and he’ll be hungry.”

Hamfast handed the bairn back and Bell watched with a fond smile as Hamfast shuffled out the door towards the kitchen. Then Bell stared down at her son and saw again the brief vision of her son’s future. “Don’t you listen to them, Sammy. You are going to be important some day and don’t you go forgetting it.”

Sam yawned again in his sleep and, if Bell wasn’t quite mistaken, nodded his head.

The End

GF 4/7/07

Written for Queen Galadriel’s birthday. Bell muses on her children, her little troublemaker in particular!

My Little Miscreant

1382 SR
Halfred is 13, Sam is 2 (or 8 and 1 in Man years)

It’s different with every child, my ma told me that once when Hamson was born, but I didn’t fully ‘preciate that ‘til my other children started coming.

Hamson’s a good lad, reasonable, just like his daddy. He don’t question things much, ‘cept to ask “how much wood” or “where’re you wanting the mulch”, things of that nature. He does what he’s told and gives no guff or fuss ‘bout it. He can see when something needs doing and offers to help as he can, even if the job’s too big for him. He knows his boundaries and sticks to ‘em, won’t even think ‘bout crossing no lines, if he can even be finding the lines. We often joke as we should have stopped with him, the good son, the easy child. Lor’ knows we’d have much less grey hairs and worry lines for it!

Daisy and May are typical sisters, always at each other’s throat, fighting over what belongs to who and who’s got be doing which chores. They bicker over near everything but their eye color. Thankfully it’s not all the time and they’re sweet with each other too, Daisy brushing and braiding May’s hair each morning, making sure as she eats all her vegetables, tucking her into bed each night and jabbering with her ‘til she falls asleep. Daisy can be as gentle as a cloud when she’s a wanting to be, and hard as a windstorm when she’s a needing to be, and May just don’t understand that yet.

May, now, she’s going to be a tease with the lads, already is matter of fact. She gets ‘em near eating out of her hand every time we go into town. She won’t give the ladies no mind at all, but soon’s the fellows show up, she’s all smiles and blushes, giggling and batting her eyes. No surprise they all bring her a wildflower to be a wearing in her hair, so by the time we leave market, she’s got near enough to be a making a wreath out of. She loves every minute of it too and no mistake. We’ll be needing to keep a close eye on her when she starts nearing her tweens acause I can tell already she’ll be growing up faster’n most maid-children.

Sammy’s just a bairn yet, and he ain’t given no trouble so far. He’s got a dreamy air ‘bout him, yet he watches everything going on ‘round him with such attention, it’s a wonder. He sees more’n he lets on and I’d be willing to wager he knows more’n that even. He talks as well as any of the others did at his age, but he’s more for listening than jabbering, though once you get him going, you sometimes can’t get him to stop! He’s smart too, can even tell his colors and shapes already! He’s a special one, my Sam, and I can’t wait to see what he’s going to become once he’s grown up.

And then there’s Halfred.

Fred’s got a good heart and means well most of the time. He’d jump ‘tween a wolf and his siblings if he had to and wouldn’t think twice ‘bout it. He can charm the teeth off a dragon, as they say, and lor’ don’t he know it! He relies on that charm to get him out of trouble and more’n not it works. I cringe to think of what all he gets away with, all those little schemes of his that never reach my ears, acause the ones I do know ‘bout near embarrass me to death atimes.

Highday afternoons can bring all manner of folk knocking upon my door and I’ll be wishing for Sterday morning faster’n I can sneeze. Every time someone comes a calling, I don’t know what to expect – one of the lasses from down the row asking to play with Daisy or May, a neighbor stopping by for a friendly chat, or my little miscreant held at the hands of some poor put-upon body. It don’t happen every Highday or even every month, thank the stars, but it happens often enough my heart does a little pitter-patter every time someone knocks at the door.

One time it was Hank Goodheart, after having caught Fred for the second time pinching apples from his orchard. He forgave the first offense, seeing as the lad had been hungry (he’s always hungry though, eats like his stomach goes clear down to his toes) but he weren’t ‘bout to forgive the second offense. Fred had to spend a week helping Missus Goodheart make her sauces and ciders and juices and pies and whatnot, and he didn’t get a lick of any of it.

‘Nother time, it was Flora as showed up on the stoop. She’d found Fred digging dead worms out of her compost heaps, which wouldn’t have been bad at all ‘cept for why he was taking ‘em. Turns out, he’d been poking through his daddy’s weskit, which was hung up in the tool shed at Bag End as it was too hot to be a wearing it, and he’d found Ham’s betrothal cloth in it, that being the kerchief as I gave him at our wedding. Well, Fred had taken it out to look at it, looked away for a second, turned back ‘round to see a magpie making off with it. He’d been hoping to use the worms to get the kerchief back from the bird afore Ham could notice it was missing. We did manage to wrest it from the bird and I was able to wash it and mend it, but as I had no way of sneaking it back into Ham’s weskit, he found out ‘bout it soon’s he put it back on. Fred had been put to turning the compost heaps of everyone on the Hill for a week after that, and Ham didn’t talk to him ‘til his week was served, he was so angry.

‘Nother time, it was Nolan Bushmore away from Overhill. He’d found Fred peeping inside his house as his tween daughter was taking a bath. Ham and I talked ‘bout it and decided as it’d only be fair to be making Fred run down the Hill in naught but his skin. He was right shy ‘bout undressing in front of us, but he didn’t break down ‘til he got to the front door and saw as we were serious ‘bout making him go outside like that. He started bawling and pleading with us, promising to never do aught again, but we stood firm. ‘Til he turned the doorknob anyhow. Then we told him that was good enough and to go get dressed again, and to think better next time afore he goes a violating some lass’s privacy.

Soon after that, Mr. Griffo Boffin had brought him home on his trap. The lad had a bloody lip and a right nasty scratch across his cheek. Mr. Boffin had found him on the losing end of a wrestling match with two lads twice his size. Fred said he’d had to fight ‘em acause he lost a bet who could spit the farthest into a strong wind and he’d lost. I hunted down those lads’ mothers and they put their sons to mucking out stables for a week for their little trick. Then Ham and I had a good long talk with Fred ‘bout being careful what sorts of bets he makes from here on out. Most folk can be trusted, but there are those that need to be looked out for.

The worst time though had to be when Mr. Porto Baggins brought him home. He and Hamson were supposed to be helping Mr. Baggins clean out his cellar that Highday morning afore their afternoon off, but Fred had cleaned out the pantry instead. He’d eaten all the roast mutton, the bread, an entire wheel of expensive cheese, a jar of brambleberry sauce, and most of the apple pie. Like I said, he’s always hungry and his stomach got the better end of his senses after a few hours’ hard scrubbing. Mr. Porto, kind body that he is, just laughed ‘bout it all but I was mortified. Hamfast was near beside himself and he came near to whopping Fred afore I was able to calm him. Instead, Fred had lost all his Highday privileges for the rest of the season and Ham said naught to him that entire time but to bark orders at him.

He behaved himself a good long while after that but even good things don’t last forever. Next thing I know, little Twig, the barkeep at the Dragon, is a pounding on the door. Seems he’d caught Fred playing ‘healer’ with Chamomile Tuttle in one of the inn’s drawing rooms. There was naught for us to do but laugh at that one. Then Ham sent Fred down to follow Miss Camellia ‘round for a week to find out what it is a real healer be doing. He didn’t complete his week though. After he had to watch Miss Camellia reset a lad’s leg after he fell off a pony trap, Fred refused to go back there. Miss Camellia had to insist upon it also. “I don’t need him passing out over every little drop of blood,” she had said and there’s naught Ham could say to argue with her ‘bout it. You just don’t go arguing with a healer.

The worst part ‘bout all this though is that Fred’s nowhere near his tweens yet. He’s still got ‘nother seven years to go and if he’s this much of a handful now, he’ll be even worse when he comes to twenty. We’ll be lucky if we can find someone to ‘prentice him, at least not amongst any folk who live near enough to be a hearing what all he gets himself into. We might be able to find some relations as live up in the Northfarthing, but I hate to think of sending him so far away from home.

I’m just mulling over these very thoughts when a knock sounds on the door. I’m feeding Sammy at the moment, so I put his plate on the table and wipe his mouth afore going to the kitchen window to see who’s a calling. The swear words escape my mouth afore I can think what I’m saying.

“Uh-oh,” Sammy says from his highchair, whether at my cussing or acuase he guesses what I saw or both, I don't know.

“Shh,” I tell him as I wipe my hands on my apron and head for the hall. “And don’t go repeating.” But Sammy ain’t listening none. He’s already trying to figure out how to get hold of his plate from his highchair.

I take off my apron and hang it over one of the chairs, then straighten out my hair and go to the door. I open it up, a smile on my face to beat the sun, whilst my heart’s near beating out my chest. I gulp reflexive-like before greeting my unexpected guest. “Good day, Master Lotho.”

I dare a glance at Halfred. The poor lad’s eyes are brimming over with tears and his lip’s a quivering like it’s all he can do to keep his mouth shut and hold back the sobs. I hold my hand out to him and he gladly takes it. He steps into the smial and hides behind my skirts like he ain’t done in over a year. I feel him a trembling and put an arm ‘round his shoulders, soothing-like.

“How can I be helping you today, sir?” I ask, though it can’t be any plainer what’s the matter.

“Good day, Missus Gamgee,” Master Lotho starts. His hands are stuffed deep into his pockets and I realize they’ve been that way all along. He must’ve had Fred knock on the door then. “I caught your son destroying my mother’s lilac bushes.”

I gape at Master Lotho, not knowing what to think or say. Considering how ‘fraid Halfred is of Mistress Lobelia, I can’t imagine him doing such, but naught else explains Master Lotho being here.

I pull Fred out of my skirts and kneel down to look at him. “Is this true?” I ask him.

Fred starts to really cry now, bawling like he’s ‘bout to lose his best friend, and in the kitchen Sammy starts a crying also. “Tis all right, dear, just tell me what happened,” I say as soothing-like as I can. I know as hevd ne’er go off destroying Mistress Lobelia’s lilacs a’purpose, so there’s got be some explanation for what Master Lotho saw.

With great difficulty, Fred gulps out ‘tween sobs, “I – didn’t – mean to, Mama! The – Noakes’ dog was – chasing Misty – so I ran after ‘im – to stop ‘im!”

“Misty?” Master Lotho asks.

“Amelia’s cat,” I say and wonder if the Rumbles are realizing their cat’s gone a missing. “What happened then, Fred?”

“The dog chased Misty – into a yard – I didn’t realize who’s – and Misty hid ‘neath the lilacs – and I got the dog to go away – but then the cat wouldn’t come out – so I had to try and – and – get to her to see if – she were – hurt – but that’s when – when – when Master Lotho found me!” Fred finally gets his story out.

I nod, trying to think ‘tween his sobbing and Sammy’s confused fussing. I pull a kerchief from my dress pocket and wipe Fred’s face, then peck him on the cheek so he knows I’m not mad. Then I turn him toward the kitchen. “Go feed your brother whilst I speak with Master Lotho,” I say and wait ‘til Fred’s in the kitchen afore I turn back to Master Lotho.

Master Lotho is looking at me like he can’t fathom what I’d just done. I can’t decide if he figured as I’d punish my son right away after a hearing his tale, or if Master Lotho simply can’t understand a mother’s caring. His own ma ain’t exactly the warm-hearted type and I feel right sorry for Master Lotho as I see the confusion and loneliness play across his face. Then I blink and he’s back to his usual passive self, watching me with an expression I can’t even begin to guess at.

“I’m right sorry ‘bout this, Master Lotho,” I say. “Fred didn’t mean no harm, he was just trying to help poor Misty. ‘Course, that don’t go a changing that damage was done. I’ll come down and apologize to your ma right away, soon as Fred’s calmed enough to be watching his brother alone.” I don’t say aught ‘bout punishing Fred, as I’ve no intention to be doing such. He’s been punished enough from what I can see, and him just trying to do right.

“There’s no need for that, Missus Gamgee,” Master Lotho says, surprising me. “Mother and Father are off to Frogmorton for a couple of weeks. They're not here. No one saw what happened except me.”

“They left you all alone?” I ask afore I can think better of it.

“I am eighteen,” he says, as though this is s’posed to prove he’s old enough to be taking care of himself for two whole weeks.

“Of course you are, sir,” I agree, just as Halfred finally manages to get Sammy to stop a crying. The smial is filled with blissful peace, at least for a little while.

“Don’t worry about the lilacs,” Lotho says. “He didn’t really damage them much. I doubt my mother will even notice once the broken stems are trimmed off. If she does, I’ll tell her the truth – a cat did it. She won’t do anything to a cat.” The implication of course being that she would do something to my son.

“Thank you, Master Lotho,” I say with relief and gratitude as he starts a backing away from the door. On impulse I add, “If you’re wanting a meal and company to go with it, you’re welcome here whilst your parents are away.”

Master Lotho pauses, his eyes widening. He hadn’t expected to hear such, and I can’t blame him. The lad’s usually in the company of his mother or father whenever he’s out and ‘bout in town, so most folk don’t so much as glance his way, much less talk kindly to him. That ain’t a fair thing to be doing to the lad though, and I intend to see to it that he always feels welcome in my home from here on out.

“Thank you, Missus Gamgee,” Lotho says with a small bow, “but I’ll be dining with Aunt Dora tonight.”

I wait ‘til he’s out of sight down the Hill, then close the door and go back into the kitchen. Fred’s a feeding Sammy like I asked him, but soon’s I enter he stops to look at me, the fear still plain in his eyes.

“Am I in trouble, Mama?” he asks.

“No, Fred, you’re not in trouble,” I say and bend down to place a kiss to the top of his head. “But let’s just keep this ‘tween you and me. If your daddy finds out, he’ll just hit the roof.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Halfred agrees and lets out a big sigh, like he ain’t taken a proper breath since Master Lotho caught him under the lilac bushes.

I turn to Sammy, who’s watching us both closely. “Understand, Sammy? Just ‘tween us,” I say again.

“He’s just a bairn, Ma,” Halfred says but Sammy giggles and smiles afore slamming his hand on the highchair table, demanding more food, so I know he understands just fine.

I take the now-empty plate from Fred and start refilling it with mash. “Go wash up, Halfred, then come back here and help me with dinner.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Fred says. He gets up and hugs me tight ‘round the legs afore going outside to the well to wash up. I hug my little miscreant back and laugh as he skips out the kitchen. I wonder who will be bringing him back next time.

GF 8/26/07

A Father’s Work – Halfred

1378 SR
Hobbiton

Hamfast is 52, Bell 46, Hamson 13, Halfred 9, Daisy 6 and May 2 (or about 33, 29, 8, 5, 4 years, and 16 months in Man years)

It was Hamson as come to fetch me at Bag End. I was taking a rest, sipping on a water skin and leaning against a tree when he come running around the bend. He stops all of a sudden-like when he spots me from the corner of his eye. I’m not where he was expecting and he’d been heading for the tool shed.

“What’s a matter, Hammy?” I ask, sitting up and hoping there’s naught wrong with Bell or the lasses.

“It’s Fred,” Hamson pants and those are the only two words I need to hear.

I heave a sigh of my own and pick myself up off the ground. “Where’s he at?” I ask, dreading the answer. Halfred could be anywhere when he comes to trouble and that’s just one of the problems. He don’t seem to mind if he’s a causing trouble at the neighbors or in front of one of the gentry’s smials.

“Home. Ma’s stopped the bleeding,” Hamson answers and my heart near drops to my toes with those words. Hamson notices and rushes ahead to make himself clear-like. “Just a bloody nose, Dad, naught worse’n that. Miss Dora ain’t too pleased none though and that’s a fact. His nose went and bled all over that fine silk rug of hers.”

My heart goes and drops even further. This is going to take a good bit of straightening out and Mr. Bilbo’s vegetable garden will be the one as suffers for it. Looks like it’ll have to wait ‘til the morrow for its tending.

I pat Hamson on the head. “Go tell your Ma I’ll be there soon as I can. Is Miss Baggins a waiting?”

“No sir. She’s seeing to her rug, but she were right worrit for Fred,” Hamson answers afore darting away back around Bag End for the lane.

I gather up my tools and tuck everything away in the shed, then go to the well for washing up afore knocking at Bag End’s back door. When there’s no answer, I know Mr. Bilbo must be in his study, so I head to the front and knock again. This time he answers straight away and when he hears the trouble, he rushes me right off home.

“And don’t you worry about Dora,” Mr. Bilbo says, his eyes a twinkling. “She nearly set fire to that rug once showing off to her brothers how to light a pipe. The rug survived; the divan was not so fortunate.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bilbo,” I say with a nod, not sure if he were telling the truth or another one of his stories. I appreciate it either way. I wish him good day and head off for home.

Bell’s calling to me the moment I set foot in the smial. I follow her voice to the kitchen to find her at the washbasin scrubbing away at Halfred’s shirt; his breeches are soaking in the basin waiting for their turn at the washboard.

“What happened?” I ask. I need to know if I should be cross with the lad or if he’s simply needing some gentleness.

“It were just an accident, Ham,” Bell says. “Miss Dora was having the lads dust her selves – the ones as they could reach, mind – but Fred didn’t reckon as they should be leaving any for her to do after, so he grabbed up a chair to stand on and when he was finished, he missed his footing coming down.” Bell shakes her head and stretches her neck. She finishes with the shirt for now and sticks in the water to soak with the breeches. “I think his nose might be broken, so I sent Hamson to fetch Miss Camellia.”

“And where was Hamson during all this mess?” I ask, reckoning mayhap I should be upset with him instead.

“He were working in the other room,” Bell answers. She wipes her hands dry then stretches her back. “Miss Dora just feels right awful, saying as she shouldn’t of split them up like she did. She were going to watch Fred as she did her broidery, but she misplaced her needles and the next thing she knew, Fred’s a howling.”

She comes to me and rests her head on my shoulder. She’s right exhausted from the ordeal and I hold her close so she can relax a little, but she ain’t looking to relax for long. She pulls away after a minute and looks at me hard, a little frown between her eyes.

“I stopped the bleeding and ruined a good many of our rags in the process. Fred’s worrit. He reckons as he’s in trouble again. I told him he ain’t but he reckons as you work for Mr. Bilbo and Miss Dora’ll be up at the Bag End to speak with the Master, you’ll hear everything and get the wrong idea. You need to talk to him, Ham, that’s why I sent for you. The lad needs to rest and he ain’t going to get any while he’s twisted up with worriting. I’ll serve Miss Camellia some tea when she comes and we’ll be chatting ‘til you’re done. That’s the best kind of healing he can get right now,” she tells me.

I nod slowly. It were an accident right enough and if I should be upset with anybody it’d be Miss Dora. At least she should have had Hamson watching Fred as she looked for her needles, knowing what a klutz that lad is. Course, Halfred shouldn’t be climbing onto chairs as don’t belong to him neither, but both those talks can wait for later.

“Where’s he at?” I ask.

“In his room,” Bell says, just as May wakes up fussing from her nap. Bell goes to fetch the faunt afore she can wake up Daisy with her wailing and I follow her as far as the lads’ room.

I rap on the door gentle-like afore going inside. Halfred’s sitting up in bed with his head tilted back on what looks like nearly every pillow in the smial. His nose is swollen up like an eggplant and even his cheeks are a touch puffy. He sees me coming in and smiles bravely. Least he didn’t knock out any teeth with his stunt.

“Hullo Dad,” Fred greets me, though he sounds as though he’d rather be seeing me walking out than in. “I can fix Miss Dora’s rug, I’m sure of it.”

“Now lad,” I say and sit next to him on the bed. I put an arm around him, careful not to disturb the pillows. “That’s not for you to be worriting on. A rug’s just that, no matter what it’s made of, and it can be replaced if need be. You can’t, though, and I was more worrit for you when I heard the news. How’s your nose?”

“’S all right,” he answers bravely, melting into my side now he knows he ain’t in for any lecturing. “Sore though and it keeps thumping.”

“I’m sure it is,” I agree. “You hurt anywhere else? Your hands or knees?”

“My right knee’s smarting, but Ma said as that’d be fine come morning,” he informs me stoutly.

“Hm-mm,” I hum and look down at him. “And what did you learn from this adventure of yours?”

“Well,” Fred said, considering. “Hamson gets queasy at too much blood. Ma’s right smart at stopping bloody noses; she could be a healer.”

“All mothers are. What else? What’d you learn about standing up on chairs to do work as is too big for you?” I prompt.

“Don’t fall on my nose. Daisy said as I should of fallen on my head as its so hard naught could hurt it,” Fred says.

I chuckle at that and pat his shoulder soft-like. “Aye, that it is, but don’t be falling on naught if you can be helping it. You gave us all a fright, son.”

“So I’m in trouble?” he asks and his little face falls into gloom.

“No, you’re not in trouble. You just get your rest and do what your ma and the healer tell you,” I order.

“The healer?”

“Aye, I reckon she’s here by now. I’ll be fetching her,” I say but afore I can so much as move, there’s a wee knocking at the door and next thing Daisy’s poking her head in.

“Are you still bleeding?” she asks, her face eager.

“No,” Fred answers.

“Oh,” Daisy says, sounding disappointed.

I chuckle again and stand up. “Come lass. The healer’s waiting and we’ll only get in the way.”

I steer her out the room as she starts a telling me her version of events. “You should of seen it, Daddy. There was blood everywhere! I thought it’d fill the whole room, it kept coming and coming. It smelled too. I didn’t know blood smelled like that. Mayhap it was cause it came from his nose.” We enter the kitchen and Bell and the healer are sitting at the table, fresh cups of tea in front of them. Bell’s got May to her teat and Miss Camellia’s listening to every word Daisy says. “I had to help Ma since Hammy was sicking from all the blood. So Ma had him put May to her nap and then come fetch you.”

“I was not sicking!” Hamson protests from the parlor.

“You were so!” Daisy calls back.

“No hollering in the smial,” Bell commands and they hush up.

“I’ll see to the patient now,” Miss Camellia says and excuses herself.

Some time later, she emerges from the room and we’re all glad – except Daisy – to see no more blood on her. Daisy, Hamson and I put down the taters we’re peeling and Bell settles Fred’s breeches in the washbasin to soak again. Only May keeps playing on the floor with the tater peelings, a feeding them to her doll.

“His nose was broken,” the healer announces. “I’ve reset it already; you have a stout son. He didn’t complain once. I’ll leave you some willow bark for the pain as he needs it, no more than a teaspoon per teacup except at night. Then you can put two teaspoons to help him sleep. He’s not to sleep on his side or stomach for a week and discourage him from touching his nose, though he’ll have discharge for the next few days while the wound heals. He just needs to be gentle when he blows it, no wiping but he can blot at it.”

“Thank you, Miss Camellia,” I say, getting up. “How much do we owe you?”

“A bushel of those potatoes will do just fine,” she says. “I was going to cook a stew tonight but now I won’t have time to get into town. It’d save me a lot of trouble.”

I gather up a dozen of my best taters and put them in a sack for her. She exchanges a pouch of the willow bark for the taters.

“I’ll be back to check on him in a few days,” Miss Camellia says and Bell sees her to the door.

When Bell comes back, we all sigh with relief and wonder what kind of trouble Fred will be getting himself into next time.

GF 6/14/08

A Father’s Work – Daisy

1 Lithe, 1383 SR
Michel Delving

Hamfast is 57, Bell 51, Hamson 18, Halfred, 14, Daisy 11, May 7, and Sam 3 (or about 36, 32, 11, 9, 7, 6, and 2 in Man years)

I pop into the confinement tent in the middle of the campgrounds and spot my Bell resting on a bench with a few other expectant mothers. Sammy’s playing at her feet with a few other faunts and don’t even notice when I approach them. Bell does though and she smiles gratefully and reaches out for the water skin I hand her.

“You feeling better, Bell?” I ask, apprehensive-like. I can’t say as I ain’t worrit. This pregnancy’s been a hard one on her and no mistake, coming so soon after her bout with the pneumonia this past winter. She’s still a coughing at times and she gets tired easy. Mayhap she shouldn’t of come with us to the fair, or we all should of stayed at home, but she’d hear none of it. It’s the only time of year she gets to see her relations and catch up on family gossip and she refused to be left out.

“I’m better, dear, just a bit winded is all,” Bell says and takes a long drink of water. “I ain’t had enough water is all; got overheated in that sun.”

“Summer’s a bad time to be pregnant, that’s a fact,” the missus next to her says.

“How’re the children?” Bell asks. “How’d Daisy do in the crafts contest?”

“They’re all scattered about playing with their cousins,” I answer and stoop down to pick up Sammy, who’s finally noticed me and is tugging at my trousers. “Daisy got just an honorable mention. You know as these judges don’t like for anyone to go home empty-handed, but she knows as it means she lost and she ain’t too happy about it.”

“It’s her first year competing and she’s only ten,” Bell says. “It’d be a wonder if she’d placed.”

“That’s what I told her,” I say but soon as I say it, I know I should of kept my mouth shut. Now Bell and the missus are glaring up at me, and if I’ve learned one thing after all these years, it’s that you don’t want to go upsetting expectant mothers.

“You told her that, Ham!” Bells asks.

“Well, it’s the truth, though I guess I could of gone about it differently,” I say, backtracking best as I can.

“I guess,” echoes the missus. She looks at Bell. “He guesses.”

“All right, I know I could of,” I amend.

Bell shakes her head up at me. “Ham, she’s just a girl. This was her first contest. She knows it’s unlikely, but she can’t help a hoping and there you go just crushing her when she’s already down. You better find her and make it up to her.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I agree and attempt to put Sam down.

“Na-huh,” Bell says. “I need to rest and he’s keeping me from it. You can take him for an hour or two. I’ll look for you all come teatime.”

I put Sammy atop my shoulders and he wraps his hands around my forehead and holds on tight. I leave the tent and start looking for Daisy, wondering just how I’m supposed to go about making this up to her and what I should say once I find her. Truth is, losing’s part of life and the sooner you learn that, the less disappointed you’ll be as you go. But she is just a girl, and a dreamy one at that. I’ll just have to figure something out when I find her.

I head in the direction I saw her last, playing on the green near the awards stage with her siblings and cousins. A good many of the Goodchilds turned up this year, more’n I can remember ever coming afore, and they seem to of brought near every Tighfield Gamgee and Roper along with them. This’ll be a fine Midsummer and that’s a fact.

“Look Gaffy!” Sammy shouts and lifts one of his little hands off my brow to point. As it’s the right hand, I assume that’s where he’s pointing. I turn my head that way and sure enough, there’s Hamson, Halfred and May dashing about playing keep-away with too many cousins to be counting.

“Good eyes, Sammy,” I say and head in that direction next, looking about every which way but not spotting Daisy among them. “Do you see Daisy, lad?”

“There’s daisies over there,” he says, pointing I don’t know where.

“Your sister Daisy, not daisies,” I correct as I approach the children playing. “Fred, Ham, May! Come here.”

“We’re in the middle of a game,” Fred protests.

“I don’t care. Get over here and don’t give me any sauce. The others can wait.” My children come and stand in front of me, each wondering what’s the matter.

“Where’s Daisy at?” I ask.

“She wasn’t feeling well, so she went back to the tent,” May answers promptly.

“You sure that’s where she was heading?” I ask.

“That’s the direction she went,” Hamson agrees.

“If you see her, tell her I’m looking for her and she’s not to leave this spot ‘til I come back,” I order.

“Do you need us to help you look?” Halfred asks.

“Only if I don’t find her in the tent,” I say, then pause. “Did she seem sad to you?”

“She were pouting right enough,” Hamson says. “She was making everyone gloomy.”

“She were fussing over not placing,” May says. “I don’t see what the matter is. It’s just a silly little ribbon as don’t do any good anyway. That’s no reason to be a Drooping Daisy.”

“It matters cause she were wanting it and she worked hard for it,” I say. “Don’t you go teasing her or being insensitive towards her, you hear.”

“Yes Dad,” they agree then go back to their game.

I head off for the tents and make my way through the maze of them to the one as we borrow from Mr. Bilbo every year. I put Sammy down and lead him inside, and sure enough, there’s Daisy sitting on her sleeping roll and staring down at her entry for the crafts fair. It’s a little rug as she made for one of her dolls; Bell has the lasses learn their stitching and crocheting and whatnot by practicing making things for their dolls or any bairns in the neighborhood. That way, they don’t waste so much yarn or thread when they make mistakes and have to start all over again.

“Daisy-lass, what’re you doing in here. It’s a fine day out,” I say and sit next to her. I pull Sammy into my lap and he occupies himself playing with the buttons at my opened collar. “Don’t you want to play with your cousins?”

“No,” Daisy pouts.

“Why not?” I ask.

“Cause.”

I flutter about for somewhat else to say and, failing that, I decide to just get right to it. I look at the little rug and finger it a bit. “It this your entry?” I ask and Daisy nods. “Well, then, let’s take a look at it.” I pick it up and squint at it in the dim light. “This is wool, I see. You dyed this all these different colors yourself?”

“No, Missus Rumble did it. I helped her jar preserves,” Daisy answers, looking at the rug in my hands and flitting her eyes up to me every now and again.

“So then you spun the wool yourself?” I ask next.

“No, Ma did that, and I helped her fold the laundry,” Daisy says.

“So Ma spun the wool and Missus Rumble dyed it for you,” I say.

“I made the rug myself,” Daisy says, her voice small.

“Aye, I know that right enough. I saw you working on this one night when I come home,” I say and Daisy nods. “How long this take you to make? A month? Two months?”

“Just a couple of days,” Daisy answers.

“You used one of them racks or looms or whatever they’re called? You know, to help stretch and set the wool in between the times you worked on it?” I ask next.

“Well, no, Ma said I was just to work on making the lines as straight as I could get them for now,” Daisy says, frowning a little now, but at least she’s looking up at me and speaking normal again.

“Ah.” I nod at this and hold the rug closer to my face to study the lines. “You’re just starting out, and whenever you’re starting something, it’s best to perfect the basics afore going on to anything too complicated. So you’re just doing lines now? No patterns or pictures or whatnot?”

“That’s right,” Daisy says. “I can’t do any of that other stuff yet.”

“These lines are rather straight and even,” I assess. “It’s a little bunched up here on this side though, see? And in the middle here, the line dips and wavers a bit. I thought mayhap that was intentional.”

“No, I just couldn’t quite get it straightened out there. I was hoping it wouldn’t matter none,” Daisy says.

“Well, this is a fine bit of work, and there’s no denying that, not one bit,” I say. “You worked hard on it, there’s no denying that either. It certainly was an honorable attempt and it’s worthy of an honorable mention.”

“But not a prize,” Daisy finishes resignedly.

“Those lasses and lads as won prizes today, they’re years older than you and they’ve a lot more experience than you. They’ve perfected their crafts. They can do all the complicated stuff and treat the material so it’s as soft or hard, red, orange or green as they want it to be. They deserve their prizes,” I say.

Daisy nods.

“But let me tell you a secret,” I say and hand her the rug back. Sammy watches the exchange and climbs over me to sit in Daisy’s lap to play with the rug.

“What?” Daisy asks.

“Every single one of them started out making little rugs just like this one,” I say. “In fact, I’d be willing to bet theirs weren’t even as fine as this rug here is. So the way I see it, you’re already ahead of them. You just wait a few more years, and work on perfecting your technique in the meantime, and I bet you there’s not one of them as can beat you.”

“You think so?” Daisy asks, perking up.

“I do,” I say but hold my hands up for caution. “But you got to bear in mind, when you’re competing, sometimes you’re going to lose. So if you can’t lose with grace and be happy for those as do win, then you’re not competing again, you hear me.”

“I can be graceful and happy,” Daisy insists. “I can. And I’ll work really hard and learn all those complicated things.”

“You also need to know as you can learn from everything. So instead of sitting here pouting, you should be out there asking those winners how they went about making their crafts,” I advise.

Daisy’s eyes light up at this and she bounces in her spot, disturbing Sammy enough that he climbs out of her lap and onto the ground, never once letting go of the rug. “I never thought of that!” she says. “Oh, Gaffer, you’re the smartest dad there ever was!”

I laugh. “That I ain’t, but I thank you all the same. Now put this away afore Sammy has it for luncheon and let’s go out and find your cousins. It’ll be easier to track down the winners at the prizing ceremony,” I point out.

She wrests the rug from Sammy’s grip and I pick him up to follow her outside. She’s skipping ahead of me down the aisle between the tents and she’s halfway across the grounds by the time I walk out of the maze. There’ll be no more Drooping Daisies at the fair this year.

GF 6/15/08

A Father’s Work – May

Blotmath, 1384 SR
Hobbiton

Hamfast is 58, Hamson 19, Halfred 15, Daisy 12, May 8, Sam 4 and Marigold 11 months (or about 37, 12, 9 ½, 7 ½, 5, 2 ½ years, and 7 months in Man years)

Hard as it seems to believe, things are finally settling down to a sort of normalcy as we haven’t seen since the beginning of the year. Our lives got mixed up with the news of my daddy’s passing in Afteryule, and we’d gone up to Tighfield to stay with my brother Andy and his family to see my dad put to his final resting. Marigold were just a few weeks old and Bell still weak from the pregnancy, but she insisted on coming. We were up there ‘til the middle of Solmath, helping my mother get settled with my sister May and seeing to the selling of the house and what all as needed doing.

Bell seemed to improve actually while we were there, going off to her kin and showing off the children, looking more lively and beautiful than she had in over a year. But when we come home, she started a coughing again, and that’s when it all went down the hill as they say.

Bell’s absence is still missed every moment of the day, and Sammy still can be found a curled up with me in bed most mornings, but after four long months we’ve fallen into a pattern. Hamson gets up first and wakes his siblings, then goes outside to the woodshed to fill the wood boxes and chop more wood for the morrow if need be. Halfred gets up to be making everyone’s luncheons while Daisy sets to making first breakfast, and for most of us our only breakfast. Meantime, May’s a helping me with Sam and Marigold to get them ready for the day. Then I feed the bairn some goat milk as May gathers up a sack of things Goldie’ll be needing during the day and stowing them in the buggy. There’s still bickering at times and sometimes one or more of the children will be slow to getting up, but most days we’re out the door on time to head our different directions: the lasses and Sam to the Rumbles down the Hill a ways, Hamson and Halfred to whatever jobs they’ve managed to secure for themselves, and me to Bag End.

Not as this means I know what I’m a doing half the time. I doubt that day’ll ever come but I can fake it well enough most times. Not always. I still make a good many mistakes, like the other day I set to changing Goldie’s nappy, got distracted by somewhat, then forget to put a new one on her. Then there was the time two months ago when I promised to bake some pies for a harvest gathering, then got caught up late at Bag End and didn’t have time to be baking even one. I had to stop by the bakery first thing in the morn on my way to the Cotton’s to buy some.

This though is to be the biggest and foolest mistake of them all. May’s been complaining about feeling sickly for a couple of days, sore throat, runny nose, the usual sort of thing. There’s a cold going around, nothing serious, but I make a mention of it to Amelia all the same when I drop the lasses off at the Rumbles. Just me being there is enough for her to know as something were amiss, and she promises to keep watch over May and keep her inside and full of tea and chicken soup. When she come home at night, I make sure to give her more tea, full of all the usual medicaments as any healer would give a sick child. The healer. I should of called for Miss Camellia the moment May took sick, but I thought as I could handle it. I don’t even notice when May starts worsening, not even when her sneezing turns to coughing. Sammy certainly does; he’s a cuddled up next to her in the parlor tonight. He puts his ear to her chest to listen to the rumbling going on inside and he goes to bed troubled.

Funnily enough, he ain’t in bed with me later that night when Daisy come to wake me. May’s broken into a fever and drenched all the bed sheets. She’s having trouble breathing and can’t stop coughing so’s her eyes tear up, and she reckons she’s going to die. I dash out in the rain to fetch the healer, barely stopping to pull on a coat over my bedclothes. I run down the Hill as fast as my feet can carry me, berating myself the whole way for not paying more attention. I spend a good portion of the night sitting in the parlor, Daisy sleeping on my lap, waiting for Miss Camellia to come out and tell me something, anything, about what is going on with my daughter, hoping against hope that May will pull through. Bell I couldn’t help, but this never should of happened to May.

It’s a long week of the healer and her prentice coming and going at all hours. There are endless baths, cold compresses, tinctures, teas and what all else I don’t know. Amelia comes up to be with the children so as I can go to work, but I don’t get aught done and every day at noon, Mr. Bilbo comes out with a crock of soup, a pan of casserole and a loaf of bread to send me home. Not as we’re needing the food; the Goodloves and the Twofoots down the Row keep us up to our ears in meals, and Cousin Tom even manages to bring some stores over to us once he gets word of May’s sickness. He takes Marigold off with him, saying as Lily’s got more’n enough milk to be a feeding her and the twins. Offers to take the others too, but they refuse to budge and Sam all but kicks and screams when Tom bends down for him.

Sammy. I get home from my half days up the Hill and Sammy’s a sitting agin the door to his sisters’ room, crying to be let in, he’d be no bother to the healer, honest he wouldn’t. Amelia keeps him out hoping to spare him the sickness, but he ain’t eating or taking his naps and at night he keeps me up with his tossing. He’s worrit his sister’ll disappear if he ain’t there while she’s sick, disappear like his ma, gone never to return. I let him in and shrug to the healer, who nods as it’s all right, and he curls up on the bed next to May and just sleeps, holding her hand. After the second day of this, Miss Camellia makes Sam her special helper, and he’ll sit next to May and chatter away at her, never mind that she’s a sleeping more often than she’s awake, while the healer goes about boiling more cloths or mixing more herbs for her poultices and tonics.

Finally, after a week, May’s fever breaks and she wakes up for the first time in two days. We all breathe a sigh of relief and I actually manage to get some work done in the Bag End garden that day. The next week’s like a flurry. May steadily gets better every day, but she has setbacks and her cough still lingers. The hardest part is getting her to take her medicaments now as she’s awake.

“She likes honey,” I tell Miss Camellia, knowing as she adds honey to the medicinal tea.

After that, Miss Camellia mixes her herbs in a crock of honey and gives May a spoonful every few hours or so.* May really starts improving after that and by the end of another week, her cough’s gone, she has color in her cheeks and she’s a sitting up in bed asking when she’ll have leave to get up and play. Tom brings Marigold back and we’re all so happy to be back together again we cook up a meal to feed the whole Row and invite the Cottons, Mr. Bilbo, Miss Camellia and her prentice to join us.

Today’s the first day May’s been allowed out of bed the whole day since she took sick. She makes it down to Amelia’s after a few stops to catch her breath, and Amelia keeps her sitting most of the day, folding sheets and mending shirts. We’re all glad to be back to our routine. For the first time in three weeks, Mr. Bilbo sends me home empty-handed and when I get home, everyone’s doing what they ought to be doing. Hamson’s stoking the fire in the kitchen oven and lighting the lanterns and candles, Daisy and May are fixing supper, and Halfred’s in the parlor giving Marigold and Sam their nightly washing.

“Good evening, children,” I say as usual.

“Good evening, Gaffer,” they say in return. Marigold shrieks and claps to see me. And just like that, the uncertainty of the past month slips away and we’re back to normal, or as normal as we’re ever going to be.

An hour later, we’re sitting to supper and the children are all telling me about their days.

“Farmer Noakes’s cat had her a litter today,” Hamson says.

“Oh, I love kittens,” May says with a sideways glance at me. She’s always a trying to get me to give her a kitten.

“You wouldn’t love these ones,” Halfred pipes in. “They’re tiny as your thumb and all pink and wrinkly. They can’t even open their eyes or walk about or nothing. All’s they can do is lie there and drink their mother’s milk. And their mother is one mean cat all of sudden. She scratched at me for no reason.” He holds up his left hand as evidence and we all see the angry red scratches running over the back of his hand.

“Of course she’s being mean,” Daisy says with a roll of her eyes. “She’s a mama now, she’s got younglings to protect.”

“I don’t know. I don’t ever remember Ma scratching at anyone as tried to get near me,” Fred says back.

“Probably cause she was hoping as they’d keep you,” Hamson jokes and we all laugh.

“None of you were around yet,” I say, “but when she were pregnant with Hamson, she did give Mr. Otho a piece of her mind. He’d a come down the road from Bywater in his pony-trap, driving them ponies like he were racing to a fire. Near run over your ma. She weren’t concerned about herself so much, but she was worrit for the bairn inside her. Mr. Otho stopped to help her up and he apologized and all, but he didn’t get away afore your ma could tell him he ought to be slowing down if he knew what was good for him. He never did race that trap again after that, leastways, not down Bywater Road.”

“Ma did that?” Daisy asks and they all look at me with astonishment. Goldie spits out her peas and squishes them with her hand.

“Aye, she did that. She never took to anyone talking down about any of you either,” I continue. “Not that many do, but her and Mistress Lobelia knew best to just ignore each other when they saw the other in market.”

“She talked sauce to Lobelia too?” Halfred asks.

“She caught Lobelia about to discipline Daisy once, and your ma didn’t care much for Lobelia’s idea of discipline,” I say. “Your ma went right up to Lobelia, took that darned umbrella right out of her hands and threw it in the river. Said if Lobelia wanted it back so bad, she could jump in and get it. Then your ma looked right in her eyes and said, ‘Don’t you ever raise a hand to any of my children again, or it’ll be the last thing you do inside this Shire.’ Oh, Lobelia’d tried plenty after that to intimidate your ma, but she’d have none of it, and eventually Lobelia gave up and just took to pretending your ma wasn’t there, and your ma was glad to do the same.”

“I don’t remember none of that,” Daisy says.

“Oh, you couldn’t have been more than Sam’s age now,” I say. “Of course you’d not remember.”

“Does that mean I won’t remember Ma?” Sam asks, reminding me again he ain’t as slow as his name would suggest. He looks up at me with his brown eyes and simply waits. Meantime, the others are a looking at me, horrified at the thought. Hamson’s eyes travel to Marigold, who’s now licking the squashed peas off her hands; the bairn hardly even knew her ma to be starting with.

“We’ll make sure you’re remembering your ma,” I say. “You and Goldie both.”

“Dad?” May asks.

“Yes, love?”

“How come I got better and Ma didn’t?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know, love, but I’m right glad you did. I couldn’t have borne to lose you, any of you. From here on out, any of you so much as sniffle, I want you dressing for the Fell Winter, understand me?”

“Yes Dad,” they promise and poke at their food.

“Dad?” Halfred asks after a few minutes of cold silence.

“What is it Fred?”

“Can you tell us about the Fell Winter, being as you were there and all?” he asks with a grin.

“Wha-?” I splutter and the others laugh. “Now you hear this, you mongrel, I ain’t that old and you know it.”

“Did they have candles when you were our age?” Daisy asks.

“How’d folk manage to get anywhere, what with having no wheels yet and all?” Hamson asks next.

“Can you tell us about our Wandering Days afore we settled in the Shire?” May asks and snickers, sending the others and myself into fits of laughter. Goldie laughs along with us and squishes more peas.

That night as I’m tucking the lasses into bed, May asks me again, “How come Ma didn’t get better?”

I sit next to her on the bed and look at her, then at Daisy. It’s a hard thing for a parent to admit he don’t know everything and can’t protect his children from the harshest facts of life. I wish as I could give them an answer as would make sense and give them some comfort, but all’s I can do is shrug and say, “She just didn’t.”

“Is it cause she didn’t love us enough?” Daisy asks.

“She loved you with every breath she took, including her last, and don’t you ever doubt that,” I say. “Folks just die. Young folk, old folk, healthy folk, sick folk. That’s just how it happens.”

“You’re not going to leave us, are you, Gaffer?” May asks.

“I don’t plan to, not for a very long time,” I say. “But if something ever does happen to me, you’ll all be taken care of. You’ll be going to your Aunt May’s in Tighfield, and your brothers will be prenticed to your Uncle Andy and your Uncle Bill, your ma’s brother. You’ll not be separated ‘til your grown and ready to marry and start your own families. That I do promise you.”

The lasses nod at this, then Daisy says, “Well, if you ever so much as sniffle, you better dress for the Fell Winter too, and no arguing about going for the healer.”

“Yes, Mother Daisy,” I agree and we shake hands to make it official-like. I finish tucking the lasses into bed and kiss them good-night. “Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

“And we’ll all be here in the morning,” May says.

“That we will,” I say. I blow out the candles and close the door behind me. In the tunnel, I lean agin the door and thank the stars for correcting my mistake and giving me my Mayflower back. I’ll not be so careless again, that I promise also.

GF 6/15/08

* - My grandmother recently gave me some medicated honey for some chest congestion I was having. It worked and my congestion was gone a week later. I figured this would be a good way for the healers of the Shire to administer medicine to sick children, since they’ll only be able to taste the honey. And they have the Gaffer to thank for it. :)

A Father’s Work – Hamson

1 Afterlithe, 1385 SR
Free Fair, Michel Delving

Hamfast is not quite 59, Hamson 20, Halfred 16, Daisy 13, May 9, Sam 5, Marigold 2 ½, (or about 37, 12, 10, 8, 6, 3 years, and 20 months in Man years)

He’s been a staring at his sack for near on an hour now. He’ll say he’s thinking on what he’s packed and wondering if he forgot anything, but we’ll both be knowing better. Whatever he forgets ain’t something as can’t be bartered for or sent after him once he reaches Tighfield. No, what he’s really thinking on is he’s been going up to Tighfield the last four summers (excepting last year when Bell took sick) to do for my brother Andy, but this time’s for good. Now when he visits, he’ll be visiting home.

I step into the tent, shuffling my feet even though he already knows I’m there. “All ready?” I ask. I stand next to him and stare down at his sack along with him. It’s the same sack I packed up when I come to be prenticed to my cousin Holman. It’s seen a bit of wear since then, but the patches as Daisy sewed into it will do it good for a few more years yet.

“I’m trying to remember if I packed me a foot brush or not,” Hamson says.

I glance around the little tent, looking for overlooked brushes and seeing none. Everyone’s already packed up, ready to go once we get this tent down and our neighbors, the Twofoots, show up with their trap. “Well, you had it on you last night and I don’t see it now,” I reason. “If one of your siblings squirreled it away, we’ll send it along after you. You got yourself a coat? The nights still get chill and there’s a rain coming.”

“I know, Daddy. I got one.”

Daddy. Now that he ain’t called me since he were ten.

“Here,” I say, reaching into my pocket. I pull out an old rag and hand it to him. “Your mother wanted you to have these once you were prenticed official-like.”

“She wanted me to have an old rag?” Hamson asks, staring at the threadbare lump in his hand.

“Open it, you ninnyhammer,” I say.

Hamson opens up the rag and finds a pair of brass cufflinks in the middle. The cufflinks each have an oak tree imprinted on their flat, smooth surface, or they once did at any rate. The trees are still there, but the lines’re getting worn and starting to fade.

“They were a courting gift from your ma to me,” I explain. “She saw the trees and thought of me, and this was afore she even knew there was an oak sitting atop Bag End. You know every time I look up at that tree, I remember the day I got these in the post.”

“I like these ones,” Hamson says and holds them delicate-like afore putting them in his pocket.

“She knew it,” I say simply. “Now, you best get a going. Your Uncle Andy can’t be waiting around forever. He wants to be getting on to Tighfield afore the hour’s up.”

“What about the tent?” Hamson asks, reaching for his sack but not moving his feet none. “You know Fred won’t be no help to you getting it down and squared away.”

“There’s plenty of others about as can help,” I assure him and put my hand on his shoulder so as to steer him towards the flap.

“But what about all those seeds? You’ve boxes of them and they’ll get all jumbled up if Fred or the others be helping you load them.”

I stare at Hamson for a bit then lower my hand to his arm. I squeeze it gentle-like to make sure he’s paying attention to me. “You know your ma knew you children better’n you know yourselves, and so do I. Now let me tell you aught I happen to be knowing about you.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re feeling a bit cut off, like you been set to roaming after being cooped up in a stable your whole life,” I say and Hamson nods. “Let me tell you something your granddad told me when I come to be prenticed to Holman. He says to me, ‘you can’t never to be too far away from your family. A letter can reach you in just a couple of days, and if there’s need, your kin will come even faster’n that.’ You remember that lad. If you’re ever needing me, I’ll be up there faster’n Mistress Lobelia can smack you with her umbrella.”

Hamson laughs and rubs at his head as if it really were smarting from one of Lobelia’s well-aimed smacks. “Thank you, Gaffer,” he says, feeling the cufflinks in his pocket and no doubt thinking of his mother, “for everything.” He smiles bravely and nudges his sack further up his shoulder.

“Come here, lad.” I open my arms and they’re full of Hamson a half-moment later. I hug onto him tight and it’s all I can do to let go again. I pat him on the back and kiss his brow, then pull myself loose and step back to stare at him. “You’re a good lad, Ham. You be good for your Uncle Andy and Aunt Lilac, and don’t pick on your cousin Anson too often, you hear?”

“Yes, Dad,” Hamson agrees. “I love you, Dad.”

“Aye, I love you too, lad. You can never disappoint me, you know that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then chin up, lad. It ain’t like I’m shipping you off to Hardbottle or Sackville,” I say and laugh and clap him on the back.

We step out the tent and over the campgrounds towards the road where Andy has his cart waiting on us. My children are there playing with their cousin Anson, Marigold trailing after Sammy like a shadow. They all look up about the same time and see us coming.

Hamson tosses his sack into the cart then swoops down to pick up Marigold. He hugs her and tickles her, then kisses her cheek. “You be a sweet lass for Gaffer, Goldie-love. Promise?”

Goldie throws her arms around his neck and returns the kiss, wet and sloppy. “I pwomise, Hammy,” she says and lets her brother put her down.

Hamson hugs Sam next. “You’ve just Fred to be a fighting for the bed sheets now, Sammy. Don’t let him edge you out none and look after Goldie here.”

Sam nods, his lower lip trembling. He don’t understand his older brother having to go away, ‘disappearing’ as he puts it, but he’ll learn to understand it in time. He smiles bravely all the same. “Now as we’ve more room, mayhap Fred’s cold feet won’t be waking me so often.”

“And your tossing and turning won’t be bruising me so often,” Halfred counters with a grin.

Hamson stands up and turns to Fred. “Your second in charge now, Fred. Mind you act it,” he warns and hugs him hard and quick.

“Don’t I always?” Fred jests. “Don’t you be getting tied up in all that rope you’ll be spinning. If one of our clotheslines ever breaks, we’ll know who’s to blame.”

“Aye, you’ll be, you old klutz,” Hamson returns. “I don’t know how and I hope I never do, but you’ll be the cause of it and that’s a fact.”

“You know, you’re probably right.”

The brothers laugh and Hamson turns to his other sisters, who aren’t doing as good a job of hiding their tears as Sam. He hugs them both fiercely and kisses their brows. “Just when you were really starting to cook up a fine roast,” he says to Daisy. “You keep a practicing, cause I’ll be expecting a fine Yule feast this year.”

“You’ll be getting one, even if I have to banish Fred from the kitchen,” Daisy promises. “They’ve post messengers in Tighfield just as good as Hobbiton. You send us word from time to time.”

“Yes, Mother Daisy,” Hamson promises back. “And Mayflower. There’s a lot you can be a learning from your sister, so you lighten up on her.”

“I don’t know about that. Goldie don’t say much yet,” May says cheekily.

“Don’t be giving me sauce.”

He turns to me next and gives me another hug. When he steps back, I point at the cart next to where his sack landed. There’s a lump under a canvas and he eyes it now.

“Andy and I got that for you off a carpenter yesterday. Seemed fitting, now as you’re officially prenticed,” I tell him.

Hamson pulls the canvas back to reveal a new ropewalk, made of sturdy oak, its gears and knobs freshly polished. “This is mine?” he asks in awe, running his hand over the stand and pulley. “I’ve never had naught as was new afore.”

“Your very own,” Andwise says. “You’ll be the first and only one to use it, lest you let Ani here have a go at it.”

“Can’t I?” Anson asks eagerly.

“Course you can, but I get to use it first,” Hamson agrees. “Thanks Nuncle. Thank you Dad.” He hugs me again, then his uncle, then all his siblings all over again.

“Come now,” Lilac finally says. “We’ve got to be going soon if we’re to reach Little Delving afore nightfall.”

“Up you get, lad,” Andy says and gives Hamson a hand up into the cart afore climbing into the coach next to his wife.

Hamson and Anson bend over to inspect the rope walk, and I know Hamson only looks at it so hard to keep from crying. I’m glad for it too, as I doubt I can hold it together if his eyes so much as misted.

Andy whips the ponies to trotting. The cart pulls away and me and the children wave our family good-bye. Hamson braves looking up and waving at us ‘til the cart’s no more’n a speck down the road.

Next to me, Sammy tugs my hand and I stoop down to pick him up. “When is Hammy a coming back?” he asks in his clear little voice.

“He’ll be along for Yule,” I answer.

“Just when we thought there’d be leftover goose too,” Halfred quips smartly.

“Like we ever thought that was possible with you around,” May jokes back. “You eat enough for three hobbits.”

“I’m a growing lad. I need my strength,” Halfred jests backs.

“Then you should be strong enough to be pulling us home,” Daisy says. “No need to fuss over the ponies, Gaffer. Just put Fred in the holster instead.”

“Aye, let’s strap him up,” I agree and hand Sam to him so I can carry Marigold back to the tent. “And you can fold up that fool tent too.”

“That fool tent,” Sam echoes.

“I don’t think it’s a fool tent,” Fred counters. “It looks rather smart to me, and it is Mr. Bilbo’s.” He looks at Sam and widens his eyes. “Mayhap it even belonged to some elves once.”

“Elves?” Sammy whispers, his eyes round as saucers.

“Don’t go getting him started,” Daisy warns. “Now that’s all we’re going to hear about ‘til sundown.”

And we walk back to the tent a laughing and a joking just to keep from missing Hamson.

GF 6/14/08

A Father’s Work – Sam

Astron 1386 SR
Hobbiton

Hamfast is 59, Halfred is 17, Daisy 14, May not yet 10, Sam just turned 6, and Marigold is 4 (or about 38, 10, 9, 6, 3 and 2 ½ in Man years)

Highdays are always bringing a certain excitedness about them. There are plans to be made as have naught to do with working, and for children there seem to be no end of possibilities for what those plans might be. My own are no exception, and they chatter away over luncheon about all their many plans.

“Me and Jasmine are going rock-hunting,” May says of her best friend, the Twofoot’s daughter next door. “We’re looking for little ones, so as we can bore through them with the awl, or her brothers can anyhow, and then we’re going to make jools out of them. She’s got the string and everything.”

“Holly and Viola and me are going to the baking ovens in town to try out some new receipts for round bread,” Daisy chimes in next, talking of her friends from Number One, the Goodlove’s two lasses. “Then we’re going up to Overhill to Cousin Holman’s and he’s a going to let us ride the fillies.”

“I don’t want you making that long trek by yourselves,” I say.

“Missus Goodlove’s a taking us,” Daisy informs me.

“Can me and Jasmine come?” May asks.

“So long’s Missus Goodlove don’t mind none,” Daisy agrees. “What about you, Fred?”

“Me and Goldie are going picnicking,” Halfred says, “while Dad and Sammy go a fishing.”

“I’m going fishing!” Sammy boasts with a bounce and grins up at me like he just found gold. “Dad’s going to learn me to catch some trout.”

“Then I can fry us some fish and chips tonight,” Daisy says.

“No,” I say with a shake of my head. “I’ll be worriting about dinner. You can work on that quilt for Missus Rumble.”

“Do you think she’ll like it?” Daisy asks.

“It’s a fine quilt, it is,” Fred says. “It’ll keep her good and warm come winter.” Daisy beams at her older brother.

We finish up with luncheon, and the lasses clean up the kitchen while Fred and I get the little ones ready for their day at the river. We all head out together, May and Daisy dropping off at Number Two and Number One on our way to Hill Lane. Fred carries Goldie pig-a-back, Sam carries the bait box and fishing poles, and I carry everything else. We say farewell to the lasses and head on over the Hill down to the Water.

We come to the oak as grows near the Water just at the bottom of the Hill, and I spread out the blanket and some toys as should keep Marigold entertained. I look at Fred hard. It’s not as I don’t trust the lad; he watches over his siblings like a mother hen, but he do manage to find his way to trouble faster’n a bee to honey.

“Keep an eye on her,” I warn, and give a wary glance to the river. “Mayhap you should take her over to town instead.”

“I’ll keep her from the Water, Dad,” Fred promises and kneels down to let Marigold slide off his back. “Won’t I, Goldie? We’ll stay away from the Water.”

“No water,” Goldie says, frowning at the river. “No wet.”

“See?” Fred says and I nod.

“Don’t go wandering off too far,” I say and pat Goldie on the head.

I take the fishing poles from Sam to carry them over my shoulder along with the fishing net. I hold out the bucket in my other hand, but he clutches onto his bait box, determined to do his bit. I lead him further down the river, stopping a few hundred yards north of Bywater Pool. The river widens here somewhat.

“Here we are, lad.”

Sam looks around and then looks up at me. “Where’re the fish?” he asks.

“In the Water, of course,” I say. I set down the net and poles and quickly fill the bucket with water.

“But how do you know there’ll be fish here, Gaffy?” he asks, squatting to set down the bait box. He looks at the river with his head tilted, all serious and confused.

I sit next to Sam and pat the ground for him to sit too. “Fish like to swim in the middle of the river where it’s deepest,” I explain. “The river widens up here, so it’s not as deep. They got to come up, see? And there’s shallows here too.”

“Shallows?” Sam asks, squinting harder to get a better look.

“Right here where the water and land meet, you can see the bottom of the river. That’s the shallows and it slopes down to the deeps,” I explain. “There’s food here in the shallows as the fish like to eat. Now, fish usually eat at dawn and dusk, but they sometimes get hungry during the day too, and as the river’s wider here and they got to come up anyways, they sometimes come up to eat. So, we’ll just sit here and try our luck.”

Sam nods and spreads his legs out in front of him, not quite reaching the bank. I open up the bait box and take up a pole. Sam looks down and gasps.

“Gaffy! Your box is full of worms!” he cries.

“Aye, I went out afore sunup this morn and dug them up,” I say. “These here are night crawlers and fish take a fancy to them.” I choose a specially juicy worm and test the hook at the end of the pole. “We put the worm on the hook here, the fish sees it and comes to eat it, and that’s how we catch the fish.”

Sam watches closely as I bait the hooks, his little nose scrunching up each time the worms get pierced. I hand Sam his hook then stand up and motion for him to do the same. I show him how to cast his line, just a gentle but firm flick on his pole to get the hook sailing through the air and into the water. I do this a couple of times, then set my pole standing against the bait box and go to stand behind Sam. I take his hand and together we practice casting his line a few times, then I let him try on his own.

“Try aiming it towards the middle of the shallows, nearer the middle of the river,” I say and clap him firmly on the shoulder when he gets it right after a few more attempts. We sit back down and I set his pole next to mine. “You’re a quick study, Sammy.”

“Thank you Gaffy,” Sammy says and looks at the poles just a sitting there. “How long ‘til we catch something?”

I shrug. “Could be a minute or two, could be an hour,” I say. “Could be we don’t catch any. That’ll depend on the fish.”

“So what do we do in the meantime?” he asks next.

“Well, my dad and me used to sit and tell stories, or whittle, or make up songs, or just sit and watch the land around us. Sometimes there’d be others as come along and we’d sit and talk with them,” I say.

“Can we tell stories?” Sam asks, perking up and bouncing excited-like. “Mr. Bilbo and Frodo—”

“Master Frodo,” I correct.

“Master Frodo told me a new story this morning,” Sam goes on without a pause. “It’s all about this princess who’s captured by the Swertings and taken to the Sunlands to be guarded by a dragon and the prince has to come and save her.”

“They told you all this, did they?” I say and shake my head a little. Mr. Bilbo’s been kind enough to let Sam come up with me to work ever since May took sick a few years back. Sam just hasn’t wanted to be too far from me since then, but once we’re at Bag End he almost always ends up at Mr. Bilbo’s knees, specially now as the Master’s young cousin is a visiting from Buckland. “And how is young Master Frodo?”

“He sleeps a lot,” Sam says. “I think he’s sicking, but Bilbo said as he’s just tired, but I don’t know how he can be tired if he gets to sleep ‘til elevenses.”

“That’s depending on how long he’s staying up,” I counter, “but that ain’t for us to be discussing. We don’t get involved in the affairs of our betters, Sammy; you best keep your mouth shut and your ears open.”

“I do, Dad,” Sam says. “So can I tell you the story?”

“Well, it do sound like a mighty exciting story,” I say obligingly. “Go on ahead.”

So Sam launches into the queerest tale as I’ve ever heard, all about this prince of the Big Folk and this Elf warrior who helps him track down a stolen princess. Along the way, they got to fight Swertings and Goblins and Dark Wizards, and that’s afore they even reach the dragon, who’s got the princess stowed away in his bed of glowing jools. There was somewhat about a living flame and a little water beast called a nymph, and there was a lot of to-do about the Hunter’s Moon, though why that was I couldn’t say as the story sounded to be taking place during the middle of high summer.

Sam has to stop every now and again to try and remember some bit he’s forgotten, and a couple of times he has to backtrack where he skipped over part of the story. He mostly gets it right though, and it amazes me as he can keep all this nonsense in his head when he can’t even remember to button his shirt right most mornings.

Sam finishes the tale with the prince and the Elf slaying the dragon and the prince and princess living happily ever after to the end of their days. There’s a bit of a pause and then he continues. “And they had six children, and a couple of cats and a dog, and her ma come to live with them. I added that last part,” he explains. “I figured as they couldn’t be happily ever after all by themselves.”

“That they couldn’t,” I agree. “What of the Elf though?”

Sam considers this for a moment, then answers, “He gets married too, and they have six children and come to live next door to the prince and the princess, and every morning they have first breakfast together.”

I chuckle again. “That’s a happy ending if I ever did hear one,” I admit. At least he has enough hobbit sense to know how a proper happy ending should go.

Now it’s my turn to be telling a story, but all I think of are the times me, my brothers and my dad would go a hunting near the Bounds and some of the odd things we heard tell of from the folk as lived out that way. We saw some strange things too, and that’s a fact, so I tell Sammy about that and we get so wrapped up in our tales I almost don’t notice when Sammy’s line gets a bite.

“You’ve got one, Sam-lad!” I say and point at his line as it jerks about.

“I did!” exclaims Sam, jumping up and twisting his hands uncertainly.

“Take your pole, there’s a good lad,” I say and stand behind him to put my hands over his on the pole. “Now, what you’re going to do is play tug-of-war. When the fish pulls one way, you pull the other. When the fish gives you slack, you try and finish the job. Sooner or later, the fish’ll pop out of the water, and I’ll get him with the net.”

Sam does as he’s told and when the fish slackens his pull, I instruct Sammy to back up so as to save his strength should the fish start struggling again. Sam does twice better. He runs back on his little legs and gives a mighty yank on the pole and the fish comes soaring through the air, trailing water behind it. I make a grab for the line and the net and get the fish caught.

“Good job, Sam!” I praise and clap him on the shoulders. I hold up the net for him and he watches as the fish flops about inside. “It’s a good size too, for your first one. This here’s full grown by a couple of years, I’d say.” I put the net down and set about getting the hook from its mouth.

“Why’s it flopping around like that?” Sam asks, full of concern for the fish. “Is it hurt?”

“Fish can’t breathe out of water,” I say.

“It’s sufticating?” Sam asks, looking sad. “I don’t want to sufticate it.”

“I suppose it is,” I say, frowning. Sam’s specially sensitive about death and I should of reckoned aforehand as he’d be worrit for the fish.

I get the hook out and wait for the fish to stop flopping. Then I dunk the fish in the bucket of water to keep it fresh, all the while trying to figure how to explain to Sam the whys of fishing and hunting.

I open the bait box and choose another worm. I hold everything out to give Sam a good look so as he can see how to bait the hook proper-like. As I do that, I remember how my dad explained it all to my younger brother Halfred once.

“Don’t feel sorry for it, lad,” I say. “That’s what it’s here for. Every creature and plant has a job, see. The plants in the river feed the fish, the fish feed the wolves, the birds eat what the wolves don’t, and the birds feed the cats. The fish are here to feed hungry stomachs, including ours.”

“Our job is to eat the fish?” Sam asks.

“That’s right. Why, imagine if no one ate any fish? There’d be so many fish, they’d have no room to swim, naught would be left for them to eat, and they’d all die,” I say. “Understand?”

Sam peels his eyes away from the bucket and looks up at me, frowning as he tries to puzzle this out. He nods, though he still looks confused, and says, “I understand, Gaffy.”

“Good.” I hand him his pole back. “Now cast your line again. We need at least two more like this one, or one big one. We take only what we need and leave the rest for others. The young ones we toss back so as they can grow up and make more fish.”

Sam nods and concentrates on casting his line. I have him redo it a few times, telling him again to aim for the middle of the shallows, and after three more tries he gets it right. We sit there in silence for a time, Sam still frowning at the river and the fish caught in the bucket. I let him try and think it out, and after a while he looks over at me.

“Hm?” I prompt.

“It’s like when you trim the hedgerow, so’s they’ll grow up stronger,” Sam says. “Right?”

“Right,” I say and pat him on the head. “Remember that rose bush in Missus Amelia’s yard as was growing wild and strangling the other plants? It had a lot of roses on it, but they were small-like and didn’t bloom long. After we cut off all the wild branches and trimmed down the healthy ones, what happened?”

“It grew up straight and the blooms lasted all season,” Sam says. “And they were the size of my head!”

“And the other plants got healthy again,” I finish. “This is the same. Everything’s got to balance out, and we got to do our part to keep that balance.”

Sam nods, really understanding now.

After that, it don’t take more’n an hour to catch two more good fish. Sam catches a little one as we have to put back in the river. I catch the next two, and I’m a pulling in the last one as Marigold runs up to us, Halfred trailing close behind.

“Sorry, Dad, but she got away from me,” Fred says.

Marigold stands there looking at the fish as I pull the hook from its mouth. “It’s hurt?” she asks.

“It’s sufticating,” Sam says. “It needs water to breathe.”

Marigold looks from the fish to the river and back again. “Fishy needs water?” she asks and Sam nods. Then quick as a flash, she swoops up the fish and rolls it in the water. “Swim fishy! I help fishy!”

Halfred tosses back his head and howls with laughter, and I just stare as part of our dinner swims away. “You weren’t supposed to help it, Goldie,” Sam says.

“Why not?”

“Cause we were going to eat that.”

“Oh.” Marigold stares at the river and waves. “Come back fishy!”

“I don’t think it’s coming back, Goldie-lass,” Fred says and picks up his sister. “Now up you get, afore you lose anymore of our dinner.” He slides her onto his back and bounces, making her giggle. “Do we have enough?”

“We’ve enough,” I say. “We’ll just have us a few more taters is all.”

Sam shows off his catch as I gather up our things. I carry the bucket with our two fish in it and the net, Sam again carries the poles and bait box, and Halfred keeps Goldie on his back. We get back to where they were picnicking, and I gather up the toys in the blanket and put the blanket under my free arm. Then we set off up the Hill towards home, and as we go Sam tells his siblings all about his fishing adventure.

GF 6/23/08

A Father’s Work – Marigold

Autumn 1397 SR
Hobbiton

Hamfast is 71, Daisy 25, May 21, Sam 17, and Marigold is not yet 14 (or about 45, 16, 13, 10 ½ and almost 9 in Man years)

The market’s a crowded place this morn. Seems like near every hobbit in Hobbiton is milling about the vendors and shops looking to stock their pantries and fill their holes with whatever all they’re needing. I even see Mr. Bilbo and young Master Frodo out and about, going over their lists no doubt to split up the work just as I’m doing. Or would be doing, if Sam didn’t keep wandering away with the list.

“Lad! Get over here or I’ll thump you one!” I shout.

He’d set his eyes on young Ted Sandyman as soon as we set foot over the bridge, and he’s been itching to go after him ever since. Ted’s been a speaking poorly of the Bagginses again, and no doubt Sam’s a looking to set the lad straight, but there ain’t naught for it. We got to get our work done here so we can trek up the Hill and get our work done there. There’s no time for any fool-mongering.

Sam comes over quick-like and holds up his list. I admit, I didn’t think as Sam learning his letters would be of any help for aught, but it is nice not having to be remembering everything up in your head all the time. Now when we’re getting home, we’re not having to wonder if we got everything as we needed.

“Hurry up, Sam,” Daisy orders. She and May have their own work to be getting to, and they want to get going about it.

“All right, all right,” Sam says impatient-like. Ted’s getting farther and farther away with every moment. “We’re needing candles again, loam for the washing, mulching for the garden, stitching thread, fishing string, and pipeweed. Oh, and a couple of hens for dinner night.”

“I’ll get the candles and loam,” Daisy offers.

“Try to get that nice smelling loam,” May says, “the one as smells like flowers. Mr. Baggins and Mistress Sandheaver really like the smell of that one on their sheets; even gave us an extra brass-piece for it.”

Daisy nods. “I’ll ask about it.” She ain’t one to spend extra on luxuries, but if it’ll get us extra coin enough to make up for the difference, she don’t see the bother in it either. “You get the thread and string, and see about getting some more yarn while you’re at it. We’ve enough to last us the month, but if you’re wanting to start on the Yule knitting now, we may as well get what we need afore everyone else is after it.”

May nods and the lasses walk off in search of their purchases.

“I’ll get the pipeweed,” I say.

“And I’ll get the mulch,” Sam says, frowning around the marketplace. He’s lost Ted and a good riddance for it.

“Be sure as that’s all you’re getting,” I say, warning-like.

“But Ted said—” Sam starts.

“I know what Ted said, and so does everyone else, including the Master,” I say, cutting him off. “Let Mr. Bilbo deal with it how he wants to. You just get the mulching and come straight back here. And don’t let me catching you spying on no one neither.”

“I weren’t spying, I were overhearing a conversation as just happened to benefit Master Frodo,” Sam says. Course, he’d never admit as Frodo was the one who asked him to ‘overhear’ said conversation in the first place.

“In that case, don’t let me catch you overhearing that as you oughtn’t to be hearing,” I say and wave him on his way.

Sam heads off for the florist’s shop and I turn to Marigold, who’s been waiting patiently this whole time. She ain’t the golden-haired child as we thought she’d be when she were born. Over the years, her hair has slowly darkened to a light caramel brown, but she’s still our golden child, our last memory of Bell.

She holds her hand out, expecting to carry the purse for me as she always does when she comes shopping with me. Instead, I open up the purse, pull out eight farthings and press those into her hand. She frowns at them, then looks up at me, a question forming in her mind.

“You get the hens,” I say.

Her eyes go wide as saucers. “By myself?” she asks, fretting already.

“You’re old enough now,” I say. “Go on with you. The day’s not getting any younger and we got work to be getting to.”

“But I—” Goldie starts to protest.

“You’ll do fine. Go on,” I prompt and nudge her on the back a little to help her on her way.

She walks off reluctant-like, heading for the butcher’s shop, stopping every few steps to look back at me imploring-like. She ain’t got the confidence of her sisters or the calm assurance of her brother. She’s a bit flighty, truth be told, and everything sugar as my ma would’ve said. Comes from a lifetime of all of us doting on her too much, being soft and easy-going with her and naught much else, but it’s time for her to be growing up some. She might be the bairn to us, but to everyone else, she’s a young lass who needs to be able to find her way about in life.

I wait until about the third or fourth time she looks back at me, then turn about and head for the vendors as sell the pipeweed. I usually trade a cask of my home-brewed ale for a wee barrel of pipeweed, but with the harvest coming up soon, I got to be saving the ale for the celebrating. I dip into my purse and pull out a few coins. I won’t be able to get much, but mayhap I’ll catch one of the sellers in a good mood and haggle him down some.

I’m just completing my purchase, a whole pouch of weed for a mere two coppers, when I feel a tugging on the back of my shirt. I turn about and there’s Goldie, tears in her eyes and those eight coins in her hands. I quickly stuff the pouch and purse in my pockets.

“What’s a matter, lass?” I ask, pulling out a handkerchief and handing it to her. “Was Nolan harsh on you?”

She shakes her head. “No, but he won’t take less than four coppers for the hens. I told him all you gave me was two coppers’ worth, so he said all’s I could have was one.” She hangs her head in shame and wipes at her tears.

I pat her on the head to let her know she ain’t done aught wrong. “He always says that, lass,” I explain. “You got to haggle with him, same as everyone else.”

Marigold hiccups into the handkerchief and nods.

“Come on, I’ll show you. Get yourself together first. You can’t be crying over the fowl while trying to haggle,” I instruct. “You got to be firm or he won’t take you serious-like.”

Goldie nods again, wipes her eyes and takes several deep breaths. When she feels like she can hold herself together, I nudge her towards the butcher’s shop and follow behind as she weaves her way back across the market. She pauses in front of the shop and I wave for her to enter, letting her know I’ll be right behind. She goes inside and I follow.

As a butcher goes, Nolan Bushmore’s a decent fellow. He won’t try to cheat you with poor meat or skinny catches, but he’ll make sure as he gets his money’s worth from what he does sell. Still, he’ll haggle along like anyone else ‘til he settles on a price as makes him and the customer happy. Better a customer as pays less and comes back than one as you never see again, is his way of thinking. Not that he’ll make it easy on you, which is why I sent Goldie to him straight off. If she can learn to haggle with him, she can haggle with anybody.

Nolan’s busy haggling with Mr. Ponto when we come in, but he sees us and gives me a little nod and a wink. I nod back, so he knows as I ain’t coming bearing a grudge. He returns to Mr. Ponto and I tap Goldie on the shoulder.

“Show me the hens he showed you,” I say and she points them out to me. They’re still set aside from the rest of the hens as hang along the wall behind him. I inspect them closely and figure that four coppers would be a fair price for them, leastways for someone as had the coin to be spending that much. Us regular folk, though, have to get creative.

I point at the hens and whisper real quiet in Goldie’s hear. “Now, see, the way to haggle is to look at what you’re buying, figure out what it’s worth to you, and argue with the seller ‘til you get it down to your price. Every seller would rather make a sale than have a customer walk away and take their money somewhere else. If a seller ever gets to a point where they won’t go any lower, just start walking away and see if that don’t change their mind.”

“But I told him I didn’t have four coppers,” Goldie starts.

“That’s not how you haggle, lass,” I say. “You got to find somewhat wrong with what you’re wanting to buy.”

“There’s naught wrong with those hens,” Goldie says.

“I know that, and you know that, and he knows that,” I say. “It’s just the way of things. You find somewhat to criticize and that way you get it down to what you want to pay.” I point to the hens again. “Now see here, these ones are a bit smaller than the others, and the feathers look like the hens have been handled more’n once since they’ve been hung here. We can’t really used them for aught. Say as the hens aren’t more’n fat, no meat to be feeding a hungry family.”

“Ain’t that lying?” Goldie asks.

“It’s haggling,” I say. “He’ll try telling you as he’s got others as wants to buy them and make you feel sorry for his family not being able to eat tonight, all to keep the price up. It’s a game, that’s all. And always start off haggling below the price you want to pay.”

“Why below?” Goldie asks. Meanwhile, Mr. Ponto’s digging in his purse for some money, and Nolan will be coming to us next.

“So you can haggle up to what you do want to pay. You give an offer, he comes down on his, you go up a bit on yours, and eventually you’ll meet in the middle,” I explain.

Mr. Ponto takes his parcels, says his farewell to Nolan and a good day to me and Goldie on his way out the door. Nolan looks over at us and waits for a bit.

“Come back with more coin, lass?” he asks.

Goldie looks up at me and waits, but I just nudge her forward. She looks at the butcher and bites her lip.

“Well?” Nolan asks.

“No, I didn’t,” Goldie answers in a tiny little voice.

“Well, then, I’m afraid I can’t be helping you,” Nolan says and sets about wiping down his counter.

Goldie looks up at me again and shrugs. I nudge her once more then step back to stand near the door. I’ll be here for her to tell her what to do, but I ain’t going to be doing it for her. She has no choice but to pick herself up and get those hens for the coins in her hands if she wants her family to eat tonight.

Marigold frets with the sash of her dress and bites her bottom lip at the hens. She looks back at me, then at the hens, then at Nolan. She takes a deep breath, holds it a bit, lets it out and steps up to the counter.

“Excuse me,” she says in that same tiny voice.

Nolan pretends not to hear her, or maybe he really don’t hear her as even I have to bend my ears a little to be hearing her myself. Goldie bites at her lips again, twists up her hands in her sash, then smoothes out her dress and looks back at me. I pretend to be looking out the window, searching for my other children, who are no doubt waiting for us by the bridge just about now. Goldie takes another deep breath, looks back at Nolan and tries again.

“Excuse me,” she says, loud enough this time to grab Nolan’s attention, but still softer’n she ought to be.

“Ah! Miss Marigold,” Nolan says, looking up from his cleaning. “You’re still here. Got that money yet?”

“No,” Goldie says again, but this time she puffs out her chest and lunges ahead, her voice wavering slightly. “And I ain’t going to get it neither. I’m only giving you three farthings for these here hens.” Then she bites her lower lip and holds her breath.

Nolan considers the offer then slowly shakes his head. “It cost me that just to feed these hens everyday,” he says, nice-like.

Goldie looks back at me, wondering what to do next. “The fat,” I mouth and go back to looking out the window.

Goldie looks back at Nolan and puffs out her chest again. “Well,” she starts, stammering a little as she goes, “well, you clearly feed them a bit too much, a, cause they’re all fat and, and naught much else.” She pauses, then adds, “How’re we supposed to eat on fat?” And she puts her hands up to her hips like she sees Daisy and May do all the time when they’re making a point.

Nolan considers this for a moment, then heaves a big sigh. “I suppose I can bring the price down to three coppers.”

“One copper,” Goldie counters, sounding stronger now but still with a little shake in her voice. I can see now as she only holds her hands to her hips to hide the fact as they’re shaking too. “And you’re lucky to get that.”

I do my best not to smile and Nolan’s eyebrows jump up to his hairline. “Lucky, am I? Well, you’re lucky if I let these go for two coppers, two farthing. You’re not the only one as wants them, you know.”

Goldie hums at this and looks down at the hens again, considering what to do next. “Well, I’d be surprised at that. They’re small,” she says. “Smaller’n all the others you’ve got here. You cut them too soon. They won’t even feed us for one night.”

“Well one copper for two hens certainly ain’t going to feed my family neither,” Nolan returns.

“That don’t make the hens any less small,” Goldie says, finding her footing now. “Why, the bones’ll be small too. We couldn’t even use them to pick what meat there is out of our teeth.”

Now I got to cover my mouth to hide my laughing, and it’s all Nolan can do to stay serious. “Is that so?” he asks.

“It’s so,” Goldie says. “One copper, two farthings.”

“There’s plenty of meat on these perfectly-sized bones,” Nolan says. “Two coppers, one farthing.”

“Nine farthings?” Goldie asks. “Those feathers ain’t even good enough to be stuffing for a pig’s bed. Two coppers flat.” She looks around the shop and points at the egg baskets. “And a dozen of those eggs with it too.”

Now Nolan’s eyebrows disappear and he looks like he’s been smacked. I stop my laughing and gape at Marigold. Seems as I forgot a rule, and I’ll be paying for it at the inn later.

“You got yourself a deal, Miss Marigold,” Nolan agrees afore he can lose himself any more money.

He strings up the hens and counts out a dozen eggs in a small basket, packing it with hay to keep them from breaking. He hands over the purchase as Goldie lays down her eight farthings on the counter, looking proud of herself for getting such a good deal. 

Nolan takes the coins and looks over at me. “By the stars, Ham, what’re you teaching this lass?” he asks.

“Not that, I assure you,” I say, stepping up to take the eggs. I put an extra two farthings on the counter to pay for them and pat Goldie on the head. “You did good, lass.”

“That she did,” Nolan agrees and Goldie beams up at us. Then Nolan promptly follows, “I don’t ever want to see you in here again.”

Goldie’s face crumbles. “You don’t?” she asks.

“It’s a compliment, lass,” I say and nod my head farewell to Nolan. “Come on, now, we got to get going.”

Marigold and I step outside back into the market and make our way to the bridge, where thankfully all three of my other children are waiting; either Sam didn’t find Ted or he decided to let it be. We make our way over to them.

“So did I really do a good job haggling, Daddy?” Goldie asks.

“Aye, you did at that, a little too good,” I say. “Next time, if you want eggs, you ask for that upfront with everything else and haggle the price for everything together. Don’t be adding on at the end of the sale. It ain’t polite, lest you want to start haggling all over again just for those alone. Understand?”

Goldie nods, looking guilty. “Should I go apologize?”

“Don’t you dare!” I say. “You’re going to be going for our meat from here on out. Best to keep him on his toes. Mayhap we’ll start getting better deals.” Then I laugh and she laughs along with me.

“What’s so funny?” May asks as we join them.

“What took so long?” Daisy asks, upset over the time she lost.

“How’d you do, lass?” Sam asks, looking at the hens his little sister’s a carrying. “Looks like you did well enough for yourself.”

“And I got a dozen eggs too,” Goldie says, and tells her siblings about her purchase as we cross over the bridge and head up the Lane to the Row. Her siblings are mightily impressed by her tale, even Daisy, who can get a whole side of beef off Nolan for a mere brass-piece and is considered the best haggler in town.

“Well done, Goldie!” Daisy compliments. “It’ll be nice having someone else in this family as can keep Mr. Bushmore from getting too big for his britches.”

“He’ll think twice afore haggling with you again,” May says.

“So you all knew as I was going to have to do this?” she asks, turning to Sam, her confider in nearly everything. “And you didn’t warn me.”

“Why should I?” Sam asks. “I told Gaffer you could do it, and you did, and if you can haggle with Nolan Bushmore, you can haggle with anyone, and that’s a fact.”

“Hmph,” Goldie harrumphs. “Well, be that as it may, I think I’ll leave the plucking of the hens to you tonight, Sam. You should of told me.”

Sam shakes his head and I nod my mine. “Sam’s right, lass. Sometimes, the warning does worse’n the surprise,” I say. “Why, when I told May as she’d be having to haggle with old Bushmore, she didn’t even want to leave the smial.”

May laughs, remembering. “That’s right,” she says and tells her sister all about her first time in the butcher’s shop, sending each of us to stitches with laughter explaining how she nearly talked herself into cleaning out the meat bins for a month in exchange for a half dozen pork chops. Then Daisy and Sam recount their own adventures and we laugh all the way home.

GF  6/29/08

This is written for Grey Wonderer, who won the identity challenge at the end of “Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Hobbits”.

Marigold’s Gift

Sam is 12, Marigold nearly 9 (or about 7.5 and 6 in Man years)
Foreyule 1392 SR

“Sammy. Wake up, Sam…… Sammy.”

The little voice was accompanied by a persistent poke on his arm, which was thrown over his eyes in what had been a deep sleep.

“Sammy.” Another poke and this time the voice sounded on the verge of tears.

Sam yawned and lowered his arm to blink up at his little sister. Marigold had climbed into bed with him and had promptly begun imitating their kitten Nibbler who would nudge his whiskered nose against Sam’s cheek to request to be pet. The kitten was presently curled on Sam’s discarded shirt on the floor, sleeping innocently. Marigold was acting on her own.

“What’s a matter?” Sam asked around another yawn. He rubbed his eyes and struggled to stay awake to find out what had so upset his little sister.

“Are you awake now?” Goldie asked hopefully.

“I s’pose. What’re you wanting, Goldie-lass?” Sam asked.

“You said you were going to help me finish my birthday present for Daddy today,” Goldie reminded him, looking worried again. Had her brother forgotten? Was he now too busy to help her? What would she do then, for she wanted her father’s present to be ever so special?

“Goldie,” Sam spluttered at this. He had no window in his room but he knew well enough from the lack of sunlight in the hall that it was still the dead of night. “The sun ain’t even awake yet, lass. I said I’d help and I will, after first breakfast. Mr. Bilbo said as we could finish it at Bag End. That way Gaffer won’t be walking in on us again.”

“Oh,” Goldie said with a sigh, feeling better. Her brother hadn’t forgotten and they would be making her present at Bag End. Now that was special!

She yawned then too and looked longingly at her brother tucked tight and warm in his bed. “Can I sleep with you?” she asked.

“Aye lass,” Sam agreed and lifted the blankets for her to slip under them. She was snuggled up to him a moment later, and just as quickly she was fast asleep. Sam patted her head affectionately, then drifted off to sleep as well.

When next he woke up, the sun was beginning to lighten the dimness in the smial, though it had not yet risen enough to warm the floorboards of the hall and kitchen. He could hear May and Daisy already in the kitchen making first breakfast and knew his father would be outside getting tinder for filling the wood boxes.

Sam yawned, stretched and sat up. Seeing his master awake, Nibbler jumped onto the bed, purring loudly. “Mew?” the kitten inquired.

“Aye, I’ll get you some milk,” Sam promised and pet the kitten for a few moments before waking his sister. “Scamper off to your room and get dressed, Goldie. We’ll be heading up to Bag End soon as breakfast’s over.”

Marigold stirred next to him, frowning and rubbing her eyes. “Five more minutes.”

“You’ve had five more hours,” Sam replied. “Up you get.” He shook her shoulder gently and Nibbler added his own form of persuasion by nipping at her exposed cheeks and nose.

“Ow! Nibs! Stop it!” Marigold said, sitting up to avoid being pecked to death by the kitten. “Fine. I’ll get dressed then.” She slipped out of bed and went down the hall to her room, grumbling all the way.

“Good work, Nibs,” Sam said, patting the little tortoiseshell again, this time with approval.

He washed and dressed and made his bed, all the while avoiding being tripped by the famished kitten, who was of the opinion that an entire night without food was simply too much to ask of him. The kitten ran ahead of Sam to the kitchen and waited impatiently by his milk bowl for his breakfast. Once Nibbler was satisfied, Sam set to fixing everyone’s luncheons, joined shortly by his father, just returned from filling the wood boxes.

Over first breakfast, Hamfast turned to his youngest children. “So, you’ll be going up to Bag End today, is it?” he asked. Sam of course always went, first for his lessons and then to help his father in the gardens. Marigold rarely went up the Hill, except on the occasions when the Master decided that having one Gamgee under foot was not enough.

“Yes sir,” Sam replied. “Mr. Bilbo’s trying out some new receipts as he got from his Buckland relations and he needs someone as can test them out for him.” This was not entirely unheard of, as Mr. Bilbo would often invite the children of the Row up to Bag End whenever he wanted honest opinions on his cooking.

What Sam didn’t mention was that while Mr. Bilbo was busy cooking, Sam would be helping Marigold with her gift. After the Gaffer had inadvertently walked in on them while they were completing the first stage of the gift-making in Goldie’s room a few days before, Sam had decided that finishing the gift at Number Three wouldn’t do at all. He had been at a loss of where to take the gift to finish it though, until Master Frodo suggested he bring Marigold up the Hill and easily talked Mr. Bilbo into a new-receipt day to give as an excuse. They both agreed to plan it for the same day that Hamfast would be tending the garden; it being winter, the garden required maintenance only a couple of days each week and Master Frodo knew Hamfast wouldn’t want to make the journey up the Hill without need.

“Just make sure as you don’t go insulting him, should he mess up the receipt. ‘Tis an easy enough thing with a receipt you’re not used to,” Hamfast advised.

“Yes, Daddy,” Sam and Marigold chorused.

An hour later, hair neatly combed, bellies full, and bodies bundled against the elements of chill and wind, Sam and Marigold followed their father up the Hill to Bag End. Mr. Bilbo was already waiting for them, standing on the porch and smiling as bright as the sun. He loved planning surprises and getting to plan one for his master gardener was a special treat.

“Good morning, Gamgees,” he greeted cheerily, the tip of his nose pinked with cold.

“Good morning, Mr. Bilbo,” the Gamgees greeted in return, their breaths misting the air in front of them. Sam dashed up the steps to stand next to his employer and tutor, but Marigold hung back, hugging her father’s trouser leg and looking up at the silver-haired master with hesitation.

Hamfast rested a hand on her head. “Now remember to behave yourselves,” he said and nudged Marigold forward pointedly. Part of behaving themselves was not acting daft towards their host.

Marigold hesitated just a moment longer. Finally, she decided that Mr. Bilbo didn’t look in any way mad as she so often heard him described. She trotted up the steps and joined her brother and the master on the porch.

“They’ll be perfect darlings,” Mr. Bilbo said with assurance and tried his best to look approachable and harmless for Goldie’s sake while he continued to address Hamfast. “Now, I finally got those seeds you’ve been wanting and put them in the tool shed for you. I noticed while I was in there that the handle on the long-trowel was split, so I had that replaced also.” He paused for a moment, looking confused. Then he brightened and snapped his fingers. “Ah yes! Frodo said to come and fetch him when you’re ready to dig up the tree mallow and move it to the side garden.” Here he gave Hamfast a hard look that would brook no arguments.

Hamfast nodded, knowing better than to protest, especially in front of his children. That wouldn’t be proper at all. “Will do, sir.”

“Good, good,” Mr. Bilbo said and turned to his young charges, thus dismissing his gardener to his work. “Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s get inside and get started, shall we?” he said to Sam and Goldie and held out his hand for the lass to take.

Sam nodded and Goldie accepted the hand, comforted immediately by its soft, warm grip. She smiled tentatively and let Mr. Bilbo lead her inside, Sam following just behind to close the door. Marigold looked around with wonder as she trotted next to Mr. Bilbo down the long curving tunnel of Bag End. She had only been inside the massive hole a couple of times before, and then only as far as the parlor. She shrunk into Mr. Bilbo’s side, afraid she would accidentally run into a table and knock over one of those fancy vases or statuettes or other expensive items onto the floor. Mr. Bilbo tightened his grip on her hand for just a moment, reassuring her, and she relaxed more but still kept as close to the middle of the clustered tunnel as she could.

They entered the kitchen to find the table already arrayed with the things Marigold would need to make her gift. Sam had smuggled the bits and things up the Hill in his bag of study things yesterday. Mr. Bilbo had kindly kept them hidden in the smial so that Hamfast would not accidentally stumble upon them when he came into the hole to replace the cuttings in the vases and tend the household plants. The gift itself, a circular mold of Marigold’s handprint made from clay dug up from the riverbed, Sam had brought with him today, wrapped heavily in several rags for maximum protection and tucked into the inside pocket of his overcoat.

Master Frodo was there also. Tucked away in the breakfast nook on the far side of the kitchen, his feet propped up on a chair, he was correcting a paper on some topic while munching on a scone and sipping water. He beamed at Sam and Goldie as they came into the kitchen and greeted them pleasantly. Sam returned the cheerful good morning with equal gusto, but Goldie merely pinked with embarrassment and mumbled a shy greeting from behind Sam’s back. If she was shy of the Master, she was even more unsure of his handsome young heir. She was glad when he stayed where he was. Sam too left Master Frodo alone, as his friend was clearly supposed to be studying and not playing with clay moldings or even helping his cousin with the receipts.

Sam took in the kitchen with a wary eye. Between the heaps of ingredients, utensils and crockery spread over the counters, the decorations and glaze jars littering the table, and Frodo’s study things and breakfast covering the table in the nook, there was not a single surface left uncluttered. They would be cleaning up from this mess for an hour at least, if not all afternoon.

Mr. Bilbo waved his young charges toward the table, indicating they should take a seat. “You know what you’re about?” he asked.

Sam looked over the materials again as he gingerly removed the clay mold from his pocket and unwrapped it. He nodded, confident. “Aye sir, we can manage.”

“Speak up if you need help,” Mr. Bilbo requested.

“Yes sir,” Sam said and Marigold nodded.

Sam brought a chair close to the one Goldie had chosen, and together they took in their inventory. Goldie hadn’t been sure how exactly she wanted to decorate her handprint, so Sam had brought everything he thought she might want to use. There were bits of ribbon and strings of wool, small jars of glazes for painting and several little paint brushes, bags of dried flowers and seeds, glue and varnish. Most of the items he found in Number Three, while the varnish and glue had been acquired from the tool shed when his father hadn’t been looking. Mr. Bilbo had kindly supplied the glazes, which Sam would work off next week by helping Mr. Bilbo and Master Frodo plan their Yule feast, mostly in the capacity of errand runner.

“All right then, lass,” Sam began. “Have you set on decorations or somewhat like that for your handprint, or were you maybe just wanting to paint it?”

Marigold nodded, then shook her head, then paused and nodded again. “Both,” she said at last. She bit a fingernail uncertainly until Sam pulled her hand from her mouth and raised his eyebrows encouragingly. Goldie continued, “Daisy said as when you all did your handprints with Ma, that you decorated them all, but May said she painted hers, but I want to do both.”

“That’ll take a bit longer, but we can manage. You’ll be wanting to paint it first then, and varnish it, afore fixing anything to it. We’ll have to wait for it all to dry, of course,” Sam said and Goldie sighed heavily. She had already had to wait for the mold to dry before she could decorate it, and now she was going to have to wait even then! Sam easily ignored her pout. “What were you wanting to paint it then?”

Distracted from her turmoil by this most important question, Marigold looked at the jars of glaze spread over the table. “Like my name flower,” she said uncertainly, not sure if this was a good idea or not.

Sam smiled widely with approval. “That’s a neat idea, lass,” he said and Goldie beamed winningly. He scratched his head, thinking. “We could do a marigold for each finger, and at the bottom of the fingers we could hang these green ribbons and tie a bow around it, like a bouquet.”

“Oh! I like that idea!” Marigold exclaimed, jumping up and down in her chair and clapping enthusiastically, her shyness forgotten in her excitement. From the corner of his eye, Sam noticed Master Frodo take a drink of his water, much longer than was normal for him, and suspected he was trying to cover up a smile so Goldie wouldn’t think he was teasing her; Master Frodo liked the idea too then. Mr. Bilbo just continued measuring and pouring, too lost in his baking to spare attention for anything else.

The plan set, Sam brought the paint brushes and glazes within easy reach. “Now, first picture in your mind what kind of marigold you’re going to be painting, then paint it. We can fill in any blank spots with blue for sky and green for grass once we’re done.”

“And maybe put in a little birdie or bunny?” Goldie asked.

“If we’ve room for them,” Sam said. He handed a couple of paint brushes to Goldie. “Don’t go mixing the glazes in the jars, now. They ain’t ours.”

Marigold’s eyes widened at this and she nodded formally. Sam was thinking hard; they would need to mix some of the colors to get the different shades that they wanted. Making up his mind, he slipped off the chair and went to the cupboards where the spare wooden bowls were stored. Mr. Bilbo had already told him the day before that he and Goldie could use anything in the kitchen they might need, so he didn’t hesitate to grab the little bowls and return with them to the table.

Marigold watched all this with wide, uncertain eyes but Sam’s ease of movement and Mr. Bilbo’s complete lack of notice as he measured flour and sugar helped to reassure her. To be certain, she glanced at Master Frodo, but he only winked at her before going back to his paper. Still, she waited until Sam poured a dab of the red glaze and a dot of the yellow glaze into a bowl and started mixing them for a deep orange color before she tentatively dipped a brush into the yellow. She paused again and when no scolding was forthcoming, she proceeded to color in the backdrop for her first flower and soon forgot all about her worries as she got lost in her project.

They worked silently for the next hour, quietly consulting each other now and again to make sure their marigolds weren’t too similar, mixing more shades of orange, gold and crimson as they ran out. When they finished with the flowers, Marigold dotted in the blue for the sky and Sam the green for the grass. There wasn’t room for a bird, but Sam was able to paint a rabbit for her near the bottom curve of the circular mold.

They finished just in time to help Mr. Bilbo and Master Frodo taste-test a plate of sweet cakes and scones. Mr. Bilbo put the clay mold near the stove to help dry the paint as they sat around the breakfast nook, licking fingers and drinking milk. Master Frodo was more than happy to put aside his paper for a time, and he told little jokes and familiar stories to Marigold to help her relax completely. By the time the treats were gone, Marigold was jumping up and down and asking for more stories.

Mr. Bilbo laughed and held up his hands. “Frodo will have more than enough time to indulge you again at the second sitting. As for now, what did you think of the receipts? Shall I keep them, modify them, or toss them in the hearth fire?” he asked.

“I liked them all,” Goldie said unhelpfully.

“The plum cakes were on the tart side,” Master Frodo said more helpfully. “The pumpkin scones were perfectly moist.”

“I thought the black currant bread pudding could have used another half-cup of sugar,” Sam put in, “and mayhap ten minutes more in the cellar.”

“It was rather more runny than you’d want it to be,” Master Frodo backed this up.

“I thought,” Marigold started, then paused.

“Yes, lass?” Mr. Bilbo prompted.

“I thought the plum cakes were a bit tart too,” she said, blushing, “begging your pardon.”

“No pardon necessary, Miss Marigold,” Mr. Bilbo said. “That is precisely why you are here, to tell me honestly what you thought of the receipts.” He then bent over the receipt cards and jotted down the notes of his critics.

They all pitched in to clean the dishes from Mr. Bilbo’s first round efforts and by the time this was done, the paint on the clay mold was sufficiently dry to allow for varnishing. Of course, it then needed to be set aside to dry again, so Master Frodo took Sam and Marigold into the parlor to tell them more stories. He wasn’t finished with the revisions for his paper yet, but he was in need of a break and the young Gamgees in need of entertainment. He told them the story of Bandobras the Bullroarer, followed it with the full version of The Man on the Moon Came Down Too Soon, and was in the middle of a My Friend Tim tall-tale, in which Tim risks the perils of the Old Forest to a bad end, when Mr. Bilbo came into the parlor.

“Master Hamfast is at the back door, Frodo,” he said simply.

Master Frodo nodded. “I’ll be out in just a bit. I can’t very well leave them in the middle of the tale,” he pointed out and Mr. Bilbo saw this was true enough. Marigold was wide-eyed and clutched at her brother’s side, half-hiding her face in his shirt as she peeked at Master Frodo through her fingers. Sam was looking very serious and watching Master Frodo with such attention that he didn’t even notice Mr. Bilbo was in the room.

“I’ll tell him it will be a few minutes, but don’t make him wait too long,” Mr. Bilbo advised. “The bush won’t survive being uprooted for very long.”

“I’m nearly at the end,” Master Frodo said. He wasn’t really, but he figured that sparing Sam and Marigold the more vivid details of the story wouldn’t hurt them in the slightest. He ended the harrowing tale quickly, the poor unfortunate Tim once again teaching young children the perils of not listening to ones elders. Marigold and Sam sighed with relief when Master Frodo left, both of them glad that they were miles from Buckland; no one would expect either one of them ever to go into that haunted wood.

Sam stirred first and led Marigold back to the kitchen, missing its cozy warmth and the reassuring presence of Mr. Bilbo. Sam checked the clay mold and determined that the varnish was sufficiently dry enough to allow them to continue with their project. They tidied up what they could, putting aside the glazes and varnish and wiping clean the wooden bowls with rags. They then placed the bowls in the wash basin and the rags in the laundry bin in the back foyer.

Now ready to continue, with a slightly less cluttered table in front of them, Marigold placed the molding between them and they examined it together. Already, it looked quite impressive. The bold crimsons, oranges, and yellows of the marigolds popped out against the soft blue sky and bright green grass, the little white rabbit adding its own simple brilliance to the pallet.

“We could use the seeds for the centers of the flower,” Goldie said, “and I can cut a bit of the wool string to make a bow for the ribbon flower stems.”

“We’ll not want the stems to be too long,” Sam pointed out, “maybe only a nail or two off the bottom.”

“Could we take some of the dried flowers and glue them over the grass, like maybe some of the flowers wilted?” Goldie asked.

“It’s your gift, lass,” Sam reminded her. “If that’s what you’re wanting, that’s what we’ll do.”

Marigold considered this idea for a time, then shook her head. “I think we’ll just use the seeds,” she decided at last.

“All right then,” Sam agreed. “Try not to spill any though. We’ll have to sweep if we do. In fact…” He trailed off, then jumped off the chair and went to the drawer that held the silverware and utensils. He grabbed a set of wooden measuring spoons and took this back to the table, giving the smallest one to his sister and taking the next smallest one for himself. “We can use these to scoop up the seeds and pour them on the glue.”

Goldie grinned brightly at her brother. She was ever impressed at how smart he was.

They worked on their project for the next hour, finishing just as Master Frodo came in from outside. His hands and shirt were covered in dirt, and his face and neck were wet with sweat. He nodded approval at Marigold’s gift, unconcerned about his soiled condition.

“Do you like it, Master Frodo?” Marigold boldly asked.

“I do, lass,” Master Frodo said. “Your father will be the luckiest dad in the Shire to get such a grand gift.”

Marigold beamed at this and swung her feet happily. “Thank you, Master Frodo.”

Master Frodo raised his hand to pat her head, then thought better of it when he noticed the dirt on his hands. He glanced over Mr. Bilbo’s shoulder, no doubt ready for elevenses, then shrugged and headed down the tunnel to his chamber to wash up and change his shirt.

Sam too decided that tidying up was the best thing to do at the moment. He took the clay mold back to the counter near the stove so the glue could dry, then he and Marigold cleaned up the table, putting away what they could and stowing the varnish and glue in the back foyer near the laundry bin for taking to the tool shed later.

By the time Hamfast came to fetch them at noon, they had critiqued Mr. Bilbo’s second batch of receipts, and Sam had the mold wrapped up and tucked away inside his pocket once again. Sam and Marigold thanked Mr. Bilbo and Master Frodo for a lovely morning, then followed their father down the Hill to Number Three.

Two days later, Marigold turned nine. She had made presents for everyone. For Daisy and May she had made scented soap and shampoo. For her brother, she had crotched a pair of mittens with May’s guidance. For her neighbors and friends, she had made jars of preserves, a specialty of hers for which she required no help at all.

She held back her father’s gift for last and handed it to him while everyone else was busy exclaiming over their own gifts. It was still wrapped in the rags Sam had protected it in. She held her breath and waited patiently while Hamfast unwrapped his present. She knew that her older siblings had all made similar presents for their father with their mother’s help, but she still wasn’t sure if her father would like it or not. Maybe, he would only like it if her mother had been there to help her, instead of Sam.

Her worries disappeared though as Hamfast at last freed the clay molding and held it up in the firelight. He gave a soft cry of recognition, then a satisfied grunt of approval as he took in the artwork. Finally, he grinned from ear to ear and swept his daughter into a hug.

“Why, my golden lass, ‘tis the best gift I’ve ever got,” he said.

“Really?” she asked.

“It is at that,” he confirmed. “I’ll treasure it always.” He then held it up for everyone else to see before putting it on the mantle next to the other five handprint plaques, beneath the portrait of Bell. “And she’ll treasure it too.”

Marigold beamed at this, her mother’s dazzling smile, and Hamfast hugged her again and kissed her curls. No, he thought, the best gift he ever got was each one of his children, for they all in their own way reminded him of Bell.

The end

GF 11/1/08

Sammy’s Ouchie

Beta: Periantari
 

Sammy is 3 ½ (or 2 in Man years)
Autumn 1383 SR

What is it about lads as make them want to climb up shelves and jump off fences and give their poor mothers such a fright? Daisy and May never pull such stunts, but the lads now… Hamson’s got a crooked pinky from falling on his hand once and not telling us ‘til it was too late. That’s not to mention the time he knocked out a molar from playing too hard with the Twofoot lads. Halfred, lor’ but it will take all day to list the injuries that child’s had. And now Sammy…

I see him too late, climbing yet again on the garden gate. I look up just as he loses his footing, and he’s on the ground wailing by the time I run outside, slowed by the swelling of my belly. I check him over and see as naught’s broken, so I pick him up and carry him back to the kitchen. He clings to me as he cries and almost don’t let me sit him down on his daddy’s chair.

I wet a clean rag with the dish water and have him hold it to his bleeding lower lip so as I can wipe the tears and dirt off his face and hands. I check his gums and see as his teeth are all intact. Then I check his hands and feet for scrapes or splinters. I find a couple of splinters in his right palm, but they’re not too deep.

I wipe his tears again and kiss his brow. “Now what’d I say about climbing on the gate?” I ask.

“Not to,” Sammy sniffles.

“And are you going to climb it again?”

Hiccup. “No Mama,” he promises. Leastways, not ‘til he’s forgetting his hurts anyhow.

I hold back a sigh, wipe the last of his tears, then go to fetch the needle. Sammy scrunches up his eyes and holds his breath when he sees me coming back with one of my wee sewing needles. I shush reassuringly, put his right hand in my lap and hold it towards the light from the window. I run a thumbnail over the splinters to loosen them a bit, teasing them to the surface, then two gentle presses of the needle later, the splinters are out. Sammy though is still holding his breath, waiting for the jab.

“All done,” I announce and kiss his palm.

“You are?” Sammy asks in amazement and opens his eyes. He examines his palm in disbelief as I put the needle away. When I return this time, he grins up at me, tears and hurts forgotten. “Thanks, Mama,” he says around his busted lower lip, which doesn’t look to be swelling too badly.

“Keep that rag in place,” I instruct.

I go into the pantry for somewhat as’ll keep the swelling down and help numb the pain a little. I find the herbs I need – I always keep a few on hand, because of Halfred – and make a quick poultice, spooning some of the boiling water from the stew pot into a mug with the herbs. I set the mug aside to let the herbs steep into a tea, then turn to Sammy. “Are you hungry?”

Sammy nods eagerly. “Yes, Mama.” He swings his feet happily and sits back in the chair, the damp rag dutifully pressed to his lip.

He watches me go about fixing him a snack. He’s an easy stomach to please and he’ll anything I put in front of him. Still, I make him a cucumber sandwich and cut him an apple and carrot, his favorite snack. His little face lights up even more when I set the plate in front of him, then he’s wincing a half-second later.

“Mind your lip now,” I say, seeing a fresh spot of blood on the rag. “You’ll be busting it open plenty over the next week or so, I should imagine. Try not to smile too wide, hard as that may be.”

Sammy nods and manages to get a bite of his sandwich around the rag and into his mouth. He munches without complaint, intent on his food. When I hand him the poultice a few minutes later, he exchanges that for his rag without so much as a word. He does hiss inward right sharp at the sting of the herbs, but the pain only lasts a moment or two before the numbing starts to set in.

I go back to my cooking as Sammy continues with his snack, humming under his breath some lullaby or song he’s heard from somewhere. I can only hope it ain’t some bawdy song one of his brothers brought home from the fields.

I half expect him to jump off the chair and go dashing outside again once he’s finished eating, but it seems he’s not quite over his little scare yet as he keeps sitting in his daddy’s chair, watching me as I work. I sing him a few songs, then we start riddling and that keeps us going ‘til its near teatime.

Halfred and Hamson return home first from their day of work. As always, they come first to the kitchen to see what’s cooking for dinner, and they spot Sammy. It ain't unusual for him to be in the kitchen with me, but he's usually helping me one way or another. Course, they see the reason right off, as I have him applying another poultice to his lip. Hamson simply raises his eyebrows and looks at me. Halfred though goes over to crouch in front of his little brother.

“What happened to you, lad?” he asks.

“I fell,” Sammy announces and pulls the poultice away.

Hamson whistles in appreciation of the injury. Halfred touches a light finger to the busted lip. “That’s neat! If you’re lucky, it might even leave a scar,” he says unhelpfully. “You should have seen me the time I broke my nose. There was blood everywhere; Hammy nearly fainted.”

“Really?” Sammy asks, interest peaked, just as Hamson protests, “I did not!”

I sigh inwardly and brace myself with patience. I can only hope this next bairn will be a lass.

GF 11/16/08

Bilbo’s Blunder

Beta: Periantari

Sam is 4 ½ (or almost 3 in Man years)

Foreyule 1384 SR
 

Bilbo heard the knock on the front door and peeked out the study window to find his gardener standing on the porch. Bilbo started at the sight and quickly looked up at the darkening sky. Was it nearing sundown already? He shook his head and left the study, mumbling about autumn sneaking up on him, and opened the door with a grin.

“Good afternoon, Master Hamfast. Or good evening, I should say,” Bilbo corrected himself.

“Evening, sir,” Hamfast said with a nod. A slight frown creased his brow and he shifted uncomfortably. The movement was so small even Bilbo’s sharp eyes nearly missed it. “I’ve come for Sammy.”

“Of course,” Bilbo said with affirmation. He knew Hamfast still wasn’t keen on having his employer watch the lad while he worked, but there had been nothing for it. Sam had become clingy after Bell’s passing in the summer, and he flat out refused to leave his father’s side after May recovered from her own illness last week.

Bilbo waved his gardener into the entrance hall as he thought furiously, ‘Now where did I last see the lad? Come to think of it, when did I last hear little Samwise?’

He had been so immersed in his own business that it took him a moment to remember: he had put the lad down to his nap in the parlor, but that had been two hours ago. Well, it wasn’t unheard of for children that age to take long naps and Sam had had an adventurous morning, helping Bilbo bake bread and biscuits, then dust all the shelves and mop the floor. However, ‘help’ wouldn’t be an accurate description of Sam's earnest efforts. Once the lad was asleep, Bilbo had had to go over everything Sam had cleaned, before squirreling himself away in his study to answer correspondence. He was afraid he quite forgot about the lad.

‘He must still be napping,’ Bilbo thought optimistically. He turned to Hamfast and said aloud, “I put him to his nap in the parlor. Why don’t we wake the poor lad up? He’s been quite busy today.”

Bilbo thought he caught a brief and subtle eyebrow arch on the Gaffer’s carefully controlled visage at this statement, but Hamfast only nodded again and followed his employer down the tunnel to the parlor. Bilbo was in the process of listing all of Sam’s activities for the day, elaborating on his fumbling attempts with the mop. Then they entered the parlor and Bilbo froze, mid-step and mid-sentence. The blanket was there on the rug, as well as the pillow and the stuffed and tattered pig Bilbo had given him for a sleeping companion, which Sam had immediately named Snoozer. Sam, though, was nowhere to be seen. Behind Bilbo, Hamfast was the silent presence of a protective parent.

“He seems to have rolled away,” Bilbo said cheerfully, despite the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach and the leap of panic in his chest.

“Aye,” Hamfast agreed kindly, hiding his alarm with practiced ease. “He rolls himself under my bed a times.”

‘Yes, yes, that must be it,’ Bilbo thought fervently, grasping at this explanation with gratitude. He drew a deep breath and nodded with decision. “We shall search the room then, shall we?”

Master and servant got on their hands and knees to search under and behind the furniture, in the corners and behind the curtains. They looked in the spaces behind the stacks of books, tomes, and loose piles of papers. Bilbo even removed the hearth screen and searched there, just in case. By the time they determined that the lad was nowhere in the parlor, Bilbo was feeling dreadfully ashamed, and Hamfast was quickly losing his calm resolve.

“Mayhap he got up to look for a bed,” Hamfast suggested and wondered just how many crooks and crannies there were in Bag End for a wee lad to be getting lost in.

“Right, of course,” Bilbo agreed graciously. He wouldn’t have blamed Hamfast for coming out and clocking him over the head for losing his son, and he was grateful that the burly gardener had thus far restrained from placing blame. That didn’t stop Bilbo from blaming himself, though, and mentally beating himself with the hearth sweeper.

He had finally convinced Hamfast to bring Sam to work with him, so Bilbo could watch the lad in close proximity to his father, and what did he do? He lost his charge! ‘What if the lad went outside and wandered off? How far can a child get in a couple of hours? Surely not to the Water? No, no,’ Bilbo firmly shook his head at this horrid thought. Sam would no sooner go near the river than he would jump into a fox’s mouth, of that much at least he could be assured.

Bilbo squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. Well, he had faced worse situations than this. “Let’s go to it then,” he said, missing his gardener’s thoughtful gaze in his panic. “He must be around here somewhere. You search to the right, and I’ll take the left.”

That way, he could at least spare Hamfast from having to search the master bedchamber and formal dining room, two rooms the gardener refused to enter except under the sternest orders. Not that Hamfast looked too bothered with propriety at the moment; he probably would have gladly dumped the master’s hamper onto the lawn for all of Hobbiton to see if he thought his son might be hiding there.

To his surprise though, Hamfast shook his head. “Begging your pardon, sir, but it’d be a might easier simply to call him,” he reasoned. “If he’s about, he’ll hear us and come running, once he’s awake enough to answer that is.”

Bilbo nodded, seeing the sense in this. “We’ll go down the tunnel and call him then,” he agreed. After all, the doors wouldn’t be closed; they could still glance inside as they passed. If Sammy had gone looking for a bed, they’d find him quickly, one way or another.

So they went down the tunnel, calling at the top of their lungs and glancing through doorways. Sure enough, they found Sammy in the chamber that Frodo used when he visited. Sam was curled up on the bed, thumb held loosely to his lips, his mouth opened slightly. His soft, slow breaths of deep sleep gradually grew shallower as the lad began to awaken at the calls. Hamfast went to the bed and gently shook Sam awake.

“Up you get, Sammy,” Hamfast chided gently, brushing the curls off Sam’s forehead. Sam yawned and blinked, then managed to hold up his arms for his father to pick him up. Once securely in his father’s arms, he rested his little head on his father’s broad shoulder and drifted off again.

Hamfast turned to his employer and nodded. “Sorry to take up so much of your evening, sir,” he said and then shrugged his shoulder. Sam’s little head bobbed once, twice, before settling again. “I’ll talk to him about wandering around the hole without leave, sir. It won’t be happening again.”

“This is hardly the lad’s fault,” Bilbo said, feeling even worse than before. “I take full responsibility. I shouldn’t have left him unattended.”

Hamfast shrugged again. “Can’t watch them all the time; get naught done if you did,” he said with that level-headed practically that so many times recalled Bilbo to his senses. “I’ll tell him to come a looking for you next time he wakes up, rather than going to look for another bed and making himself comfortable. I’ll let myself out.”

“I am sorry, Hamfast,” Bilbo said, not able to shake the feeling of shame for all he knew that Hamfast was right. “I’m just not used to this. It will take some getting used to, having a child about the hole.”

“If it’s too trouble much for you,” Hamfast started, but Bilbo held up a steady hand.

“It’s not,” Bilbo said. “I enjoy the company, and if it allows you to come to work timely, then I’ll learn to be more vigilant. It’s a small price to pay, for the sake of the garden.”

For this had been the argument that finally got Hamfast to give in to Bilbo’s request and bring Sammy with him up the Hill. As much as Hamfast chaffed at the idea of having his employer do for him, he chaffed even more at coming late and getting only half his work done as he had been doing; Sam took that much convincing to let his father out of his sight each morning. It would only be temporary after all, Bilbo had assured him, and it was nearly wintertime besides. Hamfast would only be ‘imposing’ on his employer a few times a week once the beds were settled for the winter. By the time spring came, Sam should be sufficiently recovered from his shock to return to Missus Rumble’s with his sisters.

“I’ll see you in the morning then,” Hamfast said and slipped past Bilbo into the tunnel. He was halfway down the tunnel when he paused uncertainly, then turned with decision and nodded again. “And if you’re not minding my asking it, sir, if you could see as Sam takes his nap around two, and only an hour at the most. He’ll be up half the night now, going down so late.”

“Oh,” Bilbo said, surprised at this news. Indeed, it had been a long time since he had been responsible for such a young charge. “Well, we don’t want that, now do we? Two o’clock it is then.” Though he wondered how he would convince the lad to sleep at such an early hour, as he had been wide awake today at that time.

As if reading his thoughts, Hamfast continued. “Just lay him down and sing to him a bit. He’ll drift right off. As for waking him again, a nice warm plate of biscuits or some such does the trick nice,” he offered helpfully.

“Thank you, Master Hamfast. I shall remember that,” Bilbo said and allowed Hamfast to see himself out the door as promised, before sliding along the door jam and softly banging his head against it. “I shall remember that,” he repeated and resolved to answer his correspondence in the parlor from here on out.

The end

GF 11/19/08

A Need to Heal

Summer 1410
Sam is 30, Marigold 26, Hamfast 84

Sam woke up the same way he always did, stirring out from under his covers to sniff the sweet scent of breakfast being cooked in the kitchen. Goldie never came and banged on his door, hollering for all the Row to hear that it was time his lazy bones got out of bed. That had been Daisy’s and then May’s routine. Goldie knew the best way to wake any hobbit was to get their stomach grumbling, and Sam’s was obliging quite nicely. He licked his lips, anticipating the taste of her hotcakes slathered with honey and cream, sausage links dipped in syrup, eggs scrambled with cheese and fresh-squeezed apple juice.

Sam yawned, stretched his arms and back, stretched his calves and wriggled his toes. He threw back the covers, swung his legs over the side of the bed, sat up… and let out a whelp of surprised pain as his left hamstring started to throb in protest of the sudden movement. His bedroom door slammed open just a few moments later. Hamfast hobbled into the room, concern etched onto his weathered face, making him appear fierce to anyone not familiar with him.

“Sammy?” he asked, calling him by his childhood name, which hadn’t been spoken in Number Three for nearly fifteen years. “Are you all right, lad?”

“I don’t think so, Gaffer,” Sam said calmly, now that the initial shock of finding himself injured had worn off. He experimented with his left leg, moving it gingerly to determine it’s range of motion. Any movement that didn’t require his hamstrings caused no discomfort. As soon as he attempted to extend his leg, the pain came throbbing back, watering his eyes and stealing away his breath. He took a few moments to recover, then grinned in irony at his father. “Seems as I pulled something.”

“Humph,” Hamfast grunted. He had allowed Sam to go to the Cotton’s yesterday to help with the branding and any other tasks Old Tom might need him for after Lily had sent word that her husband had pulled his back the day before.

“Help me stand. I should be able to hobble out to the kitchen,” Sam said.

Hamfast walked over to Sam’s injured side, put Sam’s arm over his shoulder and helped him to stand. Once Sam was on his feet, or foot in this case, Sam nodded and they both moved as one to inch him towards the door. Sam tried his best not to put any weight on his left leg, which was now burning with pain and not at all happy about being forced to move after its warnings to let it lie. Sam drew in his breath with a hiss, closed his eyes until the worst of the throbbing went away, then nodded to his father to start inching forward again. Hamfast, however, didn’t move and Sam discovered why when he opened his eyes. Marigold stood in the doorway, hands on hips, scowl on face, and eyes squinted at the two fellows in her life. She shook her head and pointed to the bed.

“Back in that you get, Sam Gamgee, and I want no lip from you about it,” she commanded, with surprising force and determination.

“But…” Sam started to protest.

“I believe I said no lip,” Goldie snapped.

Sam had no choice in the matter. Hamfast was already starting to lower him back into the bed, seeing sense in Marigold’s edicts. Sam couldn’t very well get out of bed by himself, unless he rolled out of it, and then what? He’d have to lie there on the floor until he healed enough to move on his own. At least the bed was soft.

Sam let his father lift his legs back onto bed, and they managed to get him into a comfortable position without too much difficulty. While they did that, Goldie went back to the kitchen, put a plate together for Sam and carried it back to his room on a tray. She fitted the tray over his lap, kissed his forehead and fluffed up his pillow, all the while muttering about stubborn Gamgees with pigheaded notions of walking when they oughtn’t to be walking.

Sam and Hamfast endured this tirade in silence. They had never seen their sweet and accommodating Marigold in such a mood before and they didn’t want to do anything that might agitate her more.

“Now,” Goldie said, pillow fluffed and lecture given. She turned to her father. “Someone ought to go up and tell Mr. Baggins as Sam ain’t coming today… Or the rest of the week for that matter.”

Sam opened his mouth to protest this, but Goldie turned a cold eye on him just then and he shut it tight. “I’ll go and fetch the healer, just so as we can make sure you ain’t done any permanent damage to yourself.”

“What all is needing done at Bag End, son?” Hamfast asked.

“Just the regular: weeding, watering, pruning. Some of the vegetables and berries are ready for the picking and the flowers inside are needed replacing,” Sam said. “You should ask Dandy and Randy if they might be able to help with that.”

Sam knew if his father tried to fill in for him by himself, Hamfast would end up injured next. Dandy and Randy Proudfoot were good, sturdy lad, and while they didn’t have much of a hand for gardening, under Hamfast’s instructions they certainly couldn’t damage anything.

Marigold and Hamfast went to the kitchen then to sit for their breakfast. As there was little conversation to be heard, Sam knew they were trying to eat as quickly as possible so they could get ready for their now hectic day ahead. Sam picked at his food, feeling guilty for interrupting their plans and bewildered to determine just how this had happened in the first place. He went through the previous day from sun up to sun down and couldn’t think of when he might have injured himself. Certainly, he had been able to work on his leg without any problems or hints of damage done.

An hour or so later, Miss Camellia was standing at the foot of his bed, watching as her apprentice Miss Willow conducted the examination.

“Do you know how this happened, Sam?” Miss Willow asked. “What were you doing yesterday?”

“Oh, nothing much really,” Sam said. “I was helping the Cottons, see, with the branding and whatnot. I didn’t trust myself with the branding prod, so I was helping Tom to hold the heifers and steers in place so as Old Tom could do the hard part. The beasts weren’t happy about it all, of course, and more than a few of them tried to buck us off them, but we managed it all right. Then I went up to the hayloft and helped to haul hay bales up all afternoon. We mucked out the stables, fed all the beasts, pulled some vegetables for the pantries and to take to market, and since it was so late, I stayed on for supper. That’s all.”

Miss Willow and Miss Camellia exchanged a dubious glance. That’s all, hm?

With this unhelpful but detailed information in mind, Miss Willow began her examination. She had a firm but comforting touch, and she went about her business with a thoroughness that put Sam at his ease. Under her instructions, Sam once again went through the movements of showing them his range of motion, extending his leg and then attempting to contract it again as Miss Willow gently held his foot, then his calf. After this excruciating exercise, he gladly sat back and relaxed as Miss Willow moved his leg without his assistance. The result was not promising.

“Grade three strain to the biceps femoris,” Miss Willow announced. “You’ve ruptured your hamstring, Sam. There’s swelling, a noticeable gap in the muscle tissue, limited range of motion and severe pain when attempting to walk.” She narrowed her eyes at him when she said this, in an uncanny imitation of his sister that made his blood run cold. “You need bed rest for at least a week. You need to keep the leg elevated. I suggest a pressure band for the thigh to prevent muscular bleeding to the affected area. You’ll also need to stretch the muscle in your pain-free range of motion every couple of hours so that the leg heals correctly. Each day, you should notice that you can move it a little bit farther than the day before. If you don’t notice significant improvement by the end of the week, send your sister to us again. I’ll leave Goldie with a receipt for a poultice that will help reduce the swelling and aid healing. Any questions?”

Sam shook his head, stumped by this matter-of-fact delivery of his state of health, or lack thereof.

“Very well. I’ll give Goldie the receipt now. Take care,” Miss Willow said, patting his arm in a surprisingly comforting and warm manner, smiling with a reassurance that lifted his heart and hopes immediately. She went out to the parlor, where his sister and father were waiting for the diagnosis.

“How are you feeling, Sam?” Miss Camellia asked. Sam shrugged, the best response he could think of at the moment. “Willow takes some getting used to, but she’s a competent apprentice and will make a very fine healer some day. You would be wise to do as she says.”

“Yes, Miss Camellia,” Sam agreed heartily. He didn’t want to imagine what Miss Willow might say or do if he didn’t follow her instructions to the letter.

Miss Camellia wrapped a pressure band around his thigh. It was a simple strip of cured hide with strings sewn into the seams that went around three-quarters of the hide. The seam ended where a series of holes began. Miss Camellia pulled the hide until she found the desired pressure, then inserted one end of the string through the corresponding hole and tied it securely in place. Sam was grateful when it actually stopped the muscle from throbbing quite so much. Miss Camellia called Marigold and Hamfast into the room to show them how to take the pressure band on and off for applying the cold poultices. The hide was oiled on the inside to prevent the poultices from ruining the leather.

When the healers left, Hamfast patted Sam’s left foot. “Mind your sister, now, lad, or I’ll thump you one,” he said in his gruff concern. He left then too. He had already sent Dandy and Randy up the Hill to explain things to Mr. Frodo and start watering the garden. Now he needed to get up to Bag End before they could get it in their minds to start weeding and pull out all the parsley prematurely.

Goldie waited until the front door closed behind their father, then sat next to Sam on the bed and felt his forehead.

“I ain’t fevered, Goldie,” Sam said.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “Cause I can’t be thinking of any other way you’d not noticed you did this to yourself.”

“Shouldn’t you be getting the poultice?” Sam asked.

“It’s brewing, then it needs to cool. Miss Willow said that under no circumstances am I to put a hot compress on your leg when it’s as inflamed as it is, and I ain’t about to go against her,” Goldie said. Apparently, she and Hamfast hadn’t been spared Miss Willow’s cold glare simply for the good luck of being healthy. “Now, do you need aught? A book? Your journal? Some tea?”

Not waiting for a reply, Marigold pulled the basket from under his bed where he stored all his ‘learning things’ as she called them. She found the book with the bit of ribbon in it that he used for a bookmarker and handed that to him. She also grabbed his journal, the bottle of ink and a couple of quills and put those on the tray along with the book. She pushed the basket back in place, stood, fluffed his pillows and turned about in a swirl of skirts and apron to get the tea from the kitchen. She returned with not just tea, but a few crumpets, a bowl of grapes and cherries, and a basket of laundry, sewing needles and yarn.

“Here you are,” she said, putting the food on the tray and the basket next to him on the bed. “Don’t think you get to slug-about just a’cause you’re injured. You can help me with the mending while I clean out the oven and beat the rugs.”

“What about that knife that was needing the handle fixed?” Sam asked, poking through the laundry basket.

Goldie lifted her eyebrows at this. “The way you’re going, you’ll cut off your finger and bleed all over the laundry and your sheets. I don’t want to have to wash all that.”

Sam grinned. “What if I promise not to hurt myself?” he asked and got just the response he had expected: a slow look down at his leg and a slow look up back at his face, eyebrows arched even higher than before. “You know, I might poke myself with these here needles too.”

“You better not,” Goldie said. She fluffed the pillows under his leg, careful not to touch the sensitive part, patted his foot in the same place the Gaffer had, then strolled away to her daily chores.

Sam settled into his pillows, wondering what task to tackle first, and finally settled on the mending. It only seemed right to work while everyone else was working.

The week progressed in long stretches of boredom, interspersed with moments of activity when visitors stopped by to see how he was healing. The Cottons came of course, bringing a feast along with them. The Proudfoots and Goodloves down the Row came by also, bringing work when Marigold ran out of things to keep him occupied. He was grateful for the distractions and went to work on whatever they placed before him with alacrity. Mr. Frodo came, naturally bringing more books for him to read when he ran out of chores.

In between visits and snoozes, Goldie changed the compresses and poultices and came into the room every two hours like clockwork to make sure his did his stretches, no matter what she had been in the middle of doing. Sam got used to seeing her stroll through the door, apron covered with blood from butchering some coneys, or grease from cleaning out the oven, or water from doing the laundry for her customers, or food stains from cooking breakfast, luncheon and dinner.

Hamfast came home every night, sore from doing more standing and bending than his old body has comfortable doing, and irritated from having to correct Dandy and Randy all the day long. How two hobbit lads had grown up not being able to tell a carrot from a turnip was beyond his comprehension and he was close to pulling his hair out with frustration.

They were all glad when the first week passed and Sam’s leg improved enough to allow him to begin walking on it again. Miss Willow instructed him to use a cane for the first week and he was forbidden from doing any kind of strenuous activity, which she seemed to think included squatting, bending, climbing, sitting tailor-fashion or even walking faster than a snail’s crawl. Thus limited, Sam discovered that his second week of convalescence was even more annoying than his first, but at least he could go outside and enjoy the sun of the summer.

Mr. Frodo rescued him from complete boredom by inviting him into Bag End, where he was in the process of rearranging all the books in the library by subject and title. It was a project he claimed to have been wanting to complete for a while, but Sam was convinced he only dreamed it up just to give Sam something to do. Never mind that Mr. Frodo would spend the next six months in constant loss as to where to find anything.

The last day of his convalescence, Sam and Hamfast stood outside in the garden at night, smoking their pipes and looking up at the stars.

“How bad is the garden?” Sam asked. He had taken a cursory tour of the upper gardens that morning, but hadn’t been permitted to take the stairs into the lower garden.

“Not so bad,” Hamfast said. “Randy and Dandy are good enough lads, so long as you’re watching their every move. They’ll be on to help us next week, then Miss Willow reckons you’ll be right as rain again.”

“I certainly hope so,” Sam said with zest. He flexed and stretched his left leg experimentally and was pleased to feel only a slight pressure at the last. “I just wish I knew as how I’d done this.”

“By not paying attention, I reckon,” Hamfast said practically. “You’ll be paying more attention from here on out, I hope.”

“Yes sir,” Sam said. “I don’t ever want to be hurt like this again, that’s for sure.”

“Did I ever tell you about the time I pulled my hamstring?” Hamfast asked.

“No, sir, you didn’t,” Sam said.

“That’s a’cause I never did,” Hamfast said, winking at him and laughing with a grunt.

Sam smirked. “I’ll pay more attention, I promise,” he said, sending a smoke ring in his father’s direction.

Marigold came to the front door then and stood there with her hands on her hips. Now that Sam was better, she was back to her cheerful, sweet self.

“You lads need an invitation to help dry the dishes or shall I just leave them in the sink to spot overnight?” she asked hopefully. Her face was in shadow with the light behind her, but Sam knew she was batting her eyes and looking as doleful as possible.

Sam and Hamfast grumbled under their breaths, recognizing a hint when they heard one. They snuffed out their pipes and went inside, all of them grateful that everything was back to normal.

GF 3/29/09

Grey Wonderer provided the prompt: the first Yule that a lad with serious intentions gives Marigold a gift.
 

Marigold’s Yule

Robin is 32, Sam and Tom are 31, Rosie, Jolly and Marigold are 28.
1 Yule, 1411 SR

They should have seen it coming. Hamfast in fact had but that didn’t make it any easier. Marigold was his last child, his youngest daughter, his glowing flower with the golden locks. She was also the spitting image of her mother, and Bell had always had plenty of suitors. Hamfast never realized before just how lucky he was to have pinned Bell down, and he wondered if any of these lads now knocking upon their door like so many determined pecking birds would be the one to pin down his Goldie. He hoped not.

Marigold had blossomed over the past year, like a seedling after a hearty spring rain. The lads had noticed immediately and she was never shy with her smiles, though she was shy with everything else. Sam had told him there was a swarm of lads eagerly awaiting Goldie’s twenty-eighth birthday. Hamfast hadn’t wanted to believe it, and her birthday the other day had come and gone pleasantly enough. One thing he could say for the lads: they at least had patience and some sense of courtesy. Not enough to allow them a peaceful First Yule morning together though.

The first to come had been none other than Robin Smallburrow. He came knocking just after first breakfast with presents for all. He pretended he was there to see Sam, but Sam had given him a frown that made the lad step back a pace. Robin’s face lit up though when he handed over Marigold’s present. His hand shook ever so slightly and he had to clear his throat before squeaking out a tentative, “Merry Yule, Goldie.”

“Thank you, Robin,” Marigold said with that stunning smile of hers. Did she know what effect she had on the lads when she did that?

Goldie unwrapped the cloth to reveal a pair of marigold hair clips. She gasped and bounced on her feet in her excitement. “Oh, thank you, Robin! They’re lovely!” She then startled the poor lad with an enthusiastic hug and a quick peck on the cheek. “Stay right there, I’ll get you yours,” she ordered, though in truth Hamfast doubted the lad could make his feet work even if he’d wanted to leave.

Sam and Hamfast shared a glance and Sam huffed. He shook his head and drew the lad into the kitchen for a seat. “Want some cider?” he asked. Politeness was as politeness did, after all.

“Um, yes, I mean, no, I mean… Da wanted me back right away,” Robin dithered. He fingered the tablecloth, sneaking peeks down the hall in the direction of Marigold’s room.

“Here, I’ve somewhat for you too,” Sam said and handed his friend a small earthenware pot packed with fertile soil. “That’ll bloom come spring. It's not needing water ‘til then. Just put it out on your sill come the Clearing.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Robin said, taking the little pot in hand. “What kind of flower is it?”

“Not the kind you’re hoping for,” Sam muttered under his breath.

“What?”

Hamfast ribbed his son and lifted his brows, his eyes glinting with a command for manners. Marigold could do a lot worse than Robin, and there weren’t many who were better, come to that. Robin was of good family and was a steady, hard-working lad.

Sam nodded. “It’s a daisy,” he said and settled in the chair next to his friend. He had to admit his father was right. If Goldie chose Robin, she’d be doing fine for herself, but he knew something his father didn’t know. Robin was restless. He worked as hard as he did to keep his mind from dashing away, but Sam knew that strategy wouldn’t work forever. Robin had already admitted to wanting to be a shirriff as soon as he came of age next year. Such a life wouldn’t give him much time at home.

Marigold returned then, her hands behind her back. Robin all but jumped to his feet, and Sam followed suit. Goldie smiled again – oh yes, she knew all right – and with a dramatic flare brought her hands forward. She held out a small basket of scones and sweet cakes, which Robin took with a blush and a nod.

“I remember you said like blueberries,” Goldie said. “Happy Yule, Robin.”

“Thank you, Goldie,” Robin said and commenced to stand there, wavering between trying to say something clever and needing to leave.

Sam, ever the beneficent friend, put a helpful hand on Robin’s shoulder and steered him towards the front door. “Merry Yule, Robin,” he said and took his friend to the garden’s edge.

Robin cast one last glance through the open door before stepping onto the lane. “Merry Yule, Sam,” he said and with a whistle and a skip, he made his way up the Row.

Sam returned to the smial, shaking his head. He went to Goldie’s room and picked up the clips that Robin had given her, which she had placed on her side table. “That’s a courting gift, that is,” he said.

Goldie came into the room behind him. “Oh, it is not,” she said, blushing herself.

“You know well and good it is,” Sam said. Anything a lad gave to a lass that could be worn for all to see was considered a courting gift, if the lad had such intentions, and Robin clearly did. “You mean to court him then?”

Goldie shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s a nice lad,” she said. “He’s your best friend, so that says something.”

“I suppose,” Sam said. Should he tell her about the shirriffing? Before he could make up his mind though another knock sounded on the door.

“More presents!” Goldie said with a clap and grabbed more baskets of baked goods to take to the kitchen. She left Sam in her room with a swish of skirts and a bounce of her curls. 

So began the near constant stream of visitors, most of them lads and all of them come to see Goldie. Hamfast and Sam watched with a growing sense of dread and dismay as lad after lad came knocking upon the door. Some were more confident than poor Robin had been, and these Sam made certain to escort to the lane as quickly as possible if Hamfast didn’t beat him to it. Others could barely squeak out a ‘Merry Yule’ before handing over their gift and fleeing in terror of some imagined embarrassment.

Marigold and Sam did manage to get out of the smial after elevenses to make their own rounds. Looking back, Sam figured they would have been better off staying inside. At least at home, the lads only had one point of entry. Once outside, they seemed to come from all over, like a drone of bees sniffing out the last fertile flower of the season. They returned to Number Three bogged down with more gifts than they had left with, Sam’s head reeling with the prospect of beating back these potential suitors day in and day out until Goldie eventually settled on one, and Marigold blushing with embarrassment and no small amount of surprise. She couldn’t seem to understand just what the lads saw in her.

The visitors ceased just before tea, thank the stars. They spent a peaceful evening bundled up by the fire in the parlor, reminiscing on Yules past, but Marigold wasn’t really paying attention. She was in a mild state of shock, a pleasant sort of numbness she had never felt before, and she kept seeing the faces of all the hopeful lads who had approached her today. Most of them she had never spoken more than a ‘hullo’ upon passing on the road. Some she would rather have never noticed her; she shuddered thinking about Ted Sandyman’s gift, a pretty little bauble for pinning to her shirt collar. He had given her such a look of rapture that she had almost hidden behind Sam for protection. Thankfully, the Cottons had shown up at that moment, and that was the end of that.

“Don’t worry about him,” Tom had said, throwing a cousinly arm about her shoulders. “We’ll put the fear of the Witch-Lord into him if he ever so much as glances at you again.”

“Which lord is that?” Marigold asked, which Tom had found immensely amusing.

“Of Angmar,” Tom said. “Don’t you know your history? You ought to, living with Sam. Unless you know some secret to shutting him up, and if you do, you’d better share. If Robin and I have to sit through one more recitation of Elven lays, I truly think we’ll go deaf.”

“Hey now!” Sam protested but was quickly distracted by Rosie handing over a basket stuffed with cheeses and meats. Sam all but drooled at the sight, but whether that was due to the basket or Rosie, Goldie couldn’t tell.

“Are one of those wee baskets for me?” Tom asked, releasing Goldie from the half-hug.

Goldie handed over a basket of raspberry scones and sweet cakes, which Tom held to his nose and inhaled deeply. “Merry Yule, Tom-lad.”

“Merry Yule, Goldie-mine,” Tom said and picked out a scone to nibble on.

“Don’t I get something?” Goldie asked with a laugh.

“Well, you’re family, so I was going to give you your gift tomorrow, unless you’re suggesting that you deserve two?”

“Don’t I?”

“I suppose you do at that,” Tom said. He put the scone back in the basket, gave it over to Jolly for safe-keeping, glanced around the market, spotted something and dashed off. He came back some minutes later with a small wreath of furze and viburnum, which he placed smartly on her head. He sucked on a bleeding finger where one of the furze thorns had cut him as he was removing the prickly nuisances and nodded approvingly at his handiwork. “There you are. Do you like it?”

“You made it yourself?” Goldie said. She removed the wreath to examine it more closely before putting it back on her head. “I didn’t think you knew how.”

“Tom learned how to do that years ago,” Jolly said with an impish grin. He bit into a sweet cake and continued, “Soon as he realized that it impressed the lasses, that is.”

“I’m full of such surprises,” Tom gloated with a wink. He took Goldie’s hand and placed it in the crook of his arm, and the friends spent a happy hour going around Bywater and Hobbiton. Both Sam and Marigold noticed that Tom’s presence kept the other lads at bay, and Tom was watched by jealous eyes everywhere they went.

When they parted ways on Bywater Road, Tom took Sam aside and whispered, “Am I missing something? I could have sworn I heard Gorse Willowmere growling at me, and Sid Hardtack and Jed Mugwort looked ready to throw daggers at me.”

“You’ve missed everything, Tom,” Sam said, “and I thank you for it. Though if you keep it up for much longer, you might just miss out for good.”

Sam and Goldie left their cousins with cheerful waves. As soon as they were out of earshot, Tom said something to Rosie that made her throw up on hands in exaggerated disgust and made Jolly bend over with laughter.

Marigold still wore the wreath as she sat by the fire and she reached up to finger the blooms, a bulb of golden furze gentle to her touch. Did the furze mean anything, or had Tom only picked it because it blooms all year? Surely he knew it was a bridal flower… But no, he couldn’t possibly think of her that way. Maybe she should ask him about Robin. If she married Robin, then they could all be family, and surely Sam and Tom would like that.

“Goldie-lass,” Hamfast said, breaking into her thoughts. “Is the cider ready?”

“Oh yes!” she said, jumping to her feet. She went into the kitchen, her head full of confusion and wonderment. She removed the pot of cider from the hearth and placed it on the stove, and felt in the cupboards for some mugs and a ladle.

No, she decided, Tom didn’t feel that way about her. He was simply being a terrible flirt like he always was. She knew he had stepped out with a handful of lasses, though none of them seemed to hold his interest for very long, and he always had a line of eager dancing partners at socials and fairs. If he paid her any mind at such functions it was only because they were family, as he said. But then again, he had given her a wreath, in the middle of the market square, in full view of everyone.

But what about Robin?

What about him?

He’s a good lad, and he likes you. He’d do right by you.

Aye, he would at that. But could I ever love him? Not that I don’t love him now, just not in that way. He’s more a brother to me really.

Well, you can’t marry your brother.

“No, I suppose I can’t.”

“Can’t what?” Sam asked, coming into the kitchen to help her carry the drinks.

“Can’t live peacefully with a spy for a brother,” Goldie said. She took off the wreath and placed it on the table. “What do you think of Tom?”

“He’s a fool and a dolt and possibly brain damaged from being dropped on his head too often as a bairn,” Sam said, “but you could do worse.”

“Do you think he likes me? I mean, to court me?”

Sam knew quite well what Tom’s feelings for Marigold were. He also knew that Tom was, as of that afternoon, completely unaware that the hunt for Marigold’s hand had already begun. Rosie had undoubtedly corrected that error by now, and come Second Yule morning, the Cottons would be arriving at Number Three and Tom would be more on his guard. “I think you shouldn’t be worriting about this just now,” Sam said. “It’s Yule. Let the new year work itself out when it comes.”

The next morning, Tom brought Marigold a wreath of furze and mistletoe, along with his gift of hair ribbons. He placed the wreath upon her head and kissed her gently. He stepped back, a brief look of panic in his eyes, which vanished immediately when she kissed him back.

By that night, all of Hobbiton and Bywater knew that Marigold Gamgee was courting Tom Cotton, and the disappointed lads had to search for another lass to set their sights upon.

Rosie Cotton really was a lovely lass.

GF 12/20/09

Last Night in Hobbiton

Sam is 11, Halfred 22

Wedmath 1391 SR

Sam watched from the doorway as Halfred went through his packing one last time. The last few years, Halfred had spent half the year in Little Smithy at his apprenticeship and the other half at home. They had all been telling Sam that eventually Halfred would go away for good, move to the Northfarthing to stay there. Sam knew enough to believe them; after all, Hamson had gone to live in Tighfield and they usually only saw him now during the Free Fair. Still, seeing the boxes packed with Fred’s things, and the bag on the bed stuffed with his clothes and other things he would need during his journey north, it somehow seemed real now. Fred was really going to leave. He really wasn’t coming back. 

Fred glanced at Sam and smiled. “Chin up, little brother,” he said with a grin. “It’s not like you’ll never see me again.”

“You’ll come to the Free Fair?” Sam asked, stepping into the room. He sat on their bed and peered into the bag. The storage bins underneath their bed were nearly empty now, holding only Sam’s bit of clothes and his study things from Mr. Bilbo’s lessons. 

“Well, no,” Fred said. “Little Smithy is a fair ride from Michel Delving, and they have their own fair up there for the Northfarthing. But we’ll see each other. There’ll be visits.”

“You’ll still come for Yule, though?” Sam asked. 

“I’m a senior apprentice now,” Fred said. “I won’t be able to get away as often, but I’ll see what can be done about Yule.” He sat next to Sam and closed the bag. He dumped it unceremoniously onto the floor. He pulled a clay pipe from his pants pocket and handed it to Sam.

“I’m too young for a pipe,” Sam said, taking it anyway. 

“It’s not for smoking, least not yet anyway,” Halfred said. He draped an arm around Sam’s shoulders and jostled him gently. “It’s so you won’t forget your big brother.”

“I’d not do that!” Sam said.

“I know it, Sammy,” Fred said and sighed. “I’m just feeling sentimental, I suppose.”

“What’s that?”

“That’s when you feel like remembering things, and they make you happy but a little sad too,” Fred said. He held Sam’s gaze, turning serious. “You’ve got to be the big lad of the smial now, Sammy. It’s just you and Gaffer here to take care of the lasses. They’re going to be depending on you. That means as you’ll have to give up some things to see to the family. Remember, it’s family first and always.”

“You won’t have a family in Little Smithy,” Sam said sadly, clutching the pipe.

“Sure I will. Hale will be there, and there’s lots of our Gamwich kin there too,” Fred said. 

Sam felt his brother’s arm tighten at mention of Hale and wondered about it. Hale Goodchild was their second cousin on their mother’s side. He was older than Fred by about five years and had been taking his apprenticeship with their uncle Andwise in Tighfield until Fred announced his decision to take a position in Little Smithy at one of the tile shops there. It wasn’t unheard of for a lad to change apprenticeships, but Hale had excelled in the art of rope-making and seemed to enjoy it immensely, so it had come as a surprise to all when he decided to follow Fred up north. 

“Don’t you like Hale?” Sam asked. “I thought as you were best mates.”

Fred smiled. “We are. We even managed to talk our master into letting us room together. Hale figures if we save as much of our wages as we can, we’ll have enough to rent a little smial after our apprenticeships are up. By the time mine’s done, he’ll be off his contract and able to find work of his own. It’ll be hard but we’ll manage. We may have to trade jobs for furniture and other such things to start, but we’ll not starve. Tile a hallway, get a chair and a chicken, that sort of thing. He’s got it all worked out.”

“You need more’n chairs,” Sam said, frowning. “You can’t sleep on chairs.”

Halfred laughed. “No, not comfortably anyhow. We’ll make do, and we’ll get all as we’re needing eventually.”

Sam put the pipe to his nose and breathed deep. The strong scent of old pipeweed and ashes wafted up his nose, burning his sinuses. He sneezed and took another, more cautious, whiff. Starburst leaf and apples, with a hint of chamomile. Sam leaned into his brother’s side and could smell the same scent on his clothes, leftover from his pipe outside with their father. Hamfast had some last-minute advice and orders for Fred, and so they had taken their evening smoke during a short stroll to the Water and back. They had both been silent since returning, but the tension that had been there between them over the last several weeks was gone. 

“Gaffer doesn’t like Hale,” Sam said.

“He likes Hale well enough,” Fred said. Sam felt him shrug. “He just worrits as he’ll be a bad influence on me, is all.”

“Why’s that?” 

“Acause he figures as Hale should be talking me into marrying some day,” Fred said, and Sam didn’t have to look to know his brother’s nose was scrunched up in distaste. Halfred had vowed long ago never to marry, but Sam sometimes wondered if he would only keep to that promise to spite their father. “Naught against the lasses, but I don’t reckon on spending the rest of my life with one. Twenty-two years is enough.”

“You just haven’t met the right lass yet,” Sam said.

“Now you sound like Gaffer,” Halfred said. “He’s not always right ‘bout everything, Sammy. Don’t let him tell you as you can’t do things, or as you belong in one place when your heart tells you better. You understand?”

Sam didn’t answer right away. In all his short years, he had yet to find his father wrong about anything. Their father was the smartest hobbit in the Shire, in Sam’s opinion, and if he said to do something then you’d be wise to listen. Yet he knew that their father and Fred had their disagreements. In fact, it seemed at times as though they disagreed about near everything. 

“Sammy?” Halfred said. 

“I’m awake,” Sam said to buy himself some more time. He licked his lips and nodded. “I’ll remember.”

Halfred grunted, a hint of a laugh underneath. Fred knew well enough what his brother meant. Sammy thought the sun rose and fell by their father, but he didn’t want to disagree with Fred either. This was his compromise. “You’re a smart one, Sammy. Don’t ever let anyone tell you different.”

“Can I come visit you and Hale sometime?” Sam asked. 

“Whenever you want. And I better get letters from you. I’ll find someone as can read them to us,” Fred said.

“I will,” Sam promised. He yawned widely and rubbed his eyes. “I learned a new story today.”

“Did you then?” Fred asked. “Tell me it.”

So Sam started telling him about a dog named Rover who bit a wizard, was turned into a toy and went to the moon. Sam began growing sleepy halfway through Rover’s moon adventure, slurring his words and his periods of silence grew longer with each pause. He finally mumbled a few final words before nodding off completely. 

Halfred pulled the covers over them and stayed up through the night, listening to Sam’s deep breathing and soaking in the image of his room one last time. He would try to visit, as often as he could, but he knew such opportunities would be rare from now on. It could very well be years before he saw Number Three and his family again. In a way, he didn’t want the morning to come. If it were possible, he would will this night never to end and he would stay here in the peaceful dark of their windowless room with only the dim glow of the oil lamp illuminating the bed and wall. Sam stirred and rolled over, away from Fred, who reached out and placed a hand on Sam’s brown head. 

They were still in that position when Daisy woke them the next morning. She smiled bravely when Fred opened his eyes. “Morning, Knucklehead,” she said. “Get him ready. Breakfast’s on. The coach’ll be here in an hour.”

“As you say, Mother Daisy,” Fred said. 

Breakfast was a quiet affair. The coach arrived just as they were putting away the dishes. Marigold ran to their room and emerged a couple of minutes later, as Halfred, Hamfast and the driver were loading the coach. Fred would have company in the carriage until Nobottle at least, a kindly gammer and her two granddaughters. The gammer chatted with Hamfast as the driver made sure the boxes were secured properly. May elbowed Halfred and pointed her chin at the oldest granddaughter, a maid of about nineteen or twenty. 

“Don’t tease,” Fred chided quietly.

“Don’t hurt to be encouraging,” May said and hugged him fiercely. “You behave yourself away up there, and don’t let Hale get you into too much trouble. Two tween lads living on their own. It ain’t proper.”

“Our master’ll be there and the other prentices,” Fred said, hugging her back. “Don’t fret about it none. I’ll try to think of yours and Daisy’s disapproving scowls whenever Hale suggests anything tempting.”

“Here,” Goldie said, handing over a cloth-wrapped gift. “It’s from all of us.”

Fred opened the present. Inside were a pair of handsome files, designed specifically for working with tile. 

“These are neat!” Fred said. He hugged Goldie and Daisy next, then Sam, who still held tight to his pipe. Finally he turned to Hamfast. “So I’m off.”

“Aye,” Hamfast said stoutly. He lingered somewhere between a hug and a handshake, and finally settled on the hug. Fred took a deep breath, both to keep from crying and for one last sniff of his father’s scent: earth, flora and boiled tubers. 

At long last, Hamfast let him go. He didn’t bother reaching up to wipe away the single tear that beaded at the corner of his eye, but instead reached into his pants pocket and brought out another sending-off gift. “You’ll be needing these also,” he said gruffly and pushed the bundle into Fred’s hastily raised hands. 

Fred guessed what it was immediately, but still gasped when he pulled back the cloth to reveal a new set of nippers and a saw. He didn’t dare ask what his father had to pay or trade for them, but quickly hugged him again and dared a brief kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, Dad,” he said and started to cry anyway. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, lad.” They both knew they meant more than just the tools.

Another round of hugs and kisses followed, and finally Fred pocketed his presents and climbed into the carriage. The driver whistled smartly and the ponies started at a trot. Fred waved at his family out the window, gripping his tools just as Sam gripped his pipe. 

“Leaving home?” the elder maid asked as the carriage turned onto the Lane and headed down the Hill.

Fred didn’t answer right away. He would miss his family terribly but Number Three and Bagshot Row were already too small for him. The ache of homesickness would go away eventually as he settled into his new home. When he arrived at Little Smithy, Hale would be there waiting. He smiled, thinking of his cousin. Hale had promised to have his favorite dinner ready for his homecoming, and that was an encouraging thought indeed.

“I’m going home,” he said. He couldn’t wait to get there.

GF 8/11/10

For Periantari, who had requested the Gamgee's first Yule after Bell's passing. 500 words.

Without Bell

Hamfast is 58, Hamson 19, Halfred 15, Daisy 12, May 8, Sam 4 and Marigold 1 

Yule 1384 SR

Daisy and May had spent the better part of two days making the wreaths as decorated the doors and mantles. They’d gone out early the week afore to get all the trimmings and fruit as they’d be needing for them, and dried them all out as their mother had taught them. Hamson and Halfred hunted for the Yule log at the orchard where the Yule trees grow. They’d worked a week at that orchard, helping to haul and trim trees for the gentry that come to buy their logs, just to be able to pick out their own. Missus Rumble had done her bit, watching over Sammy and Goldie while the others were at their work. 

Me, I did my best to decorate the smial proper. I’m sure I got some things wrong. I couldn’t right remember where the Yule candles went, there were so many of them. Mayhap Bell had never been able to remember either. I did remember where she put all the hangings for the tree and we decorated  it with the ribbons and paper flowers she’d liked best. I’d forgotten the receipt for the egg-and-grog and had to get it from Daddy next door, but as soon as I tasted it I knew it weren’t the same. She’d always bake bread for everyone on the Hill. That at least I was able to do, as well as the gifts for First and Second Yule. 

Come First Yule, Hamson and Daisy helped with making dinner, while Fred took the little ones to deliver the loaves and other gifts. I made sure as they were bundled up tight against the cold afore they left, but I was worrit the whole while they were gone. Last we wanted was for another one of us to take sick, not after May had been so ill. Not after Bell. They came back safe and warm, laughing away, just in time for dinner.

We sat to table and my six beautiful children looked at me, eager to eat. For it being our first time, it looked and smelled as fine as ever afore.

“What are you waiting for then?” I said. “Eat up!”

“Daddy!” Daisy said. “Mama always said somewhat afore we ate.”

I thought for a minute. Bell always knew what to say to make us all feel treasured. Words had never been my strength. That’s what my hands were for, as she had said. I looked down at my hands but they did naught for me now. Best not to think it over too much then. “It’s been a long year. We’ve had our lumps but we’ve had each other. Now eat up, afore the food goes cold.”

“Good one, Dad,” Hamson said. Fred, Daisy and May smiled and dug in, dishing out food for Sammy and Goldie also. 

We ate and laughed and remembered the good times, just as in Yules past. For a time, it nearly felt as though Bell were there again, watching over us.  

GF 12/22/10