A.N.--This was supposed to be a single-chapter work, but decided to morph itself into two chapters instead.  Please forgive, but Tribbals insisted on making herself known in such a manner.

Trials and Tribulation

I

       Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The slow swing of the pendulum on the large wall clock in the office was the only noise inflicting itself on the lone Hobbit now sitting at the Mayor’s desk just inside the door to the large room, reviewing the last will and testament of Milpo Burrows. Tick. Tock. Tick. Then the clock gave a soft grind and whir, then creakily it began striking the hour, not with a nice clear tone as once it displayed but with a decided clunk to each sounding of the chime.

       TONK! TONK! TONK! TONK! Whirr. Grind. Click.

       Tick. Tock. Tick.

       Frodo continued reading, glad at the moment that old Ferdinand’s birthday had drawn his Took aides away from Michel Delving, back to the Great Smial for the rest of the day. It was nice at times just to be alone, and Milpo’s will, which he’d obviously written himself, was a wonder. So far the old Hobbit had left seven half-shares of his property to this one and that, and had left the bulk of what allegedly would be left over separately to his son, his younger brother, and his granddaughter. How they were to sort it out was anyone’s guess. He reached for a piece of paper from the stack to the right, set it in front of him; then pulled over the inkstand and uncapped the bottle of black ink, preparing to put down the list of bequests and intended recipients so as to prioritize who appeared to be intended to receive how much. It was at that point that he heard voices approaching the Council Hole out on the village square, and sighed. Apparently the peace of the afternoon was not to continue.

       The voices were coming closer and were entering the Council Hole. "You have the lass, Barti? Good enough, then. Oh, no, you don’t, Greencap my lad--you put that picture right back as where you found it. I’ve my eye on you."

       Greencap? Not Greencap Broadloam! Frodo gave a distinct groan.

       There simply couldn’t be as improperly named a family in the Shire as the Broadloams--certainly the one who had first taken the name had indulged in wishful thinking to the point of criminality. No Broadloam in the history of the Shire had managed to own much more than the half-acre or so outside of Whitfurrow in the East Farthing that supported the family hole and its meager kitchen garden--and the collection of "useful items" that appeared to be the hallmark of the family. Even Lotho’s Big Men must have stood in awe of the sheds which dotted the property, for they were constructed of a variety of materials to beggar the imagination. The "useful items" filled each shed and lay in heaps between--buckets with holes to be mended; the staves of ale casks shrunk from having been allowed to dry completely with the iron bands lying stacked carelessly nearby; rusted dippers and dented pans; lamps with shades broken or missing; oil pots; chipped stone water jars....

       "Watch your step there, lad. No, Greencap, you put that back right now!"

       Then he could hear Greencap’s own obsequious whining: "Och, ye can’t be begrudgin’ me the try, Master. A Hobbit’s got to do a livin’ for his own family, ye know."

       "But not at the expense of the entire Shire, Greencap. Now, put the other one back as well."

       Hardly anyone remembered that Greencap’s rightfully given name was Guido. He’d earned his title for the soft green cap he’d been given by his gammer on his mum’s side when small that he’d worn all these years, a cap which remained cheerfully green in spite of all the handling and wear it had endured since it came into its master’s possession. As a lad living in Whitfurrow with his parents Frodo had been fascinated by both the cap and the older lad who’d worn it; now it appeared that Guido Broadloam had somehow earned the concern of the Shiriffs and was being brought into Michel Delving for the deputy Mayor’s evaluation. What had he taken this time? Or had he again been bottling water from the spring at the back of the property and trying to sell it as a sovereign remedy for the ills that might plague his neighbors or (more likely) those who traveled the West Road to and from the center of the Shire who didn’t yet know just what a fraud the wiry Hobbit was? Or was he painting chain links gold once more and trying to convince lads they were fully gold, selling them for a Shire penny apiece?

       The door opened, and four Shiriffs entered, escorting Greencap and his wife and two sons into the office, followed by a fifth gently carrying a small lass in his arms. Greencap removed his hat and gave a series of bobs and twists that for him passed for bows of respect. "Master Baggins," he began, "ye can’t think as I’d ever do as what they says...."

       "Oh, be quiet!" Robin Smallburrow said, obviously annoyed. "Mr. Frodo, sir," he explained, "we found the Broadloams comin’ here to Michel Delving, bringin’ with them their lads and their daughter Tribulation here. Course, Greencap’s been scavengin’ all along the way, includin’ a lot as was never intended to be set aside. We had to ease ’im of a good deal as ought not to of been on his person, you know."

       "I see, Robin." Frodo looked at Greencap, his wife Quince, his sons Tito and Torto, and the small lass Bartimo Tunnely carried. He’d not been aware that Greencap and Quince even had a daughter. He couldn’t see the girl’s face, for she kept it pressed to Bartimo’s vest. He looked at the child’s parents. "You named her Tribulation?" he asked. "It’s not precisely a common name for any child. Why did you name her that?"

       It was Quince who answered him. "It was ’cause of a story you told at the Free Fair the year afore she was born, Master Frodo, sir," she said. "You was tellin’ o’ the trials and tribulations facin’ Turin and Nienor, and you said as tribulation meant troubles faced and overcome. I liked the word, I did, sir. It’s a strong word, a beautiful word. And when my little lass was born and I looked into her face, I knew as this was one trouble as we was goin’ to overcome, sir."

       Frodo looked from her to the back of the child’s head and then to Bartimo’s face in question. Bartimo gave a slight shrug, and then gently set the lass on her feet there by the door, then turned her toward the deputy Mayor. As he looked into her face, far rounder than the faces of Hobbits usually were, her eyelids with an odd fold to them, her eyes opened wide with an expression of constant surprise to them, Frodo realized this child was moon-touched.

       He’d seen moon-touched children before. Among his Took relatives there was a daughter who was moon-touched as this child was; and in Minas Tirith he’d seen a boy born to a couple in the Fifth Circle who was the same. They tended to be smaller than other children their own age; had soft bodies; had an odd set to their fingers, which tended to be exceptionally stubby; had tongues which were abnormally large and almost swollen looking; and their minds tended to be simple, he knew. Other than that he knew little of them, save that they tended to look much the same whether they were born to Hobbits or Men.

       He saw no sign of fear in the lass’s eyes as she looked at him with that expression of surprise in her eyes. "Hello, Tribulation," he said gently. "I’m glad to meet you."

       The child’s face broke into a smile. "’Lo," she said.

       "Your parents were bringing you here to Michel Delving?" he asked. She nodded her head. "Why?"

       She answered, but he didn’t understand what it was she said. Quince explained, "She saw you fortnight ago, Master Frodo, when you and the others was marchin’ the Shiriffs along the road from there by the Bridge toward Hobbiton. Tribbals saw as how serious you looked, and she said you was sad and needed cheerin’ up, she did, and she’s been after us to bring her here so as she could do that. Now, she don’t get her mind fixed on a thing often, but when she does, it’s best to just give way, as she can’t think o’ nothin’ else till it’s done, you see."

       Frodo looked from mother to daughter, then at last stood and approached the lass and knelt down to look into her eyes. "You thought I looked sad?" he asked her.

       "Yeh," she said, nodding to make certain her meaning was clear.

       "And you wanted to cheer me up?"

       "Yeh," she said again.

       "And how will you cheer me up?" he asked.

       "Here," she said, holding out her arms, and she gave him as strong a hug as she could. "You fee’ better?" she asked.

       Frodo was touched. "Yes, Tribbals," he said. "Is it all right for me to call you Tribbals?"

       She smiled. "Yeh," she answered. Then she added, "I come ’gain, hug you when you need it." She spoke very slowly and carefully, doing her best to make her words clear.

       He smiled. "Then I’ll look forward to it." He caressed her lank hair. "I’ll be glad to see you any time you wish to come to the Council Hole. Now, if you’ll go out to the banquet hall with Bartimo, I need to talk with your da. Is that all right?"

       She nodded, and reached up to take Bartimo’s hand. Once she was gone and Bartimo had closed the door behind them, Frodo turned his attention back to her parents.

       Quince had been born a Gravelly from near the western marches; she and Greencap had met at the Free Fair in Michel Delving. Her parents had, of course, tried to discourage her interest in Guido Broadloam, but she was a willful lass and of age, and he was the first lad to ever pay her much mind. She left home and moved to Whitfurrow; within months the two of them were married and she found herself living in the rather ragged Broadloam smial.

       How such an orderly one as a Gravelly born and bred could find comfort as a Broadloam no one could say. Yet it appeared Quince had managed to do so.

       "So," Frodo said to Greencap. "You’ve been scavenging along the way, have you?"

       "As I said, sir, a Hobbit’s got to look after his family. And if it’s just a’lyin’ there, how’m I to know as it belongs t’someone?"

       Robin Smallburrow snorted. "Perhaps the fact as it was a’lyin inside the fence of a smial ought to of give you a clue, or the fact as it was sittin’ on a table in the entranceway. Or," he added, "that it was a’lyin’ on the Mayor’s desk. Put the quill and inkstand back, Greencap."

       Frodo gave a quick, surprised look at the desk he’d quitted and added, "And the penwipe, if you please." He returned to his seat and watched as Guido returned the named items, each one from a different pocket about his person. Then, as Frodo kept him fixed with a stare he finally returned the blotter as well. Finally assured the items on the desktop were as they’d been, Frodo turned his attention to Robin.

       "It ’pears as he’s been teachin’ the lads to scavenge also, Mr. Baggins, sir," Robin said.

       All turned their attention to Tito and Torto, both of whom stopped, flushing and yet doing their best to look innocent as Tito sought to pocket the paperweight taken from the table and passed to him by his brother. Automatically Robin reached out and clapped his hand on Greencap’s wrist as his hand shot out to try to reclaim the inkstand once more. Quince gave a great, patient sigh and rolled her eyes. "I tries to teach them right, Master Frodo, sir," she explained, "but I’m findin’ as it’s just too difficult tryin’ to get past the Broadloam blood, sir."

       "Apparently," Frodo commented, reaching out to slap Greencap’s other hand as he reached again for the blotter.

       Greencap didn’t look the least abashed; indeed, he looked impressed. "It’s a good eye as ye’ve got, Master Baggins, sir."

       Fendi Buckets, one of the other three Shiriffs who attended on the party of Broadloams, cleared his throat. "And there is another problem, Mr. Deputy Mayor, sir," he said, pulling a thick folded pack of papers out of his pocket and presenting them. The roll would have appeared impressive if Fendi hadn’t folded them over crossways and apparently sat upon them at some time since he placed them there. "This here’s a complaint from Mallard Smallburrow as is village head for Whitfurrow," he said with a respectful look at the missive with which he’d been entrusted. "Part o’ the reason as the Broadloams come away from Whitfurrow right now’s ’cause o’ the repeated disappearances of poultry from the Smallburrow’s chicken coop followed always with chicken bones bein’ tossed out the back door at the Broadloam’s place. Old Mallard’s more’n a bit upset, don’t you know. It ’pears Greencap here left Whitfurrow right now to get away from Mallard for a time."

       Frodo took the large packet and fastidiously flattened it, slipped his finger behind the wax seal, opened it, and laid it out flat on the desktop, absently slapping Greencap’s hand away from the steel pen that sat in front of him as he began to read.

       Mallard had begun writing and apparently continued for as long as the paper held out. What it came down to in the end, however, was that of the ten hens and one rooster left him by the gatherers and sharers he now had only three hens left, and each time one of his chickens disappeared Greencap Broadloam or his sons were implicated.

       "I don’t understand as to why he’s so upset, Master Baggins, sir," Greencap said obsequiously. "It’s not like he don’t have others. He’ll have more soon."

       "Not since you took his rooster," Frodo said, looking at the Broadloam with a degree of unbelief.

       Greencap looked thoughtful. "Never thought t’tell the lads not t’take the rooster," he said.

       "Then you admit to taking the chickens?" Frodo asked curiously.

       "A Hobbit’s got t’provide for his family, Master Baggins, sir. I do believe that, ye know."

       "So you told me already." Frodo’s tone of irony was lost on Greencap, he noted. He sighed. "So now," he said slowly, "the question is to decide just what to do about the situation." He contemplated the three male Broadloams carefully, then indicated to one of the Shiriffs that he might check the trousers pockets of Tito. Hildigar Took’s seal was retrieved and given to Frodo, who in turn slipped it inside a drawer on his side of the desk to safeguard it for his cousin. The lad gave a patient sigh, and shrugged when his brother looked at him disparagingly.

       For quite some time Frodo pondered what he should do. Finally he said, "Torto and Tito, starting on your return you are going to go to Mallard Smallburrow’s henyard, one of you Sterdays, Mondays, and Hevensdays, and the other on Sundays, Trewsdays, and Mersdays. He’ll have to take care of them himself on Highdays. You will help to care for the chickens under Mr. Smallburrow’s supervision, but you will not steal them or their eggs, or take anything belonging to the Smallburrows. I will be lending Mr. Smallburrow a rooster and seven hens for a year’s time. If at the end of a year his flock increases as it ought to do, I will then give the rooster and the seven hens to you to start your own flock. If you eat them all up, however, you’ll end up with nothing in the end. If you manage them properly, in two years you should have a sizable flock yourself, and enough to sell eggs and to have a chicken dinner at least once every two weeks as well as each having at least one egg a day for tea.

       "However, if I hear tell of any of you stealing anything from any of your neighbors, and that involves scavenging anything you have reason to know belongs to anyone else, then the one who does it will come and sit in one of the cells in the Lockups for a month and--and knit stockings to send to orphan children in Bree."

       "What are stockings?" asked Tito, who’d never heard of such a thing before.

       "They are a special garment Men must wear to help protect their feet," Frodo told him. "I’d have Mistress Mayberry from Buckland come in and teach you how, for she came from Bree to marry my cousin Madridoc and used to knit them to sell to help support her family."

       The two brothers looked at one another, uncertain as to whether or not they wished to follow through on such a project. Frodo looked from one to the other, and then gave a sidelong evaluation of their father. He remembered what it was that had so fascinated him about Guido Broadloam when he was a child, new come to Whitfurrow. Guido had been a facile talespinner, and as such had often sent Frodo’s own imagination spiraling off through starfields and across fields and forests. His tales had been more of imagination and less of adventures and histories than had been true of Bilbo’s stories; yet Frodo had treasured them for the way they sought to explain in terms of fairies and pixies and sprites of several kinds how it was leaves turned gold and red before they dropped or how snowdrops would push up through the last remaining protected drifts to herald the early spring.

       "For you, Mr. Broadloam," Frodo pronounced, "every market day for a year you will sit on a bench in the Common and tell three stories to the children, with your daughter in your lap. If you follow this program and will agree only to scavenge things clearly on rubbish piles outside folks’ gardens and farms, then you will be given a weaner pig each month for this coming year. If you slaughter them once you get them then there will be nothing for your family after; if you manage them correctly you will have a goodly number for next year, and will have bacon and hams enough for your own family’s use and have piglets to sell for money to help buy cloth for clothing and candles and oil for your lamps or other supplies; plus you will have fat for soap.

       "I will have the Master of Buckland appoint someone to help you build a proper sty and henyard; you yourself can make houses for the chickens and pigs to shelter in during bad weather.

       "But if it is proven you are stealing to support your family, then you will come to sit in one of the cells for a month and spend your time knitting stockings to send to orphan children in Bree. Is that understood?"

       Greencap looked to his sons, and then all looked to Quince. Her face, always so tired-looking in the years since she’d married Guido, looked surprised, even hopeful. "I know as how to care for poultry and pigs, Master Frodo, sir," she said. "You’d do this for us?"

       "For the sake of you and your daughter, Mistress Quince," Frodo assured her. "But you’ll have to watch to see that the poultry and pigs are not all spent before you even get them, of course. However," and again he straightened and directed his gaze to Greencap and his sons, "these three need to agree to these terms for it to happen."

       Guido again exchanged looks with his sons and then his wife. Something in Quince’s expression apparently decided him for he twisted his cap in his hands and stood bent almost double, a remarkably crooked grin on his face before he looked again at Frodo. "Ye’re a hard Hobbit, Master Frodo, sir, but a fair one, I suppose. But I don’t understand as why ’tis ye’d wish me to be a’tellin’ stories on market days. It’s not what most would call proper work, after all."

       Frodo looked at him solemnly. "No, perhaps not proper work, but at least it’s something that allows you to give rather than take from others that you do well--or at least you used to do it well when I was a lad in Whitfurrow. And one thing I learned along the way is how important it is to tell and hear our stories, for they’re a part of our identity--part of who we are. Some days it was only the memories of stories you once told that kept me from going insane."

       All within the room looked at one another, sharing glances of wonder and concern--none as yet had heard any of the details of where the four Travelers had gone or what they’d done while they were absent from the Shire.

       Frodo sighed. "You can take them out to the banquet room--and watch they don’t take anything more. By the way, turn out Torto’s pockets."

       The older of the two lads looked affronted at being singled out, but in moments they had relieved him of a number of things he’d been quietly removing from Hillie’s corner of the office, and at a significant look from Frodo Tito quietly returned a mug he’d lifted and tried to hide behind his back. Once Guido had returned the quill and the penwipe again the remaining family members were led away to join Barti and Tribbals in the other room, and Frodo drew a clean sheet of vellum to him and wrote out the order for the Broadloams’ servitude, and tried to think from whom he could purchase seven hens and a rooster at this time of the day. At last he wrote that he’d send the promised chickens to Mallard the following day and rose to go out to deliver it to Cock Robin.

       "You’ll see this into Mallard’s hands?" he asked quietly.

       "Gladly, Mr. Frodo, sir," Robin assured him. "Must say as it’s a most unusual sentence."

       "It will relieve Mistress Quince," Frodo said with a glance at the Hobbitess where she sat with her daughter in her lap, "and hopefully will give incentive to the lads to learn a skill or two regarding how to properly raise stock of their own." He looked at the Broadloam family with interest.

       Greencap and the lads had been made to sit in the center of the room, away from anything they might be tempted to try to pocket, but they appeared cheerfully resigned. "We know as you don’t mean no insult by it," Guido assured those guarding the integrity of the room from this surfeit of Broadloams, then he looked at Frodo as he approached him, his characteristic wheedling grin fading as he examined the face of the deputy Mayor he’d seen so often as a lad, almost as if he were searching for something he remembered from that time. "Ye had a hard time of it, then," he said with uncharacteristic solemnity. "Mayhap ye’re not certain as ye ought to’ve come back, even. But I’ve the feelin’ as ye’ll be good for the Shire, Master Baggins, sir--good for the Shire. Old Flour Dumplin’--he’d of never thought to of done as ye have, ye know."

       "No, Will would never have done what I’ve done; but, then, of course, I’m not him. Now, you keep your side of the bargain and I’ll keep mine. And your daughter will sit on your lap before all to hear with the rest."

       "But why, Master Baggins, sir? Why let ’er see as how cruel the world is t’ those as is different?"

       "Do you love her? Are you proud of her?"

       Guido’s voice in response was almost derisive. "Well, o’ course!"

       "Then let your own love for her be seen by all. Let all others know it; and if they realize you love and respect her, they’ll realize they should treat her well, also. Yes, some like Lotho Sackville-Baggins are cruel and will remain cruel toward such as she no matter what; but those whose opinions mean the most will respond as you show the way. And she has as much right to hear the stories as all the other children do."

       Greencap Broadloam searched Frodo’s face some more, then with a touch of true respect such as he rarely showed he said, "O’ course, sir. Thankee, sir." He rose and addressed his sons. "We’ll go, then, but until we’s out o’ the hole we’re touchin’ nothin’, lads." And the lads, their expressions surprised, rose. At a look from their father Torto removed a small bridle brass that had hung on the wall from his pocket and set it on the table, and Tito solemnly handed Robin Smallburrow his wallet for his pipeweed. Then with a marked dignity Greencap set his cap on his head, reached down to take his daughter gently into his arms, and led his family out of the hole, accompanied by Cock Robin and Bartimo Tunnely. As they passed the deputy Mayor, Tribbals turned her head to smile into Frodo’s eyes, and he found himself smiling freely in return.

       "Why do you want seven hens and a rooster?" Everard Took asked Frodo the following morning. "You’ve never kept poultry."

       "Does it matter why I want them?" Frodo asked, annoyed. "They are an investment of sorts, and I never said I would wish to keep them myself."

       "Well, as Lotho’s folks never got into the Tooklands properly, it does happen that three of the farm folk on the northern borders were able to keep their flocks. Maybe we can convince Borigrin to give you a few.

       Frodo shook his head. "As I said, this is an investment, so I insist on paying a fair price. I do ask that the hens be good layers and young, though."

       "He’s to be in here in about an hour’s time anyway--we can ask him when he comes, then."

       And before mid-afternoon Borigrin Took was crating up nine chickens for a trip to Whitfurrow, the Took having decided to make certain that all Frodo had asked and more would arrive safely at the other end. It had been a time since Bori had seen Frodo Baggins, and he’d been shocked at the expression in his distant cousin’s eyes. Whatever he could do to ease Frodo’s worries and burdens he’d quietly determined to see to.

II

       In January Torto broke the injunction against stealing, and was brought to the Lockholes and housed in one of the cells. As Frodo promised, Mayberry Brandybuck was brought to Michel Delving for a week to teach the lad how to knit stockings, and within a few days Torto was industriously applying himself to the idea. He found his enforced stay remarkably inviting at first, for he’d never had a bed so comfortable and warm before; and to receive four meals a day served without him having to assist or set the table or anything of the sort appeared luxurious in his eyes to the point of decadence. By the end of the second week, however, he was bored and homesick, and wildly jealous of all the fun he was certain his younger brother was having without him.

       Realizing the lad needed to see his family, Frodo sent a wagon to get them early in the third week.

       "Well, son, and how ye be doin’?" asked Guido Broadloam as he came within sight of Torto’s cell, twisting his cap between his two hands.

       Torto’s face involuntarily lit up to hear his father’s voice. "Well ’nuff, Da," was all he’d say in spite of the pleasure he felt at seeing his parents, brother, and sister. He showed them the stockings he’d finished knitting and explained how Missus Mayberry said he was one of the best she’d seen at turning heels, and how you had to make each pair the same size and color.

       Quince appeared interested, as did Tribbals, whose bright little eyes were busily examining her brother’s room. "What for those?" she asked, indicating the jug and basin that stood on the washstand.

       "For water for washin’," Torto explained. "They’re big on washin’ here--insist I wash afore every meal. And they have a tub, too, and I can bathe when I want to. It’s only a hot bath on Highday, but I can bathe in cool water any time."

       Tribbals appeared suitably impressed. Unlike children of Men, Hobbits of most ages tended to enjoy bathing.

       The visit was a happy one, particularly as the family was offered a meal by Missus Whitfoot, the Mayor’s wife, who today supplied the food for those held in the revised lockups.

       Frodo watched the visit with a feeling of relief. He’d felt terrible having to bring the lad to Michel Delving for a month, but what was he to do but keep the word he’d given them? Otherwise he’d not be respected by them, and their behavior would only grow worse rather than better.

       Quince was the soberest of the bunch, for she knew how rare it was for a Hobbit to be held in a room with no access to sun or sight of green fields for days on end. But she could see how well her son was being treated, and how gently the warders spoke with him. At least Torto was comfortably housed and had been given worthwhile work to do, although it was hard to imagine that there were indeed folk who’d need those stockings he was knitting. But although she’d not say this to her husband, she secretly felt that her children needed to realize that there was another way to live, and proper standards for behavior they should follow. However, she strongly suspected the only one of the three of them to truly understand they ought not to try to take everything they saw was Tribbals, the one of them expected by most to understand the least.

       When the visit was over the wagon bore the family back to Whitfurrow, Tribbals giving Mr. Frodo another big hug before they left; and two weeks later Torto rejoined the rest.

       Finding the weaner pigs had proven a bigger challenge than obtaining the chickens, for most farms that had once raised pigs had been heavily depleted of swine during the Time of Troubles; but at last Frodo found a remote farm in the North Farthing where Lotho’s Big Men didn’t appear to have made much of an inroad on the herd of pigs the farmer’d been breeding for decades. Frodo found himself paying dearly for the piglets, but he felt it was worthwhile as he heard the dispatches from Whitfurrow.

       Mallard Smallburrow had been shocked at the sentence given to Torto and Tito Broadloam and the idea that Frodo Baggins himself was loaning chickens to him that would, in the fullness of time, be given to the Broadloams; but he couldn’t see any other method at the moment to build up his flock once more. It was quickly obvious the hens were all good layers; and as spring returned to the Shire he found six of the hens were going broody on him. By the first of May his flock had increased marvelously, and he happily set the two Broadloam lads to repairing secondary pens and henhouses, soon sorting out the chicks from the separate clutches along with their mothers. By the time the year was up his flock had increased to forty hens and three roosters, and he relinquished the promised eight birds to the Broadloams without rancor.

       Tribbals sat in her father’s lap happily enough on market days to hear the stories he told, and now other children were beginning to approach her, at first tentatively and then more confidently, to invite her to join them in their games and activities. She also proved a good one to deal with the pigs, watching them closely and noting when one or another was off its feed or appeared less than healthy, at which time she’d fetch her mother to check it out.

       Quince Broadloam was thrilled to have the stock to tend, and as several of the hens began going broody soon after their arrival she watched them closely, and insisted that the family "useful items" be cleared well away from the chicken coop that rats not have an easy time approaching the poultry yard and hen house.

       Tribbals kept a close eye on the Road. Frodo Baggins used to travel frequently between Hobbiton and Buckland and had usually traveled the Road; however, it wasn’t until early May the first year after the return of the Travelers that he set out on a walking-trip to see his Brandybuck relatives, and when he passed through Whitfurrow along the way he was riding with a farmer and didn’t stay his journey in the village where he used to live. On his return he rode a pony alongside his cousins Merry and Pippin, and the three did pause as Tribbals, having seen them coming, stepped out into the way.

       "Best stop," Pippin said, surprised to see a small child step into the road before them. "Who is it who would allow so young a child to wander so out into the road?"

       Frodo, however, recognized the small figure, and swung out of the saddle once he’d brought Berry to a halt. "Well, hello, Mistress Tribbals," he said smiling. "You look to greet us?"

       "’Lo," she responded. "You come at last."

       "Yes, I’ve come this way at last. Tribbals, this is my cousin Peregrin Took, and my other cousin Meriadoc Brandybuck. Merry, Pippin, this is Tribulation Broadloam."

       "Come see pigs?" she asked.

       "I’m not certain we have time," began Merry, but at a look from Frodo he shrugged. "Oh, all right."

       Looking at the condition of the front garden for the place, they left their ponies in the small meadow opposite the Broadloam home and followed the child around the smial and through the maze of sheds and piles of hoarded things until they came to a great pig sty in the back. Three young pigs rooted in their trough, although one paused at their approach and hurried to the side of the pen to look up at them. Tribbals reached through the slats in the sty walls to scratch its head, and it rubbed enthusiastically at the pen wall, obviously pleased at the attention. Merry looked at the three pigs and then at Frodo with interest, although Frodo pointedly ignored his cousin’s questioning eyes.

       The back door for the smial opened and Quince came out, then stopped in surprise at the sight of three grown Hobbits at the wall of the sty with her daughter. "Tribbals?" she called out. "Who’s that with you? You there--what are you doin’ with my daughter and my pigs?"

       Frodo turned, both amused and apologetic. "Pardon us, Mistress Quince. Tribbals stopped us as we rode down the West Road and insisted on showing us the pigs. They are obviously well cared for, and love Tribbals dearly."

       Immediately contrite, Quince came hurrying out to greet them. "Master Frodo? And what are you doin’ here? Them’s the other Travelers as is with you, right? Master Meriadoc, Master Peregrin? Welcome, welcome, masters! I’m proud to have you see the pigs, I am! May we offer you some tea?"

       The inside of the hole was far cleaner and more tidy than any of the three had imagined it would be, and the kettle had been properly polished almost to the point of being in danger of developing leaks. Frodo immediately decided to see to that need as soon as he could. All three of them accepted their tea with courteous thanks; and if the cups had chips on their rims and had obviously had their handles glued back on countless times they chose not to comment on it.

       "We’ve slaughtered one of the piglets, you see, for we was in need of the meat, and we’ve sold one of them to Master Mallard, even; but we’re going to see the others raised right, we are, Master Frodo. And Tribbals is delighted with them and helps me care for them, she does. And once we earn them chickens she’ll see to it as they’re cared for right well. We have plans, Tribbals and me!"

       "That’s good, Mistress Quince," Frodo assured her. "I’m so pleased at how well you and the lads and Master Guido are doing, you see. And to not receive a single complaint from your neighbors since January is wonderful. The sty is well wrought and kept marvelously clean. I am very impressed."

       "Tribbals and me--we keep the pigs clean, we do. It’s only a story that pigs is dirty--given the chance they’d prefer to be clean. Only need somethin’ to keep cool in when it gets hot, they do, for they can’t sweat like people can. We’ll be fixin’ a pool of sorts for them--the water from the spring is clean and cool."

       "You seem to know a good deal about them," Merry noted.

       "Me da, he was always one to raise pigs, you know. Swore as they was smarter’n most Hobbits. And these’ve been right good’uns, you see. Oh, Master Frodo, sir, you done so well as you’ve done by my family. And who knows--mayhaps we’ll be able to teach Tito and Torto as how to act right, mayhaps!"

       "I will certainly hope so," Frodo assured her. "But now we must be on our way, for they’re expecting us early in the morning in Hobbiton." And with as great courtesy as he’d have shown his Aunts Lanti or Esme he rose and took his leave, and soon was ready to swing up into Berry’s saddle.

       "Wait, Mer Frodo," Tribbals called out. "I give you your hug first."

       Frodo turned and knelt down. "All right, Tribbals," he said quietly. And with grave gentleness, when she hugged him he hugged her in return, murmuring something in her ear. She giggled as she let him go, and watched him mount his pony.

       "That yours?" she asked.

       "No, this is Sam’s pony. We had to leave her at first in Bree, and then got her from there to Buckland, and now I’m taking her home to Sam. Since I walked to Brandy Hall, I could ride Sam’s pony home to him in Hobbiton."

       "I see, Mer Frodo. Well, you come ’gain, see?"

       "When I can. Perhaps I’ll try visiting Buckland again this summer or something. If not this summer, definitely next year."

       "All right. Go well, Mer Frodo."

       "Stay well, Tribbals."

       "Now," Pippin commented once they were out of sight of the Broadloam smial, "that was interesting. You have provided them with those pigs?"

       Frodo shrugged and stayed quiet.

       Merry and Pippin looked at one another over their stubborn cousin’s head. Merry, making a point of not looking at Frodo, said, "I understand you asked my Dad to send someone here to assist in the construction of a sty and a chicken coop."

       Again Frodo merely shrugged.

       "Why would you go out of your way to help Greencap Broadloam?" Merry persisted.

       Pippin gave his older cousin a thoughtful look as Frodo remained quiet, his jaw set. Catching Merry’s eye, he suggested, "I think it’s the lass, myself. It’s obvious she’s set her cap for him--or she would have, if she wore one."

       Frodo glared. "Pippin, she’s but a child!"

       "And you never could resist a child that indicated she liked you, and you know it, Frodo Baggins. And is that where those chickens you purchased from Bori are intended to end up?"

       "It is none of your business, Peregrin Took."

       Pippin again exchanged looks with Merry over Frodo’s head. "You heard, that, Merry my lad! None of my business, is it? Hmmph!"

       Merry was shaking his head. "Guess we’ll have to get Sam to tell us."

       Frodo’s glare increased in intensity. "Sam knows nothing about it. And if you truly are convinced Sam knows all of my business, you are definitely wrong. Besides, he’s busy becoming used to being Rosie’s husband. Leave him alone!"

       The next time they saw Sam alone, Merry and Pippin made a point of asking him what he knew of poultry and piglets Frodo was reported to have been buying; and Merry was shocked to realize Frodo had been correct, and that there were things of which Samwise Gamgee was ignorant about the business of Frodo Baggins.

       It was over a year before Frodo again rode to Buckland and back. On the way he stopped briefly in Whitfurrow and accepted again the hospitality of the Broadloam smial and saw their chickens and pigs. On the way back he, Merry, and Pippin stopped only long enough for Pippin to raise Tribbals up to give Frodo his hug while he sat his pony. It was very hot, and Frodo didn’t look particularly well, Quince and her daughter agreed; but he was as courteous as ever.

       Frodo had purchased two great hams smoked by the Broadloams in return for a pile of fine blankets and a bolt of cloth; and had sent a fine kettle, teapot, and set of mugs in trade for two dozen eggs. He’d quietly made another bargain with Greencap when the year of storytelling was done, that he’d purchase a milk cow for the family if Guido would continue the story telling. In the second spring of the Traveler’s return the promised cow and a calf were delivered to the smial, and Guido quickly made a bargain to graze them in the field opposite his smial in return for the meat of a large hog once it was butchered. Guido and the lads constructed a most marvelous byre for the two cattle, and at Quince’s insistence cleared away more of the piles of useful items, selling some of the metal to the blacksmith in Pincup who’d expressed interest in obtaining some raw materials while sending old bottles and glass to a glassblower in Michel Delving.

       Greencap and his sons were finally realizing there were constructive ways to dispose of some of their acquired salvage; and not only was the property about their smial beginning to be cleared, but the smial itself began to look more prosperous as their round door and window sills and shutters acquired a smooth coat of lilac paint, and new curtains appeared on the windows.

       The Broadloams didn’t completely change their ways, of course; but Mallard Smallburrow commented to Frodo at the Free Fair that he was amazed at how much the village of Whitfurrow appreciated the changes about the place, and how it wasn’t as much of an eyesore for those traveling the Road, and how much his grandchildren looked forward to Market Day when they could expect to hear Greencap’s marvelous stories told.

       "And did you know that their daughter Tribbals can bake?" he asked. "Who’d have believed it of a child like that, moon-touched and all? Yet on Market Days when the children gather to hear her dad’s stories she’s begun bringing biscuits her parents insist she baked herself, and they are marvelous! My wife’s been talking with Quince of the possibility of Quince and Tribbals opening a bakeshop in the village."

       A week later the family of Greencap Broadloam was approached by one of the Goodbody bankers of discretion offering them the aid of a silent partner to open a bakeshop, and by mid-August the enterprise was open, and was declared a success by the end of September by a much gratified Mallard Smallburrow.

       But when in late October three dozen assorted biscuits were sent to Hobbiton to the home of the former deputy Mayor, the thank-you letter sent back to Whitfurrow hadn’t been written by Frodo Baggins but by Samwise Gamgee, who explained simply that he was grieved to report that Master Frodo had left the Shire to retire amongst the Elves as had his Uncle Bilbo.

       I’m sorry I can’t send any of your biscuits to him, the letter continued, for there’s no regular post betwixt the Shire and where he’s gone. But he left me word of the friendship as he’s known with your family, and of how highly he’s come to think of you, and has asked as I’ll keep an eye on your welfare for him, and assure young Tribbals that he’ll never forget her.

       Quince quietly read out the letter to the rest of her family, and then surrendered the missive to Tribbals, who squirreled it away in her room.

       Samwise Gamgee and his wife and daughter rode to Buckland in the early spring, Sam with his daughter before him on the pony he’d ridden home to the Shire two years previous, Mistress Rose on the pony Strider that Frodo had ridden at the same time. As they rode back a small girlchild stepped out into the Road to intercept them, a child Sam realized was moon-touched--perhaps moon-touched, but also very determined.

       "You come eat biscuits," she insisted, and the three of them had finally slipped from their ponies and followed her into the smial.

       They were overwhelmed by the courtesy and hospitality offered them by the child and her mother, her brothers scurrying to bring more plates of biscuits and mugs of tea and plates of deviled eggs and cress at a word from their parent and sister. At last, once she’d decided their guests ought to be full, the lass looked fully into Sam’s face. "Where Mer Frodo?" she asked firmly.

       A deep but dignified sadness filled Sam’s eyes, but he answered steadily enough, "He’s gone, lass, gone from the Shire."

       "Him come back?"

       He gave a slight yet decided shake of his head, not taking his eyes from hers. "No, he can’t come back again. He’s gone too far."

       "Where him go?"

       For some minutes Sam didn’t answer, and at last admitted reluctantly, "To Tol Eressëa, there in the Undying Lands. He went with Lord Elrond and the Lady Galadriel and Lord Gildor Inglorion and other great Elves, and old Mr. Bilbo and Gandalf. He can’t come back again, for ships can’t return from there."

       "Why?"

       Again there was a long pause. At last Sam sighed, "Because it scoured him right out, what he had to do, lass, scoured him out and left him empty. He did what he could when we come back, but he couldn’t do more, so when the chance was offered him he took it." He swallowed and looked down, then back to her eyes. "He gave all he had to save Middle Earth, you see, there outside, when him and me went to Mordor."

       The child just kept looking at him with her wide-open, surprised expression. Finally she said, "Him should come me. Me give him hug--him feel better then."

       Rosie gave a strangled, sob-like sound as she held her own small daughter close to her. "Dearling," she said thickly, "if’n love alone could of helped him heal, he’d never of needed to leave Bag End, for there was all anyone could of wanted and more. But he was fadin’, and we couldn’t fill him faster’n he was emptyin’ out. He needed his emptiness filled, and his scars healed. He needed his Light answered, and the shadows cleansed away. They can do that there, you see. The Powers can come near him there, and give him hope again, heal him."

       Tribbals appeared to be digesting this news, and at last she examined Sam. After a time she pointed to his watch chain. "That his."

       Sam gave a nod. "Yes, that was his. He left it for me, to show as I’m Master of Bag End now. He adopted me, he did; made me his heir; left all he’d had and might of had, all he’d been and might of been, to me." A tear rolled down his cheek. "Or at least he left most to me--a bit he left to others."

       The child nodded. At last she said, "Him was good--a good Hobbit. Him teached love. Him tell me it’s love as makes the Sun rise high.  Him whisper't in me ear."

      "Yes, dearling, that he did, and he’ll never quit lovin’ those as he’s known."

       Again she thought, then smiled. "You come--see pigs, chickens, cows?"

       Sam and Rosie exchanged looks, but agreed.

       Greencap they found in the byre, just having finished forking old straw into a battered barrow.  He looked up as they entered, plainly taken by surprise, his eyes somewhat wary until he realized they were being led by his daughter. "Hullo," he said, his expression becoming obsequious. "Guido Broadloam at yer service, Master, Mistress." He gave a sidelong examination of the visitors’ daughter, then smiled more directly at the tiny thing. "Welcome, small mistress," he said with a more honest warmth.

       "Samwise Gamgee at your service, Mr. Broadloam, sir--at yours and your family’s. My wife Rosie, and our daughter Elanor."

       "Him Mer Frodo’s heir," Tribbals explained.

       "Where’s Master Frodo?" asked Greencap.

       "Gone away," Sam said shortly.

       "Like old Mr. Bilbo?"

       "Yes."

      After a pause the Broadloam said, "It’ll be a great disappointment t’me lass there."

       "So she’s made plain." Sam sighed. "She wanted to show us your stock, like."

       And so, Tribbals and her father hand in hand, the two of them led their guests around the place and showed them the poultry, swine, and two head of cattle. "I’d of never thought t’keep stock," Greencap admitted, "but Master Frodo--he made a bargain with us. Who’d of thought as ’twould be so easy, keepin’ care o’ beasts like this, or tellin’ stories t’the children of a Market Day?"

      Sam looked up sharply at him. "He had you tellin’ stories, did he?" At Greencap’s nod he shared a look with his wife. "Now, if that ain’t just like him, wantin’ the stories told." His posture softened somewhat for the first time since they’d met with Mr. Broadloam.

       "Don’t rightly understand why, though," Greencap said, taking off his cap and twisting it between his hands. "But he did say’s he membered me stories from when we was lads, and said as me stories kept him sane. But what’d he do as might of drove ’im mad?"

       "Did he indeed say as the memory helped him keep sane?" Sam looked thoughtful. "At the last he said as he could hardly member nothin’ of home at all. Both of us was in a bad way at the time, but it was worse for him ’cause he was havin’ to deal with It, and It was doin’ It’s best to take him at the time. It was so heavy for him, and he’d keep stumblin’, and there wasn’t no fresh water nor food." Guido realized Sam’s eyes were utterly serious as he added, "He was so very close to dyin’, he was."

       All were silent for a time, and finally Guido asked, "How come he helped us this way, makin’ these bargains with us?"

       "Don’t rightly know as what the details of the bargains he made with you was," Sam replied, "but I know as he always had a good reason for about anything as he did. But I suspect as once he knew about your lass here he’d of wanted to make certain as your family had it as good as possible, and that you all was bein’ give the chance to be the best you could be."

       "But why give us pigs ’n’ the cows for me tellin’ stories in the village?"

       "Why not? It was only 'cause of stories we was told when we was lads that he began to understand as to why we had to leave the Shire to protect it. It was only 'cause of stories that he realized as Strider was meant to be our King, and understood about the orcs as we saw about us when we went through Mordor. It was only 'cause of stories as he understood about Sharkey and what he was meant to be and he could feel sorry for all he'd lost, followin’ the Enemy’s way."

       Sam straightened. "You have to understand, Mr. Broadloam, sir, that for my Master, especially as we was granted the grace to survive, he wanted for everyone to be the best as they can be. He’d do about anythin' to encourage folks to do what they can to make the world better. And if’n your stories help make the world better by keepin’ bairns amused or sparkin’ their minds to considerin’ things or such, he’d encourage it by whatever means. And if’n your lass here was willin’ to give him hugs to make him feel better, he’d of been moved in his heart, and would of turned Middle Earth upside down for her sake. You don’t understand how wonderful love and life is until you know hate and destruction, and he saw far too much of that from the Ring, you see. We both saw far too much of that in Mordor, but It made everythin' worse for him."

       "Did ye know’s he was leavin’?"

      "Rosie and me, we couldn’t help knowin’ as he was leavin’, but thought as he was goin’ to the Elves like old Mr. Bilbo’d done. That he was goin’ with the Elves--that he hid to the last."

       "With th’Elves," murmured Greencap. "Him went with th’Elves? Then--then he can’t come back." He looked at Sam more closely, pity in his eyes. "Ye’re grievin’ still, I see. And I suppose’s the last bargain don’t mean much, although we’ve already accepted the cows." He gave a twisted smile. "But what’m I t’do, d’ye think? After all, I been doin’ it so long now, and’t means so much t’me Tribbals here." He looked down on her, his smile fond, and brushed her hair with his calloused hand, rested it on her shoulder. Sam saw the smile reflected in the child’s face, and considered.

    When the Gamgees at last returned to their ponies in the small meadow across from the Broadloam smial Sam paused, looking across at the land around the place. "I’ll tell you what," he said, quietly. "You keep up the tellin’ o’ the tales, and I’ll see some fruit trees planted about your place."

       Surprised, Greencap agreed.

       Greencap and his sons never fully reformed, of course. Now and then they’d be caught "salvaging" something that clearly wasn’t intended to be salvaged; and the time Tito tried to sell shredded nettle leaves mixed with metal shavings and ground peppercorns by ascribing to the mixture healing powers it didn’t possess garnered a good deal of notoriety. The tween was sent off to Buckland to labor at the new Master’s side in his herb garden for the summer, and came home with seeds and plants he immediately began to cultivate a garden to see growing.

       Torto married a Sackville lass from the South Farthing and brought her to the family smial in Whitfurrow; but it was plain that the true mistress of the hole was Quince, and after her her daughter Tribulation. Betony had two children before she developed a growth Tito’s herbs and the healers couldn’t help, and finally died and was deeply mourned by her sister-in-law, who along with her mother saw to the raising of Torto’s little son and daughter.

       Tito never married, but remained there in the family hole to help care for the place, the animals, trees, and herb garden. Greencap finally died in his mid-eighties, and Quince died eight years later.

       Before she died, Quince sent for Mayor Samwise. "I ask," she said from her deathbed, "that you see to it as my lass is kept care of, please, Master Sam. Her and Delphie’ll keep the bakeshop goin’, but’ll need some watchin’ so’s no one’ll take advantage of ’em."

       Sam promised, and Quince, when she died two weeks later, was smiling as she took her leave of her progeny.

       Torto and Betony’s son Pablo at last married a local lass; she died in childbirth, but their son Billigard survived. As Pablo had died a few months earlier of the lung sickness, Tribbals had a difficult decision to make. After having the bairn wetnursed by a local Hobbitess, finally she had Tito borrow a trap from a neighbor, and brother and sister drove to Hobbiton to Bag End with the infant.

       Samwise Gamgee answered the knock, a book in his hand.

       All had been surprised at how well Tribulation Broadloam’s health had held, for those born moon-touched commonly suffered from damage to their hearts and were prone to lung problems and usually died young, or so Sam had learned in his correspondence with healers from Gondor who were knowledgeable regarding the condition. Yet Tribbals had remained stubbornly healthy over the years, and didn’t appear to have lost what memories and capabilities she’d ever possessed.

       "Tribbals? Miss Broadloam? And what can I do for you, Mistress?"

       "Me nephew," she said as Sam led her and the bairn she bore to the parlor and saw her comfortably seated. "Me nephew, Billi--Billigard Broadloam. Him needs da and mum. His dead."

       Sam examined the infant carefully before looking back into Tribbals’s face. "You wish me to help you find suitable folks for him?" he asked to clarify her wishes.

       She nodded vigorously with obvious relief. "Yeh," she answered. "Let him learn. Him not take things not his. Him learn happy, know love. Mer Frodo--him teached you well how love. You love my Billi. Him tol’ me, long ago, it’s love as makes the Sun rise high."

       Realizing just whom the determined soul opposite him intended to serve as the child’s parents, Sam took a deep breath. "Rosie and me, we’re too old to be his parents, Miss Tribbals. I don’t know how long as we’ve got left, but I suspect as it’s not but a few more years at best. And my son Frodo as’ll have Bag End after me--his children and Linnet’s is all grown up, you see."

       "But you teached them love? You teached their childs love?"

       "Of course...."

       "And Mer Frodo--he helped teached you love?"

       Sam took another deep breath before he nodded.

       "Then one of them’s childs?"

       And so it was young Hamfast Gardner and his wife Iris accepted little Billigard. Iris had recently lost her first child, but was still producing milk. Accepting this bairn eased her a great deal, as it did Tribbals.

       As she prepared to leave with her brother, Tribbals paused in the dooryard, looking in through the yellow door of Number Three where Iris Gardner sat with her new bairn in her arms, smiling as he nursed and relieved her of her burden of milk. The odd Hobbitess smiled as she climbed onto the cart’s bench. "Yeh," she said quietly, "Mer Frodo’s love’ll teach him as he teached you and you teached your childs. Good--very, very good." She put out her hand to stop Tito from chirruping to the pony pulling the trap, and looked down on Hamfast the Younger and his grandfather. "Him’s your child now--you teach him love real good. And, Mer Sam--you see Mer Frodo, you tell him, tell him his love is still teached. You tell him."

       And with a nod she indicated Tito should drive off, and the last sight Sam had of her was of her bent back, and the last he heard was her voice crooning, "It’s love, it’s love as makes the Sun rise high."

Author’s Notes

       As a special education teacher of over thirty-five years experience (Yow! It’s been that long??!!!) I’ve dealt mostly with three populations: those with visual disabilities, those with mental impairments (retardation or developmental disabilities), and those with learning disabilities. That being true, I find my profession creeps constantly into my writing. Ruvemir’s observations on what it means to be born with recognized differences and disabilities made in "The King’s Commission" and "Lesser Ring" are a reflection of my own dedication to the disabilities rights movement; while Frodo’s part in those disabled by involvement with the Ring War beginning to find their own way to rehabilitation reflects my training in the field and our family experience with the rehabilitation movement sparked by the U.S. Veterans Administration. Ririon of Minas Tirith from "The King’s Commission" and "The Acceptable Sacrifice" and Ferdibrand Took from several of my stories represent my experience working with individuals with blindness, and now Tribulation Broadloam represents my experience working with those with developmental disabilities.

       I’ve had several students and clients and even friends who have had Downs Syndrome. Such individuals typically appear overweight and even doughy; have round faces, are usually significantly shorter than average, oftentimes have overlarge tongues that can cause their speech to be unclear or even in some rare cases totally unintelligible, eyes with an odd fold to the eyelid, somewhat flattened noses, and hands with stubby fingers with the little finger typically at a distinctively odd angle. Such individuals typically have lungs particularly prone to low-level respiratory infections and frequently are born with heart defects peculiar to the genotype. Most often such individuals are singularly affable and affectionate, and are often surprisingly empathic in nature.

       And almost all are considered mentally retarded or developmentally delayed, depending on the clinical title to which one is most accustomed.

       This condition is due to genetic irregularities, but it is not usually familial in nature. Instead of an inherited genetic defect, this condition is due to improperly duplicated and split genetic material, usually involving the individual receiving three copies of chromosome 21. As a result the condition is often referred to by geneticists as "trisomy 21."

       The condition is common to all races in our modern-day world, and whether the individual is of black, white, oriental, or other racial origin all appear sufficiently similar to transcend racial differences.

       I must assume that this condition and other conditions due to improper splitting and pairing of genetic material would have been as common in Middle Earth as they are in our reality; as there was no Dr. Downs to name the condition after, and probably an almost total lack of familiarity with oriental peoples to misname the condition as "Mongoloidism" as it was known in my youth, there would have to be a different name assigned to it. "Moon-touched" seemed as good a name as any, and is mirrored in our own culture at one time considering mental illness to be due to lunar influences, to the point we refer to individuals who are out of control mentally or emotionally as "lunatics."

       In actuality there is a very large range of abilities associated with this condition. In my first proper classroom I had three students who had Downs Syndrome, all of whom were considered profoundly retarded; in the classroom on one side of mine were four, all of whom were learning to communicate via sign language as their over-large tongues had made it impossible to speak intelligibly and who moved about the institution with moderate supervision; on the other side were four who could speak fairly clearly who functioned largely independently within the community of DD individuals who populated the institution in which I worked. I now work with DD adults, and one of the most independent of the individuals I deal with regularly has Downs.

       There are now successful actors with Downs Syndrome, although such individuals more commonly work in undemanding professions such as as baggers at grocery stores, as custodial assistants, as sorters and assemblers in plants manufacturing simple implements such as kitchen tools and brooms, as operators of washers and dryers in laundries, as bakers’ assistants, and so on.

       But if Tribbals is a tribute to those with Downs I have known, she must be most dedicated to a girl from an intensive public school program that visited the institution in which I first worked. This group did adapations of plays and musicals and performed them in schools, institutions, and for community groups such as senior centers and Rotary Clubs throughout our region. One year they did an adaptation of "Fiddler on the Roof," and this girl played Chava, the third daughter to Tevye and Golda, the one who married a Russian Christian youth. The girl had a difficult time making herself understood verbally; yet she carried off the role of Chava with a dignity and sensitivity that was marvelous to watch. And when she danced to the song "Chavala" we were all deeply moved--she had a natural grace I’ve not seen duplicated by most of the professional dancers I’ve watched over the years.

       And so she has now appeared here in my collection of stories, and I hope that if she still lives someone will read this story to her.

       I do believe that the compassion that blossomed in Frodo Baggins particularly after the destruction of the Ring would have led him to appreciate Tribbals Broadloam; that he would seek to help her family provide the best environment for her and would encourage them to involve her in the community and would even finance a bakeshop once he found out she’d learned how to bake cookies seemed very likely.

       As for the Broadloams in general--this family has been tickling my imagination for about a year, and was demanding to be let out into the literary world. I’ve dealt with such families, and have seen some of them completely turned around with intensive positive input from the community while others have remained stubbornly asocial. I find I enjoy this family as much as many who’ve commented on the story, and I very much appreciate how well they’ve been received.

       As for whether Tribbals will appear in other stories--she and her great-nephew Billigard are mentioned in "Reunion." I’ve been working on this story for several months, and it’s been one of those that refused to resolve itself until I’d managed to mention Tribbals elsewhere--then and only then did she agree to cooperate in seeing this story finished. I suspect she might appear now and then, but she’s already let me know that if she does it will only be because she wishes to be included. She’s let me know she’s not a tame Hobbit.  (Apologies to C.S. Lewis.)