Sam closed his book.  As he rested his callused fingertips on its soft leathery cover, he smiled.  It had been so good of Mr. Bilbo to give him a book for Yule!  And a book about Elves!  He had just finished reading it the third time.

He scanned the room.  His gaffer was sitting on a stool across the room, whittling; Marigold was churning the goat’s milk into butter.  For a moment, he thought of telling them a story from his book, but thought better of it.

They wouldn’t understand, Sam thought.  Leastwise, my gaffer wouldn’t.  He can’t read.  No one ever taught him, or Marigold, either.

Gratitude surged through his heart.  He could!  Thanks to Mr. Bilbo, he could read and write and do math.  He could pick up a book and read it; he could write letters to his brothers who lived so far away; he could calculate the amount of money needed to pay for seeds.  And all thanks to Mr. Bilbo, who had taught him all that and told him stories about Elves, too.

So many working hobbits don’t never get to learn to read, he thought.  My gaffer never did.  I’m so thankful I did!