Chapter 2. By the Book

It was with a feeling of accomplishment that I turned my feet once more towards Bag End and, if my absent-minded cousin had not forgotten, supper.

I had found rather a nice specimen of wild rose rambling over a stone wall, a few late blooms glowing in the sunshine and a number of perfectly formed hips in evidence. I had gathered a pocketful of these to brew into tea, wonderfully refreshing stuff and quite the thing when the nose grows “snifflesome”, as Pip is so fond of saying.

Not that my nose was snifflesome at the time, mind, but it always helps to be prepared against future contingencies.

In any event, I was passing through the Old Orchard planted by Bilbo’s father, planning to snag an apple along the way, when I heard a distinct sniff to one side. It was a good thing I had a pocketful of rose hips, very timely!

Looking over, I spied young Samwise Gamgee (in actuality, I think he’s a bit older than I am, but I’ve never let on) crouched at the base of one of the trees, trimming the grass around the bole.

 ‘Samwise!’ I cried heartily, being in an excellent humour.

He rose, hastily dragging his sleeve across his eyes. ‘Master Merry,’ he mumbled, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on his toes.

 ‘Not sickening with anything, I hope?’ I said more gently, seeing how things were with him.

 ‘No sir, thank you sir,’ he said, and with a bob he bent once more to his work.

 ‘Well that’s good,’ I said, for want of anything better, but then my eye fell upon a book half-hidden by the grass. ‘What’s this?’ I said, stooping to pick it up.

 ‘O Master Merry,’ he said, straightening again, and had to stop to clear his throat. ‘It was Mr. Bilbo’s, he left it for me... Gave my gaffer two sacks o’ potatoes, as you know, a new spade, a woollen waistcoat, and a bottle of ointment.’

 ‘And all he gave you was a battered old book?’ I said curiously. I’d always thought him more grateful than greedy.

I had been right about his earlier distress; tears stood in the eyes that met mine as he snatched the book from me and hugged it to himself. ‘It’s what he gave me,’ he said defiantly, ‘and it’s all I ever wanted. Just think! A book of my own! And it’s the one he used to learn me my letters...’ The outpouring of words ceased suddenly and he flushed, once more staring at his toes as if he thought they’d fall off without constant scrutiny.

I was about to pat him on the shoulder, murmur something understanding about missing Bilbo, when he took me by surprise, thrusting the book at me with a hoarse, ‘Here.’

I took the book automatically. ‘What?’ I said, quite stupidly. I pride myself on knowing the right thing to say, but as I mentioned, he quite took me by surprise.

 ‘Take it back to Mr. Frodo,’ he whispered. His toes remained reassuringly fixed under his steady gaze.

 ‘Take it back—you mean you don’t want it?’ I said, astounded.

 ‘I want it,’ he said so low that I had to strain to hear him.

 ‘Then keep it!’ I said, trying to put it back in his hands. ‘Bilbo gave it to you!’

 ‘No,’ he said, clasping his hands together to avoid taking the book.

 ‘But you can’t give it back to Frodo; he won’t take it!’ I said, mystified by the young gardener’s behaviour.

 ‘I cannot keep it,’ he muttered, even lower. Sudden inspiration seized him and he grabbed at my arm. ‘You take it, Master Merry. I’ll give it to you!’

 ‘No, I...’ I began, before sudden realisation struck. I remembered Bilbo quoting old Hamfast Gamgee. Learn him his letters, Mr. Bilbo! Learn him his letters! Better for him to have his head in the dirt than in the clouds, begging your pardon and all, sir!’

 ‘Your father won’t let you keep the book,’ I guessed, and from the bright colour that infused his cheeks I knew I’d hit the mark. I hugged the book to my breast, suddenly grateful all over again for a loving and understanding father.

I opened the book to a glowing portrait of Lilac, Lily and Larkspur. As I riffled through the pages, from Aster to Yarrow (and “Z” for the buzzing bee), the illustrations nearly jumped off the page. Indeed, I remember perusing these pages of a rainy day at Bag End, long ago, tracing the delicate drawings with a finger and wishing I could draw such things.

 ‘Very well,’ I said, closing the book. ‘I’ll take it.’

 Samwise’s shoulders slumped even more, if possible, but I continued, ‘if you’ll agree to share it with me.’

 He looked up quizzically. ‘I don’t take your meaning, Master Merry, begging your pardon.’

I was thinking furiously. My first inclination had been to ask Samwise to keep the book safe for me, but that wouldn’t work. His gaffer had told him to take it back to Bag End. The book had to be kept someplace where Samwise could have easy access to it in a rare moment of free time.

 ‘Come with me,’ I said.

Unquestioning, he laid down his clippers and fell into step behind me as I strode purposefully through the orchard to the wildflower meadow and the drop beyond. There’s a trail there, a bit tricky, and once I turned an ankle there and had to be carried back to Bag End, but it was the quickest way to the little wood beyond, so all I said was, ‘Watch your step,’ to Samwise as I began to pick my way down the steep rocky slope.

We reached the bottom without untoward incident and walked from thence across the field below and into the wood. It was already quite dark and shadowy, though the Sun was an hour or so from taking her rest.

I found the tree I was wanting. I ran my hand along the bole (standing on his tip-toes Pip could just reach the place) and cautiously inserted my fingers into the large, dry hole where the bole forked into two parts. I felt carefully—no animal was nesting there. Indeed, all my fingers found was a yellowing paper, carefully folded, bearing Pip’s crooked script. Who ever finds this MUST take me fishing!

I smiled and pocketed the note. Turning to Sam, I said, ‘We’ll put the book here. It’ll be safe from rain and weather. I’ll expect you to come and check on it on occasion, to make sure no animal has taken up residence. We wouldn’t want the book to be chewed to bits, now, would we?’

Wondering brown eyes met mine. ‘You want me to check on it?’ he said slowly, as if trying to fit his mind around this new idea. It wasn’t defying his father, not really; it was a request from Mr. Frodo’s cousin, one of the gentry, and so an obligation he was required to honour.

 ‘That’s right,’ I said, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Check on it. Sit down, take enough time to look through every page to make sure there’s no damage. If you find damage, of course, we’ll have to find a new home for the tome. But unless and until that happens, I want to keep it right here, in the post office tree. I don’t have to worry about any other hobbits finding it, besides Pip and Frodo; it’s our secret.’

I looked him straight in the eye. ‘And yours,’ I said. ‘I trust you won’t tell another soul, Samwise.’

 ‘Not another soul,’ he breathed.

 ‘Good!’ I said. ‘Now then, it’ll be dark soon. Let us head back.’