Helping Hands

Pippin crouched in the dirt, digging, as Sam stood beside him, leaning on his spade. It made him uneasy, it did, being made to watch when it was really his work to do. But the lad had insisted, and Sam didn’t dare to argue with him. Not that Pippin was bad-tempered, for all that his cousins spoiled him. Sam had never met a more good-natured child, and it was for that reason alone that he only grumbled a bit whenever Pippin trailed him through the garden, which happened often enough, during his visits.

“Like this, Sam?” Pippin asked, looking up. His face was streaked with dirt, and he watched nervously as Sam peered closely at the neat little row of holes he had just dug.

Nodding, Sam smiled and patted Pippin’s curls, made warm by the strong sunlight overhead. “You’re a right good help, you are.”

Pippin grinned in delight.