Chapter Five: Spring Fever

That evening Frodo was on tenterhooks all through dinner, scarcely able to eat for excitement. He tried to catch Coronel’s eye but Mrs. Hornblower was monopolizing him with endless questions on the latest fashions being worn by the ladies of the Great Smials.

Otherwise, the conversation was dominated by pipeweed. The seedlings had arrived and were to be planted on the morrow, and Rory was in great good spirits. He and Hamilcar toasted each other repeatedly with Brandy Hall Vineyards’ finest, pledging close and lasting ties between Buckland and the Southfarthing, their own undying friendship, mutual esteem, and so forth.

Hamilcar was full of instructions and advice regarding the young plants. "You’ll have naught to worry about once they’re safely in the ground," he said. "Of course, there’s always a slight risk of transplant root rot setting in, but I don’t see that happening here."

While Hyacinth was surrounded by her usual retinue, her brother had made a point of sitting next to Frodo.  Ever since the fight he had taken great pains to make amends; indeed he seemed to have adopted 'Being Nice to Cousin Frodo' as his personal mission.  Frodo didn't mind this so much, except that Horatio's solicitous attentions were a bit distracting when all he really wanted was to be left alone to wonder whether Hyacinth had liked the poem, and to admire her every elegant move.

Just now she was buttering a slice of bread. Frodo watched, entranced, as she broke off a bite-sized piece, then with a graceful flick of her wrist captured a dab of butter with the tip of her knife. So lightly that it seemed almost a caress, she smoothed the butter over the bit of bread and carefully set the knife back down on her plate before daintily nibbling on the tiny morsel.

A sudden shout of laughter drew Frodo’s startled attention to the head of the table, where Rory was eating, talking, and gesturing all at the same time. As Frodo stared in horror, he tore off a great chunk of bread from the loaf by his plate, slathered it with butter and stuffed the whole thing in his mouth. Frodo wanted to sink under the table in mortification. What kind of coarse, unmannered folk must the Hornblowers think his family? Not daring to take another bite himself, he spent the remainder of the meal pushing food around on his plate, half-listening to Horatio’s personal theories on the pipeweed’s prospects, and stealing glances at Hyacinth. Once she looked up and met his eyes with an inscrutable expression. Did she know?

Fluffy yapped impatiently until her mistress set her on the floor, then pranced over to the hearth where Garm was chewing on a cheese rind. This time it took only one authoritative yip to send the hound slinking off to Rory’s chair. Fluffy contentedly curled up inside the rind and fell asleep.

As dinner finally drew to a close and the hobbits rose from the table, Coronel looked Frodo’s way and inclined his head slightly toward the Hall’s main entrance. Taking the hint, Frodo slipped away unnoticed and hurried down the passageway to the front doors. Bursting outside he nearly collided with his cousin, who was there ahead of him, and seized his arm in a death grip. "Well?"

"Well…" Coronel echoed, pausing for dramatic effect and grinning at Frodo’s anxious face. He cuffed him playfully. What do you think, lad? She loved it, of course!

Frodo gave a short, happy laugh. "She did?"

"She read it over three times…and blushed more on every reading!"

Frodo’s delight faded as a sudden, worrisome thought struck him. "Did she ask you who sent it?" he faltered.

"Aye, but I told her that the secret would die with me," replied Coronel with a wink.

"And…she wasn’t cross?"

"Oh, she was vexed all right! But no amount of coaxing on her part served to drag it out of me…" Coronel suddenly changed the subject. "But I’ve saved the best news for last, Cousin!"

"Yes?" breathed Frodo eagerly.

"She said that if Prince Udo should feel inclined to write another poem for her, she would be delighted to receive it."

"Oh!" Frodo suddenly felt a bit overwhelmed. "She—she wants another poem?"

"Indeed she does, lad! D’you think you can manage it?"

Frodo drew himself up proudly and looked at Coronel with a determined glint in his eye. "The princess can depend on it!"

* * *

Morning found Frodo bouncing along the passage toward the kitchen, singing loudly:

Is’t not fine to dance and sing
With a hey nonny nonny

He paused only long enough to chirp cheerily, "Morning, Aunt Ezzie! Morning, Uncle Sara!" as he passed them.

A little madness in the spring
Is wholesome even for the King
Hey nonny nonny no!

Esmeralda and Saradoc glanced at each other, eyebrows aloft. It wasn’t like Frodo to go breezing through Brandy Hall singing silly little ditties…

But they were in for an even bigger surprise, as a rumbling baritone took up the song:

Is’t not fine to swim in wine
And turn upon the toe

It was Rory, and as he approached he and Frodo finished together:

And sing hey nonny no!

"Good morning, Frodo! How’s my favorite nephew?" Rory boomed jovially.

"Never better, Uncle!" said Frodo, beaming at him.

Rory laughed and tousled his hair before continuing on down the passage, whistling merrily, as Frodo disappeared in the other direction.

Sara now stared at Ezzie open-mouthed. While relations between Rory and Frodo had improved in recent years, it still could not be said that they got on well together.

But Esmeralda shrugged and said simply, "It’s spring!" Then, giggling like a flighty lass of twenty, she reached up on tiptoe to give Sara a quick kiss before running off herself.

Sara just shook his head, bemused. Suddenly he smiled, glanced around self-consciously and, seeing no one, hastened after his wife, humming happily and slightly off-key.

Hey nonny nonny no.

* * *

After breakfast Frodo hurried toward the wing of Brandy Hall that housed the school. Rory had commandeered Falstaff Goodbody, the schoolmaster, to assist him in devising and recording possible names for the new Buckland pipeweed that, he was confident, would soon be renowned throughout the Shire. Frodo was to teach today in his stead.

He entered the small schoolroom to find a dozen young hobbit-lads already seated, books and slates neatly arranged on their desks. "Good morning, Mr. Baggins!" they chorused.

"Good morning class," replied Frodo, as always barely able to suppress a grin at this greeting. It was near 13 years yet before he could by rights be called "Mister," yet custom required that this title of respect be given to anyone teaching school, be it only for the day.

Frodo sat down at the schoolmaster’s desk and read over the lesson plan Falstaff had prepared:

Reading ("Edifying Tales from the Life of Gorhendad Oldbuck"), one hour

Sums, one half-hour

History of Buckland (Part Twelve: The Planting of the High Hay), one hour

Writing (topic: "Why the Shire Is Not Superior to Buckland"), one half-hour

Local family trees (Maggot of Bamfurlong, Puddifoot of the Marish, Banks of Standelf), two hours

He sighed and his glance strayed to the window, where another glorious spring morning beckoned seductively. The view was dominated by an enormous chestnut tree—not yet in bloom but with tender new leaves unfurling against an impossibly blue sky and kindled to green-gold fire by the sun.

The words started forming, unbidden, in his mind. He surveyed the expectant, upturned faces of his young charges, waiting patiently for his instructions, and made his decision. "Class, put away your books and come along outside. All you need to bring are pen, ink, and parchment."

The students stared at each other in surprise and confusion. Finally one ventured cautiously, "What are we goin’ to do, Mr. Baggins?"

Frodo looked at him and smiled. "Today we are going to write poetry!"

* * *

Late that afternoon Frodo was draped across his bed, looking over his newest effort:

Where-e’er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade,
Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade,
Where-e’er you tread, the blushing flowers shall rise,
And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.

He frowned, hoping Hyacinth would not think it overly formal. But while writing in the garden surrounded by his eager, curious pupils, he had felt too constrained to use the more intimate thou and thine.

Gradually intruding on these thoughts came the sounds of a distant commotion, and Frodo looked out the window to see Farmer Puddifoot storming up the path toward Brandy Hall, complaining loudly as he came. Trailing behind him was his son Wat, a student at the school and an eager participant in the morning’s poetry session. Long experience had taught Frodo to make himself scarce during such visits, and by the time farmer and son were coming in at the front of the Hall, he was slipping out the back.

* * *

Rory’s family was gathered around him in the kitchen, where they had been summoned to offer their opinions on the prospective pipeweed names. The day’s planting had gone well and Rory was already making elaborate plans for Buckland’s newest export crop.

"All right Falstaff, let’s hear ’em all, then we can take a vote."

With a long-suffering sigh, Falstaff began reading from a list: "Buckland BroadLeaf…Eastern Gold…Old Rory—"

"That one’s my favorite," put in Rory eagerly.

Sara and Mac looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

"Old Looney would be more fitting," sniffed Gilda. 

"Eh? What’s that, wife?"

"I said—"

But before Gilda could repeat herself she was interrupted by a loud and highly irate voice heralding someone’s rapid approach down the main passage: "…such nonsense as I’ve never heard in all my days! We’ll just see what the Master has to say about this!" A moment later Farmer Puddifoot burst into the kitchen, followed more slowly by his eldest son Wat.

"G’day to you, Silas!" cried Rory. "You’re just in time to hear the names I’m considering for my pipeweed!"

But the farmer was not to be deterred. "Don’t you ‘g’day’ me, Rory! There’s naught good about it, to my thinkin’!"

Rory frowned. "What’s curdled your milk, old boy?"

"I’ll tell you what—it’s that school as my Wat here’s been attendin’—it’s gone and filled his head with queer notions!"

Saradoc and Falstaff both started, and stared at him in surprise and alarm. "What do you mean, sir?" sputtered the schoolmaster defensively.

"Well, it’s like this: I don’t mind sayin’ as I’ve had my doubts about this school right from the get-go, but the missus was keen on it and I had to allow that some book larnin’ might come in handy at that, for keeping the accounts and writin’ up the grain contracts and the like.

"Anyhow, when Wat got home this afternoon I thought he was actin’ a mite peculiar, but said naught about it and set him to tallyin’ up our seed grain inventory, so’s I could reckon how much more to buy at the fair next week.

"When I came back after a spell to see how he was gettin’ on, I found he’d tallied naught at all! He was just sittin’ on a sack of barley, a-writin’ THIS!" He dramatically whipped out a sheet of parchment for their inspection.

"What do you have there, Silas?" asked Rory.

"He says it’s a po’m," said the farmer scornfully, jerking his head toward the shame-faced Wat, who was awkwardly shifting from one foot to another, his eyes fixed on the floor.

"A poem, eh? Well, let’s hear it, then!"

"Confound it Rory, I can’t read it!" He thrust the offending document toward Rory, who glanced at it briefly before passing it to Saradoc.

After scanning the sheet with a somewhat baffled expression, Sara stood up and recited solemnly:

The Little Barley Grain
By Watney Puddifoot

Behold the little barley grain
So plump, so firm, so round
How nobly it endureth
When plowed into the ground.

How proud it springeth up again
When showers of rain doth fall
And by midsummer it hath grown
So thick, so strong, so tall.

I love thee, little barley grain
For all thy gifts so dear:
The bread so tender, moist, and sweet
And for the nut-brown beer.

"Here now, what do you know about beer!" growled Farmer Puddifoot, pulling off his hat and smacking Wat in the head with it.

The awkward silence that followed was finally broken by Esmeralda. "That was very…creative, dear."

"I’ve done more," said Wat eagerly. "Here’s another: How doth the white little lamb—"

"I reckon you wrote that ’un while you was supposed to be cleanin’ the sheep shears," interjected his father dryly.

Wat blushed.

Falstaff cleared his throat. "Pardon me, my boy, but I think you mean the little white lamb."

Wat stared at him, puzzled. "Why, Master Goodbody?"

"Because, well, you can’t say white little lamb, you know."

"Why not, sir?"

"Because…because it’s just not done, that’s why," Falstaff finished lamely.

Farmer Puddifoot broke in: "All right now, I’ve heard about as much of this codswallop as I can stomach." He turned to Rory. "What I want to know is, just what are you plannin’ to do about this school o’ yourn? I can’t have my son moonin’ about the farm, shirkin’ his chores to write po’ms…specially not at this time o’ year! Next thing I know he’ll be singin’ to the sheep ’stead o’ shearin’ ’em!"

Rory frowned thoughtfully but didn’t answer.

"Well?" snapped the farmer impatiently.

"It’s no school of mine, Silas!" Rory finally replied, sounding a bit distracted. "You’ll have to take up your complaint with Saradoc, or Falstaff here!"

Sara looked pointedly at Falstaff, who sighed and said, "I’ll have a word with Frodo about sticking to the assigned lessons. School is nearly over for the season in any event, and perhaps it’s best to stop now."

"That’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard all day," declared Silas, though Wat looked disappointed. "Come along son…let’s see if some good hard work’ll clear all that folderol out of your head! G’day to you Rory, Mistress!" Nodding at the rest, the farmer clapped his hat back on his head and departed.

Once they were gone, Sara turned to Falstaff in bewilderment. "Whatever could have possessed Frodo?"

"It’s spring fever," remarked Gilda knowingly. "Which seems to have afflicted some others I could name," she added with an exasperated glance at her husband.

"How nobly it endureth," Rory murmured, and now they all looked at him. He was staring up at the ceiling with a bemused expression. "It wasn’t half bad, that poem. I wonder…" 

"Rory, what are you on about?" snapped Gilda. "You can’t read nor write!"

"What of it?" he roared. "That’s where Falstaff comes in, eh old scribbler?" Rory slapped the schoolmaster on the back, nearly sending him sprawling. "Come along then, I’ve a mind to wax poetical, and you’re going to write it down…"

Falstaff looked like a hobbit going to his doom, but he was saved by yet another interruption as old Barden Smallburrow rushed in. Brandy Hall’s trusted vineyards keeper for many years, Barden had reluctantly been drafted to oversee the pipeweed planting with Hamilcar’s guidance.

"Master, you’re wanted out to the pipeweed fields at once—there’s terrible trouble!"

"What?" cried Rory, springing from his chair. "What do you mean? What’s happened?"

"I don’t rightly know, but a lot of them seedlings have wilted and flopped over…I fetched Mr. Hornblower and he said somethin’ about transplant root rot!"

Rory was already on his way out the door.

Barden followed more slowly, shaking his head and muttering, "Pipeweed in Buckland… ’tisn’t natural, I tell you! No good will come of this, mark my words!"

In two weeks (I’ll be away next week)…
Chapter Six: The Buckland Ball

Poetry notes:
Frodo's and Rory's ditty is a pastiche of an anonymous 16th-century English verse and "A Little Madness in the Spring" by Emily Dickinson.

Frodo’s "garden poem" is an excerpt from "Where-e’er You Walk" by Alexander Pope, based on a poem by Virgil.

Wat’s poem is very loosely based on "John Barleycorn," English/Scottish traditional.