Chapter 8. From the Journal of Fortinbras Took, S.R. 1158

And so, Grandfa, my handwriting is "passable". I need no longer bring my daily writings to you, for you to knit your eyebrows together as you peruse the fruit of my labour. Or rather, that you have given me a holiday from writing, and we will take up the exercise once more when winter gains us more leisure so to do.

A holiday! Hah!

And so I am to lay my journal aside, and revel in the extra time such freedom gains me. What holiday? What extra time?

Today I laboured in the fields from dawning until we were too tired to see the potatoes we were grubbing from the ground, by lamplight, after the sun had sensibly sought her bed. Too tired, almost, to notice the magnificent sunset, the clouds towering high. Because the rains are threatening, all Tooks have been ordered into the fields, and with the farmhands all at the haying, we soft-handed gentlehobbits must dig in the dirt with our fingers.

I am nearly too weary to write, and now we are ordered to save candles and lamp oil. Why were we not saving them by coming in from the fields when darkness fell?

You think you can order me to write, and I'll write, and then you can order me to stop, and I'll stop.

But I will not stop. I will write to the end of this book, as you first told me I must, and only then will I be done with writing!