Chapter 27. Of a Birthday Breakfast

'Ah, awake then!' his mother's voice came, and he turned from the window with a bright smile.

'Good morning, Mother!' he said. He hurried to take the ewer from her hand, full of steaming water, ready for his Birthday morning ablutions. 'My thanks!' He carried it over to the dressing table and set it down, returning for a hearty hug.

'You are most welcome, my dear,' his mother answered, returning the hug with a will and burying her face for a moment in his curls. She raised her face again to add, 'And happy birthday! Breakfast is ready in the kitchen.'

The kitchen? Bilbo didn't have to say the words aloud, though he looked his puzzlement. Of course, they breakfasted in the kitchen most days, but this was a special day, after all...

'It's so very cold outside,' his mother answered, in tacit apology. 'So unusual for September – there's not been such a hard frost in my remembering in just years, even in the depths of the Winter...'

Bilbo looked, a little guiltily, it might be said, towards the frosted window, but it was shut tight. Cold air was seeping in around the corners, perhaps, but not pouring in as it had just a little while ago, when he'd had it open.

'In any event,' his mother said, 'the kitchen is the warmest room in the smial at present, what with the fire in the stove and the kitchen hearth, and your da said we might as well kill two birds with one stone... Though there's a fire laid in the parlour for later, it would take some time to warm up the room, and as for the dining room...'

'We wouldn't want the food to go cold, after all,' Bilbo said. As it might, being carried through to a cold dining room, and sitting on platters on the sideboard in between helpings. In coming years, when he would be master of Bag End, he'd have chafing dishes to keep the food warm during the splendid parties he'd have for company, but that time was some years away.

'No, we wouldn't,' his mother agreed with a smile of her own. 'Well, it's keeping warm, so you have time to wash while the water's still hot, and dress.' With another birthday hug, she turned and left the room.

What a treat to bathe in steaming water on such an icy morn! It struck Bilbo anew, as it occasionally had in the past, how his mother cozened and cared for him. Of course, his father set the tone for the family, rising early as he did to make sure that the fire was going well in the kitchen stove before Belladonna awoke.

They were well enough off to afford to keep servants, and the smial was big enough to house such along with the family, but that Belladonna had had quite enough of servants (and their bossiness, er, managing ways, and their Talk), growing up in the Great Smials, and Bungo deferred to his wife's wishes. Mrs. Greenhand came in several days of the week to “do” for the Bagginses (especially heavy duties such as laundering, floor scrubbing, and washing windows), but Belladonna managed most of the day-to-day business of smialkeeping.

In any event, before he got down to the business of pouring the warm water into the bowl and splashing himself clean, he fingered one of the carefully wrapped packages nestled under his pillow and hoped his mother would find it pleasing. Oh, he hoped so, indeed he did! He hoped they'd all find their presents pleasing. He pursed his lips and allowed himself a brief frown of puzzlement, once more, thinking of his father's odd request, but then he shrugged his shoulders and replaced the pillow over the small assortment of packages. No doubt Uncle Isen would be polite, at least, in receiving the present Bilbo had prepared for him. Still, he might as well bathe whilst the water was still hot!

Ah, yes, very pleasant, indeed. Morning ablutions were pleasant when the water was hot... He found himself humming an old tune as he scrubbed and then rubbed himself dry. O water hot...!

Bathing finished, Bilbo dressed himself hastily, but then, in honour of his twenty years, he took a good long look in the mirror to set himself to rights. He untwisted the twist in his collar, and then he settled the sleeves of his shirt properly, and he made sure the buttons lined up with the right holes down his front. He smoothed the curls atop his head into tidiness and grinned at the mirror. All grown up, and twenty years...

...but delicious smells were wafting on the air, and he raised his head to sniff. Delightful! Bacon, and frying potatoes, and if he didn't miss his guess, there were sausages, and fresh-baked bread, and...

Bilbo entered the kitchen to the greetings of mother, father, and uncle, and a chorus of, “Happy Birthday!” followed by a solo rendition of, “and many happy returns!” from his grinning uncle.

His father rose from his seat to escort Bilbo to the place of honour. The kitchen table might have been humble, without the highly polished surface boasted by that of the dining room (for it was a place where bread dough was kneaded, and pastry dough was rolled out, and other such mundane uses), but it was this morning covered with a bright cloth and practically groaning with bounty – food covering the majority of its surface (except for where the place settings reposed), and a tidy pile of presents before Bilbo's place.

While the presents were exciting to contemplate, and inviting to look upon, of course the food took priority. (In point of fact, it was hobbit custom to downplay the receiving of birthday gifts, as everyone knows it is more blessed to give than to receive, and a part of child-raising is to cultivate a spirit of generosity, much to be preferred to a spirit of greed.) The little family ate, filling their plates, emptying them, and filling them again more than once, and drinking quantities of tea while cheerful talk ran round the table.

Isen and Bella reminisced about birthdays in the Great Smials, and all remembered with wonder the fireworks of the recent Birthday, (and if Isen or Bilbo wondered where the wizard had got himself off to by this time, well, it didn't seem a matter for inquiry at the present moment, polite or otherwise), and there was much remarking over the lightness of the bread, the perfect blend of spice in the sausages, the freshness of the tomatoes (last of the garden, sun-ripened, and picked just the previous day, and a good thing, too, for they'd've been spoilt by the frost if they'd been left on the vines), and other pleasant observations about the breakfast feast.

Bungo jumped up at intervals to fetch more food from where it sat keeping warm on the stovetop, or freshen the teapot, '...for if I recall rightly, my dear, you had quite as much to contribute to the Birthday, originally, as our son, here!' He would not let his wife stir a finger in service, not this day at least.

Isen beamed on everyone impartially, and he ate quite as much as Bilbo, and had as much to say about past birthday antics as anyone else, much as if he were any regular hobbit. It was he, in point of fact, who dabbed his mouth with a serviette and laid the cloth down beside his plate, the last to finish eating, and said, 'Well, then, lad! What about clearing away?'

...and jumped up, to pile his plate and Bilbo's together, and add Bungo's and Belladonna's plates, and somehow manage the small stack with his one good hand, while encouraging Bilbo to bear away the empty platter and serving plates to the wash stand, ready for washing up.

When the table was cleared, all but the teapot, cups, milk and sugar, Bilbo thumped himself down again with a sigh, but Isen stood behind his chair and said, 'Not quite finished, eh, my lad?'

'Not quite?' Bilbo said in bewilderment. His father was sipping at his teacup, and his mother was just stirring more sugar into hers. Surely Isen didn't mean for them to clear away the tea things when his parents weren't quite finished?

But with a grin, the hobbit gestured to the small pile of presents before Bilbo's place. 'Don't you think you ought to tidy those away? Bit hard to whisk the cloth from the table and shake out the crumbs with that lot still there, what?'

'Oh,' Bilbo said, and, 'oh, yes!'

He'd already had gifts from the Greenhands and other neighbours, and those sent from cousins nearer and farther away (and most were understanding about the small, intimate Birthday celebration that his parents had deemed wise, despite the august occasion of Bilbo's Twentieth), for all had been delivered the previous day, or earlier, and he'd opened them the previous day, in point of fact, that they might not clutter up the Birthday itself. His mother had seen to it that he'd spent much of the previous afternoon writing thank you notes, as well. It was best to get such things out of the way early, to strike when the iron was hot, as the farrier in the village was fond of saying, to express one's gratitude and delight when both were still fresh and get the notes sent off before the flowers wilted, as it were, and the gifts of food were but a pleasant memory, nothing left save perhaps a gentle belch or hiccough.

He looked over the tags and chose to open his mother's present first, as he always did, that he might give her pleasure in his choice. He extended the suspense by fingering the package, squeezing the contents in their paper wrappings. 'Oho,' he said. 'Soft! And plump! I wonder what it could be...!'

'Open it, you goose,' his father said fondly, 'before your dear mama pops from anticipation.'

Bilbo grinned and tore the wrapping away, unveiling a knitted muffler, cap, and mittens, all of the softest, warmest wool he could imagine, dyed in bright colours and knitted in stripes. 'Oooh,' he breathed, all unknowing, and in a twinkling he'd donned the cap, wrapped the muffler round his throat, and had pulled on one of the bright mittens, stroking it with his unmuffled hand. 'It's so warm! And soft!'

'Wool from The Took's own sheep,' Belladonna said, well pleased with his reaction. 'And so it is from your grandfa and grandma, as well as myself.'

'Thank you,' he said, rising from his chair to throw his arms around her, following with a kiss to each cheek and one for her forehead. 'Thanks to all of you, then!'

He sat himself down again, well rewarded by his mother's bright face. He reached for the gift with the tag, from Isen, but Bungo cleared his throat.

'Mine next, I deem,' he said.

Isen nodded with a smile. 'Ah, yes,' he said. 'Perfectly right.'

'Very well,' Bilbo said with a nod, pulling his father's gift to him and picking it up to weigh the contents. Hmmm. It didn't feel quite as he thought it would. It was elongated, as it ought, and there was a certain heft to the package, but... it wasn't quite as he thought it would be.

(It must be explained here that in some families, though not all, it was – to put it in Dora Baggins' words, the Custom to present a Lad with his first Pipe, and a pouch of pipe-weed upon the Occasion of his Twentieth Birthday. However, some Families prefer the habit of Smoking to be taken up at a Later Age, and so wait until the Lad turns Twenty-five. It was by no means a sure thing that Bilbo would receive a pipe on this, his Twentieth. If his parents were impressed with his behaviour, and wished to reward his maturity with a token of their regard, well, that was one thing. If they'd found him wanting in that respect, on the other hand, they were well within their rights to put off the gift of a pipe for another year. Or five.)

'Carefully, lad,' Bungo said, and Bilbo nodded. A good pipe was easily broken, after all.

His heart sank, however, as he eased the wrapping away, to reveal not pipe, but fine pen, along with a shining bottle of the most expensive ink to be had, the kind that went onto the paper in smooth and shining lines and did not fade, even years afterward.

Looking up to meet his father's keen gaze, he forced a smile. 'Oh, Father,' he said formally. 'Thank you. Thank you very much. It's beautiful, and ever so much nicer than what I've been using to write in my journal.'

The flat package that had rested beneath this one, he rightly guessed to be another journal, and his smile was more genuine as he unwrapped it – bound in bright red leather, the pages of fine, white paper gilded on the edges, '...altogether too fine to write in!'

'I hope it's not too fine,' his father said. 'Or what would be the point?'

Bilbo made a show of picking up the pen and scrutinizing the tip. 'No,' he said, 'the point is fine, indeed. Perfectly crafted.' He met his father's eye once more, squared his shoulders, and took a deep breath. 'Thanks, Dad,' he said, sincerity in his tone, and he meant it. Perhaps he'd have the pipe on next year's Birthday. He hoped he'd prove his merit to them by then, at least, if not now.

'And now, mine,' Isen said, pushing the last package towards the tween. 'It's not much, but I hope you'll like it.'

'I'm sure that I will!' Bilbo said gallantly, though he couldn't imagine what Isen might have managed. After all, they'd spent almost every waking moment together, since Isen's arrival, including visits to the shops in Hobbiton, and Bywater market. Sweetmeats, perhaps. Though, as he lifted the package – 'Gently!' warned Bungo once more, as if he knew what the paper wrappings protected – it didn't feel as if it were full of a jumble of sweetmeats. It felt rather more like the pen-and-ink package had felt, as a matter of fact. Something long and slim, and something bulky, with a little heft to it.

He laid it down and carefully tore away the paper, to reveal...

'Ohhhh,' he breathed, unaware that Bella and Bungo sighed at the same time, on the same note, for they'd heard of the present Isen intended, but had not seen it. 'Ohhh,' he said again, lifting the carven wonder carefully in his hand, separating it from the accompanying pouch of what was undoubtedly pipeweed. It was a pipe, but such a pipe, pure white, and intricately shaped.

'It's of dwarvish make,' Isen said softly. 'The longer you use it, the darker it grows with the use, and so you can tell a well-loved pipe that has been long in use, and carefully preserved from breaking.'

'It's... it's... beautiful,' Bilbo whispered.

'Exquisite,' his mother agreed, barely breathing the word. 'Why, the Thain himself hasn't anything so fine...!'

'Not the Thain himself,' his uncle agreed. 'Why it was the Captain... just before...' His smile dimmed suddenly, and he blinked his good eye, and Bilbo feared for a moment that his uncle's madness would return once more to mar the day. But then Isen seemed to return from far away, and shook himself, and smiled again. 'The Captain, he gave it to me, and I put it away safe, for just the right occasion, and well...' He shrugged the shoulder of his good arm. 'Well, it seemed like the right occasion,' he ended lamely.

'Oh, Uncle,' Bilbo said, and he carefully laid the pipe down, safely away from the edge of the table, and rose, hurried around the table to Isen's place, and threw his arms around his uncle. 'It's quite the most wonderful gift I could ever imagine!'

And Bungo and Belladonna were in complete agreement, and not at all put out to have their own offerings diminished by comparison.

***

A/N: A little bit of material quoted above was from Miss Dora Baggins' Book of Manners, by Dreamflower, posted here on SoA.