(I wrote this story at least two years ago. Imagine my surprise to discover I had never posted it here!)

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Fatty and Folco are 15, the equivalent of 9 years old in Man-years. Estella is 10, or about 6 ½ in Man-years

A Summer's Day Ramble 

“Mother?” Fatty did not turn his gaze from the front window.

“Yes, Fredegar?” Rosamunda looked up from her embroidery, knowing what the question would be, as it was bound to be the same one he had asked only a quarter of an hour before.

“How soon will they be here?”

His mother gave an impatient sigh. “Folco and his parents will be here before noon, or so his mother wrote.” She glanced to the corner of the room where Estella was busily trying to put a doll’s bonnet on her kitten, Topsy. Topsy was beginning to be impatient with the procedure, and Rosamunda didn’t wish to see Estella get scratched or bitten. “Why don’t you take your sister to the kitchen and have Cook give you some elevenses?” It was a little early for elevenses, truth be told, but it would put an end to Fatty’s impatient queries after his friend, and give the kitten a chance to get away.

Food is always an excellent distraction for young hobbits, and most especially for Fatty, whose nickname had begun as a mispronunciation by his baby sister, and then persisted when it became apparent that he would continue to be rounder than the average hobbit lad of his age.

The Boffins had been away for a month, visiting Daisy’s Aunt Dora in Bywater. They were returning now to the Yale, and to their home near Budgeford. Fatty had been moping about nearly the whole time, missing his friend, but Rosamunda had been glad of the break. One never knew when Folco was going to say something unfortunate. The child had his foot in his mouth so often that she wondered he could walk. Of course, it had helped a bit when his parents saw to his flute lessons. One had only to suggest to him that he play. It was very effective. Still, he couldn’t play the flute *all* the time, and it was exhausting having to stay alert all the time. She had no idea how poor Daisy managed.

And the lad was often given to bouts of unexpected generosity as well, also not always appropriate. It had been he who had given Estella the kitten, the last time he had been here to tea. It had been a singularly ugly and ill-favored little thing at the time, and Rosamunda was just grateful that it had improved its appearance markedly with regular meals, for of course one could not turn down a gift. She supposed she should be glad he had not come across one of the fabled oliphaunts instead of a stray cat.

Still, for all his faults, poor little Folco meant well. And it couldn’t be denied that he and Fatty were extremely devoted to one another.

In the kitchen, Fatty was devouring the toasted cheese and fruit juice that Cook had given to him and to Estella, as he regaled them with a list of all the fun that he and his friend would be having on Folco’s return.

“Mother has said we may go for a ramble, and take our tea along for a picnic this afternoon! We might take fishing poles with us!” He gave Cook and engaging smile. “If we catch lots of fish will you make them for our supper tonight?”

“Well, Master Freddy, if you are so lucky as to catch *lots*, I guess that I will. But don’t forget there’ll be company here tonight, so there must be enough for everyone, mind you!”

He looked at the pastries she was rolling out. “Are you making pies?”

“No, Master Freddy, I’m making some jam tarts. And if you and young Master Folco are good lads, then I will give you some to take for your tea.”

“Oh, goody! Thank you, Cook!” Fatty was beside himself.

She grinned. In truth, though Mistress Bolger was a very demanding mistress, it more than made up for it, to have such a lad about who appreciated her cooking as well as this one did. It made her quite blush at times to hear him praise her cooking to all and sundry.

Little Estella finished her drink. “Can we help, Cook?”

“Why certainly Miss Estella! Here, you stand up in the chair, and you shall use the teacup to cut the rounds out. Master Freddy, would you like to put the jam in the middle?”

And so the time after elevenses passed pleasantly enough, until the sound of coach wheels could be heard, and Freddy darted from the kitchen.

He tore out the door to be there when Folco jumped out and the two friends spent several minutes in exuberant hugs and back-poundings. Then Fatty remembered his manners. “Hullo, Uncle Griffo and Aunt Daisy!” They were “aunt and uncle” by courtesy only, and the relationship was more distant than that. Daisy was Odovocar’s third cousin once removed through her paternal grandmother Ruby Bolger.

The parents exchanged more subdued greetings. Then Folco said “Hullo, Aunt Rosamunda! That’s a very purple dress you’re wearing! Have you been sick?”

Behind his wife, Odovocar placed his hand over his mouth to stifle a chuckle. She might forgive the child, but she’d never forgive him if he laughed.

Griffo rolled his eyes, and poor Daisy went beet red. If it had been anyone but Folco, Rosamunda would have been highly offended. As it was, she just sighed. “No, Folco, dear, my health is just fine. Why don’t you children go to the playroom until luncheon?”

The children went off, Estella carrying Topsy under the front legs, and showing Folco how much her kitten had grown.

“I’m sorry, Rosa,” said Daisy, shaking her head.

Rosamunda gave a rueful laugh. “Well, I should have known this color would not flatter my complexion, for all that it is popular this season.” Now that she thought of it, her dressmaker had tried to discourage her from choosing this material. She should have listened.

The friends enjoyed a fine luncheon, unmarred by any tactless remarks due to the fact that Folco’s plate was kept full and his mouth occupied with the food.

Afterwards it was time for Estella’s nap, and Rosamunda encouraged the two lads to take their picnic and return in time for supper.

Cook made up a small basket, with some of the jam tarts, and a small stone bottle of cold milk, and some bread-and-butter sandwiches, and armed with a pair of fishing poles, the two lads headed off. They went north along the Scary road until they left the village, and then cut across country until they came to a small stream that flowed down from the Water. They wet their lines for a while, but there were no fish to speak of. Folco proposed going on to the Water, but Fatty did not wish to go there--he was a bit frightened of the Water. So they sat in the shade of a large willow tree, and Folco took out his little wooden flute. In the few years he had been taking lessons he had grown quite proficient, and it was a lovely pleasure to Fatty to close his eyes and listen to the music that his friend made. Folco started out with some familiar Shire airs, but soon he simply began to improvise, letting the music take him where it would.

The music finally fell silent, and Fatty sat up. “It’s teatime.”

So the two of them set to on the fine treats they had with them. “Why don’t we save the last two tarts for the walk home?” asked Folco. He was full.

Fatty looked at them with longing, but reluctantly agreed. “I suppose we should head back then, if we are to be in time for supper.”

They were cutting back across the meadows, when they heard the distinct sound of a young child crying. It sounded quite close by, and after casting about for a few minutes, they found the source.

It was a tiny little lass, barely a faunt, who sat alone, hot and dirty, and screaming at the top of her voice. Fatty was somewhat taken aback, Folco went over and picked her up.

“What’s the matter, little one?” he asked, bouncing her on his hip. “Are you lost?”

She sniffled mightily, and looked up at her young rescuer with huge brown eyes. “Lost,” she repeated.

Folco looked at Freddy. “She shouldn’t be out here by herself. What if a fox came along?”

Now the brown eyes went huge. “Fots?” she asked fearfully. “Where fots?” and started to scream again.

Fatty shook his head, and took her from Folco. “No, no, there’s no fox, really there’s not.” But she kept crying.

Folco reached into the basket and took out the jam tarts. “Here,” he said desperately, “don’t cry, baby. Here.”

The sight and smell of the treats dried up her tears instantly, and Fatty watched with a twinge of regret as she took one tart in each grubby little hand and began to devour them. They had been such good tarts, too.

“I guess she’s gone and lost herself,” said Folco. “Do you think we should try to find her family?” The way he said it made Fatty think his friend was hoping he’d say no, they could keep her, as though she were another stray kitten. He tried to imagine what his mother would say if they came home with a baby and Folco decided to give her to Estella for a gift.

“Yes,” said Fatty. “we do. Come on, then.” She had finished her tarts, and was enthusiastically licking her hands.

The two boys took turns carrying her, as they moved closer to the road, in the hopes of spotting the smial or cot where she might have lived.

“Listen!” said Folco. “Hsst.”

Dimly, they could hear voices calling. They headed in that direction. Soon they could hear them more clearly.

“Blossom! Blossom? Blossom, where *are* you?”

Folco was carrying the child now, and she began to bounce excitedly in his arms. “Mummy! Da-da!”

Soon they came in sight of a young farm couple, looking frantic.

“Here!” called Fatty, “over here! Is this your fauntling?”

“Oh, Blossom!” called the mother, as she raced over and snatched her child, covering her in kisses and hugs.

The father approached more quietly, but there was a look of relief on his face. “Oh, thank you, lads! Where did you find her?”

Fatty pointed back over the fields from which they had come, and the farmer shook his head in astonishment.

“Wasn’t anyone watching her?” blurted Folco.

The mother began to cry, and now the father looked cross. “Her Gaffer was supposed to be watching her, but he fell asleep. She‘s only just learned to toddle, I don‘t know how she could have gone so far.”

Fatty shook his head. “My friend didn’t mean anything by it, sir. It was just surprising to us to find her like that.”

The farmer looked mollified then. “I guess it was,” he said. “I suppose my old dad’s getting past it, if he canna’ keep awake to watch his grandchild.”

The mother, who had been inspecting her little one from head to toe, and was trying to wipe her sticky face with the tail of her apron, said “What did you lads feed her?”

“Jam tarts,” said Freddy sadly.

She smiled. “Well, I don’t suppose that I can replace the jam tarts, but I did make a seedcake this morning, if you’d like some, and maybe a cup of cold buttermilk?”

They followed them down to the road and around a bend, where a little thatched cot stood. An elderly hobbit was leaning on a stick in the doorway, looking anxious. His relief on seeing them was great.

The lads enjoyed their treat in the cozy farm kitchen, and then headed back to Budgeford and Brock Hall. They were very nearly late for supper, but their parents praised them when they told their tale.

As they went in to dine, Daisy noticed the relieved look on Rosamunda’s face. “What is it?” she asked her friend in amusement.

“I am just counting my good fortune that your son did not decide to give my daughter a stray baby this time.”

Daisy laughed. Actually, she could see him doing just that…