This is from a plot bunny given to my by Cathleen.  I'll share the actual bunny at the end so as not to give spoilers.
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A Hard Lesson

It really was a lovely late Thrimidge day.  The sun was warm, but not too hot.  The air was fresh, not heavy.  The more annoying insects weren’t hatched out yet.  It was decidedly too nice a day to spend in doors.  Even most of the adult hobbits of Brandy Hall were out and about.

And of course, the children and youngsters were out in force.

The Master’s son and his favorite cousin were no exception, although typical for them, they had made more of an adventure of it then just being outside in the environs of the Hall.  They had crossed the Brandywine on the ferry to go trout fishing in The Stockbrook.  Merry was leaning comfortably against the trunk of a large elm tree near the water’s edge, Pippin was sitting on the edge of the bank, dangling his feet in the water.  They were fishing in a section of the brook that was a fast moving mixture of shallows and deeps where the trout loved to hide, just downstream from a narrow old wooden bridge.

Earlier, they had been fly fishing and had filled Merry’s creel with lovely trout, but now they were letting their luncheon settle while they fished for dace with small worms for bait and their bobbers set to keep the bait shallow.  Merry was nearly asleep, leaning comfortably against the tree, when a cry from Pippin jerked him awake.

“Hoy, Merry!”

“Hmm?  What, Pip?”

“That hobbit just threw something off the bridge.  Do you think it might disturb the fish?”

The hobbit in question hadn’t noticed the two lads on the bank when he made his way onto the bridge and threw his burden over the edge, but he heard Pippin’s “hoy”.  His head jerked up then he scuttled off the causeway and away into the woods.

The cousins looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders.

“I wouldn’t think it will disturb them too much, Pippin.  They have to be accustomed to things floating by, one would think.”

Both lads were keeping an eye on the object as it floated nearer.

“It’s moving!” they shouted in unison.

“There’s something in there, Merry,” Pippin said anxiously.

Merry had already slipped into the rushing stream.  He sucked in a gasp; the water was icy cold.  He knew where the sandbar was, he had been fly-fishing off of it before lunch, but then he had worn his waders and the cold hadn’t been as noticeable.  Now, he quickly was losing the feeling in his feet and legs.  Merry hoped he would keep his footing as he waded out into the current while keeping his eyes on the wriggling bag.

“You stay on the bank, Pip, and I’ll get it.  I’ll get it!”

“It’s squealing, Merry!”  Pippin was becoming very agitated.  Against Merry’s order, he was now standing up in the water at the edge of the stream.  “Help it Merry!”

Merry neatly snatched the bag from the water, nearly losing his balance in the process, as it was much heavier than he had expected.  He had been concentrating so hard that he had not heard the noises until now.  Whatever was in the bag was terrified and frantically trying to get out.  Merry struggled to get to the bank.  Pippin, who had clambered out of the water, took the bag then set it down to give his cousin a hand up.  Without waiting to see how Merry was, he set to trying to open the bag.

“U-use th-th-this,” Merry stuttered out between chattering teeth as he handed Pippin his pocketknife.  Pippin cut the cord that bound the top of the bag then opened the top as wide as he could.

“Kittens!  Oh my!  It’s little wee kittens, Merry!”  He let the top edge of the bag fall, revealing two very wet kittens while the folds of the bag recovered the others.  Merry knelt to help and they quickly had seven cold, soggy kittens out on the grass.  Pippin stripped off his shirt.

“Shirt, Merry.  Take off your shirt.  We have to dry them and get them warmed up.”

“D-dry th-them and w-warm th-them!” the rather soaked hobbit sighed, but he dutifully removed his shirt and started to dry off one of the kittens.  Typical of his cousin, Pippin was talking and thinking a mile a minute.

“We need to dump the trout out of the creel, Merry, and I’ll wind my scarf onto the bottom and we can put the wee mites in there to take them home.  Then we’ll need to see if you have any mama cats with kittens in the barns at the Hall and then we’ll have to see if they will take these babies too.  We have to do that sometimes with lambs and piglets at home.”

“N-not leaving th-the f-f-fish.” Merry said slowly.  “P-put kittens in p-picn-nic basket.”

“Poor wee thing.” Pippin crooned at the kitten he was drying.  “That’s an even better idea, Merry.  That already has the cloths in there that the bread and cheese were wrapped in.  We can put the kittens in those.”  He looked at his shivering cousin.  “You can have my scarf,” he added cheerfully, as though that would be enough to warm Merry up.

They soon had the kittens as dry as they could get them.  Pippin packed them into the basket while Merry saw to their fishing gear, then they were on their way as fast as they could go without jostling the kittens too badly.  Both lads found they were warmer without their damp shirts on, so they left them off.  They were quite a sight to old Moro Brandybuck, the ferry hobbit.

“Master Merry, whatever are ya up to?” he asked, staring wide-eyed at the pair.  “Goin’ ‘bout half nekked like that.  Master Pippin too.”  Then his old ears heard the kittens, which were still complaining about their condition.  “Whatever am I hearin’?”

“Some hobbit threw a bag full of kittens into Stockbrook!” Pippin answered angrily.  “Live kittens!”

“What colors are they?” the old hobbit asked.  He had a strange look on his face.

“One that’s parti-coloured, two grey, two black and white, and two white ones,” Merry informed him.

Moro stepped back with his hands coming up in front of him, as though to hold something at bay.

“White cats!  Thrimidge cats!  You ain’t takin’ them on my ferry.  They’re bad luck, they are.”

“But you have to let us cross!” Pippin exclaimed, growing panic in his voice.  “It’s too far to the Bridge and we have to get back to the Hall.”

“Easy Pip.  Easy.”  Merry said calmly to Pippin before turning to address old Moro.  “You really do need to take us across, Mr. Moro.”  He knew he had some authority as the Master’s son.

“Aye, you and your cousin, Master Merry, but not them kittens.”

Merry sighed.  Pippin looked belligerent.  The kittens kept up their weak mewing.

“Mr. Moro,” Merry began, sounding exactly like his father.  “We will recompense you in any way appropriate or necessary. Or . . . well, my father will.”

A struggle played itself out upon the ferry hobbit’s face until he reached his decision.  It was really that hard.  On the one hand, that basket was full of bad luck sure as sure.  One the other hand, the Master was a good, fair and honest hobbit, but he would not be pleased if his son and nephew had not been allowed to use the ferry to come home.

“I’ll need the usual fare, Master Merry, then you’ll have to send me down three springs of white heather tied together with four strands of a young lasses hair and two acorns.  I’ll be needin’ all that before the day is out, Master Merry.”

“You’ll have it, Mr. Moro.  Now, will you please take us across?”

Moro nodded and waved the lads aboard, but he kept a safe distance away from them and their, to his mind, cursed picnic basket.  He didn’t breathe easy until the Master’s lad and his cousin were off the ferry and well on their way toward Brandy Hall.

Merry and Pippin took the kittens straight to Merry’s mother.

“Mum!”

“Aunt Esme!” they were calling as they came in the side entrance to the Hall that led into the Master’s apartments.

“In my sitting room, my lads!” she called in reply.

“It was awful, Aunt Esme!  This hobbit came onto the little bridge over the Stockbrook and I saw him throw something over the short wall that bridge has on the sides of it too keep folk from falling off.  I asked Merry if it might frighten our fish away and he said it oughtn’t and then we saw it was wiggling and Merry went into the brook to get it and it was full of wee kittens, Aunt Esme!”

Esme looked at her son while Pippin was talking.  Merry breeches were obviously damp, his lips were blue, he was bare from the waist up, and he was shivering.  But he also seemed as anxious as his young cousin was about the kittens.  Pippin had been tugging at the basket she had packed their luncheon in while he explained the matter, and Merry had finally seemed to realize it and set it down.  His mother knelt down and opened it up to find it contained seven kittens wrapped in the towels that previously held bread and cheese.

“Mr. Moro had not wanted to let us on the ferry, Mum,” Merry said quietly as she began to look more closely at the little animals.  “He said they were bad luck as there are two white ones and they were born this month.”

She nodded.  “Yes, Merry.  Some folks think that, well, think white cats are bad luck and that Thrimidge born cats are of no worth because they will not be good hunters.”

“Oh,” the lads said together.

“Well,” Esme said, looking up sadly at her two favorite lads.  “I’m sorry to say that two of the kittens are already dead, and the others will follow if we don’t find them a mother very soon.

Pippin and Merry looked into the basket.  One of the grey kittens and one of the poor, supposedly unlucky, white ones weren’t moving.

“I think I know just the cat to take these wee mites in,” Esme said as cheerily as she could while she quickly closed the lid on the basket.  “Let us go and find Mistress Pearl.”  She would leave the dead kittens in there when she put the others with Pearl the cat, then give the basket it to Madoc, the head of the stables, to take care of burying them.  

She got to her feet, picked up the basket and they all headed for the main stable for Brandy Hall.

Esme and led the lads straight to the tack room.  There, in a corner of the room, in a box with straw in it was Pearl and her four kittens.  The big grey cat with the teardrop shaped white “pearl” on her head was a strong lass with a reputation for producing strong cats that were good hunters.  Her current litter had been born on the last day of Astron, and so was free of the curse of being Thrimidge kittens like the ones the lads had pulled from the river.  Pearl’s little ones had eyes just starting to open.  In another week or so they would be scrambling out of their box home.

Madoc had seen them come in and went over to stand behind the Mistress and the cousins, watching as she placed one wee kitten near one of Pearl’s ample teats.  She always had milk enough for her own little ones and to spare, and had been a surrogate mother before.  The little black and white kitten nudged about for a few moments then latched on.  Esme added the other five one at a time.  It was a success as Pearl’s own kittens did not seem to mind the newcomers and Pearl herself immediately set about grooming the new additions to her family.

“Whence came this lot, Mistress Esmeralda?” Madoc inquired.

She noted the suspicious tone in his voice.  Esme stood to her feet, picked up the basket, and drew the stable master away from the box full of mother cat and kittens.  “The lads rescued them from the Stockbrook, Madoc.  I know you are wishing I’d not brought them in here, but I won’t hold to those superstitions about Thrimidge kittens.  Nor,” she added with emphasis, “the one about white kittens either.  Our best house cat when I was growing up was a pure white cat, and nary a dram of bad luck did she bring to us.  So I won’t abide it.”

Madoc knew when to hold his piece.  “As ya wish, Mistress,” he calmly said while silently reminding himself to get the appropriate good luck charms and hang them about the tack room.

“Thank you Madoc,” Esme said with a sigh of relief.  “I’ve another task for you.”  She held out the basket.  “Two of the poor little things were already dead when the lads got them home.  If you would please take care of burying them . . .”

“No, Auntie!” Pippin called out as he hopped up and came to her side.  “Merry and I will bury them.  We tried to help them and I feel we should see them off properly.   I’ve helped with burying kitties and pups and the like that my sisters and I had already named.”

With a solemn look, Pippin gently tugged the basket out of his Aunt’s hand then turned to look up at Madoc Brandybuck.

“No offence Mr. Madoc, but I know the farm hands at home just don’t do it right.  Merry and I will give them a proper burial.”

“Of course, Master Pippin,” the stable manager replied with a nod.  He turned to the Mistress as the lad went back over to the box in the corner.  “I know what he means, Mistress,” he said in a low tone so the lads wouldn’t hear him.  “Ma sister ‘n I always wanted to do a proper burial for any wee critter we had come to have feelings for.  I’ll find the lads a shovel.”  He bowed his head to her then went to get the shovel.

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Merry paused in his digging to wipe his brow.  The little grave didn’t need to be too deep, but Pippin insisted it be at least a couple of feet deep so nothing would dig the kittens up.  Whenever he had needed to dig a hole for any reason, it had always surprised Merry how hard the ground could be.  At least the spot was under the shade of a large oak tree not far from the stables.

“Is that deep enough, Pip?”
              
“I think so.”  The younger cousin stuck the measuring stick he was holding into the hole up against one of the sides.  His face scrunched up with concentration as he bent low to look at the markings.  “‘Tis an inch short of two feet, Merry, but I won’t begrudge you an inch.”

“Good thing you don’t!  Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve not taken a turn at the digging.”

“I’ve been wrapping up the kittens.  You said you didn’t want to do that.”

“No,” Merry said softly, disgust mingling sadness in his tone.  He turned his head to stare at some of the old oak’s roots.  “They’re . . . dead.”

“Well, everything dies eventually, Merry.” Pippin said with the hard won wisdom of a farmer’s son in his gentle voice.  “I’ve seen dead animals most of my life.  I still don’t like it, wish it didn’t happen, but I’ve sort of grown accustomed to it.”

“But why,” Merry exclaimed harshly, causing Pippin to startle at the sudden change.  “Why put a litter of helpless little kittens into a sack and throw it into a stream?  That’s a dastardly thing to do!”

“I . . .” Pippin began but got no further.

“It was cruel and stupid and . . . and . . . senseless!  As if those kittens could harm him somehow,” Merry ranted on as he began to pace angrily back and forth.  “And,” he turned to look at his cousin, “I’ve heard some of the farm lads here in Buckland say they ofttimes do the same cowardly thing because they simply ‘don’t need no more cats about ta farm, Master Merry.’  Of all the horrible things!”

“Well, yes.  I’ve known that to be done.”

Merry stopped his pacing, his jaw dropped in surprise.  “You’ve known?  You have known that some farmers do that?”

Pippin nodded.  A tinge of fear crept into his eyes.  Merry was getting frightfully worked up.

“I . . . never . . . I don’t like it, and my da says he has never done it and won’t allow none, eh, any of our farm hands to do such a thing.  But yes, there are some of our neighbors that do it.  They . . .” The lad paused, trying to gage whether or not he should go on.  Merry’s face was red with anger.

“They what?” Merry hissed.

“Well, they say that if they don’t do it they get so many cats about their farms that they starve and such.  That there aren’t enough varmints around to keep them all fed and that they can’t be feeding a huge clowder of cats and so they . . .”

Pippin left the sentence unfinished, hanging awkwardly in the air between the cousins.

Merry’s anger vanished like a popped soap bubble as he sat with a thump next to Pippin.  There were tears glistening on the edge of his lower eyelids.

“It shouldn’t be that way.  Life just shouldn’t be that way, Pip.”  Merry drew in a deep, shuddering, breath then let it out in a long slow sigh.  “It just isn’t right to kill something because there are too many of them or because they are supposedly bad luck.”

Pippin weighed his reply carefully.  He didn’t want to get Merry all riled up again.  That, and, it simply felt strange that he was the one with the knowledge and experience.  He was sounding like the older cousin.

“I agree with you Merry, especially with the bad luck part of it, although I do have some superstitions of my own, none of them involve needing to kill something to set things right.  But . . .”

“But?” Merry interjected.  “There’s a but?”

Pippin nodded.  “Da won’t allow it on our farm, he has the farm hand who gelds the ponies geld all the boy cats. We still have a few litters because stray toms come around, but he says there is truth to the having too many cats, or too many any things, on a farm.”  Merry looked shocked, Pippin hurried on.  “He said that there can be times when there are too many of something for the area they have to live in and that they can eat all the food and then they starve or get sicknesses.  Da said it happened once when he was a lad.

He said that a farmer near to our farm had started to go a bit dotty and wasn’t tending his sheep flock properly.  They were in a moderate sized field with stone walls keeping them in.  Da said the dotty old hobbit didn’t sell or slaughter any sheep or lambs for a couple of years.  Grand Da rode by one day and noticed the place had a foul stench about it.  He went and talked to the old farmer and could tell he wasn’t right in his head any longer.  Well, he went about the farm to check on things and there were dead chickens in an over crowded coop because he hadn’t thinned the flock, and there was that field of sheep near to packed full of thin sickly sheep and lots of dead ones lying about.”

Merry had gone pale.  He was currently learning about farming so that he would be able to properly do his job when he became Master of Buckland.  He was spending time with the head of the stables, with the master gardener, Brandy Hall’s smithy and others.  But he had not heard anything like the information being told to him by his young cousin.

“Then there was the Cat Hobbitess in Tookbank.  Three years ago it was found that her hole was over running with cats.  For a long time, no one realized how many she had.  Nobody thought about her cats having kittens and that she hadn’t given any away.  Then, her daughter came to visit from the Northfarthing and found her Ma was living in filth and there were fifty cats in there!  Most were half starved and sickly, several were dead . . .”

“Enough Pip!” Merry cut his cousin off, holding one hand up, palm towards Pippin, to strengthen his request.  He swallowed hard a couple of times.  “Just take care of the kittens, please.”

Merry kept his head turned away as Pippin picked up the two little cloth wrapped bodies, placed them in the grave, then filled the soil in over them.

“Do you want to say anything, Merry?” Pippin whispered.

Merry slowly got up and stood beside Pippin.  He took hold of his cousin’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Ah . . . we are sorry, little kitties, that your lives were so short and . . . and ended in such a terrible manner.  We are sorry that you won’t get to grow up with your brothers and sisters.  We’re sorry . . .”

With that, Merry choked on a sob.

“May you both go some place beautiful,” Pippin said softly.  “Some place where all is happy and healthy and there is no bad luck.  Some place where all the other animals have gone, so there will be lots of other cats for you to play with.”

They stood for several minutes beside the little grave, then, without a further word between them, Pippin picked up the shovel and they walked back to the stables.  In silence they put it away, then Pippin caught hold of Merry’s hand, pulling him down the long central aisle of the stables.  They went into the tack room and over to the box in the corner.

Pearl looked up at them, blinking contentedly.  Her older kittens and the new little ones were all in a jumble sound asleep.  Pippin knelt down and stroked one of the little ones they had rescued with an outstretched forefinger.

“See Merry,” he said as his cousin knelt down beside him.  “You can see them all breathing and they have full, fat little tummies now.”

They quietly watched the kittens breathing.

“I rather like this one,” Pippin said as he stroked one of the black and white kittens.  It hardly seemed right to call it black and white as it only had three tiny white spots on it’s back and a few flecks of white near it’s nose.

“It looks like it has snowflakes on it.” Merry said.  His voice still heavy with sadness.

Pippin smiled.  “It does!  Hello, Snowflake,” he said, gently touching the three tiny white spots.

“You’re naming a nearly all black cat Snowflake?”

“No, you named it Snowflake,” Pip said with a wink at his cousin.  “Would you mind if I ask about taking that one home with me?  When it is old enough that is.”

“I think that would be fine.”  Merry reached out to gently stroke the remaining pure white kitten.  Its fur had dried and fluffed out.  It was obvious that the kitten would have longish hair.  “I will ask Mum if I may keep Snowball,” Merry said, giving the kitten its new name.  “I’ll show folks around here that white cats aren’t bad luck.”

Pearl purred contentedly as the lads took the time to stroke all the kittens in the box before getting to their feet and sauntering out of the stables.

“What do you say to going into Bucklebury tomorrow, Peregrin, old lad?” Merry said in a mock grown up voice.  “We can spend the day perusing the merchandise in the shops and take a few meals at the Brass Buckle Inn.  I know how much you love their mushroom stew.”

Pippin noticed that Merry’s plans took them nowhere near to any streams or bridges, and that they would be east of The Hall, not west of it.

“That sounds a most appetizing idea, my dear Meriadoc,” Pippin replied in kind.

“And, speaking of appetizing; it is nearly time for dinner.  Shall we see what cook has prepared?”

“We shall indeed, my dear Peregrin.”

The lads laughed at their silly formality and raced each other to Brandyhall.

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A/N:  In England, white cats are the ones considered unlucky as opposed to black ones as in the US, and cats born in May (Thrimidge) are supposed to be poor mousers.

Cathleen's plot bunny:
Pip and Merry see someone throw a bag into a creek, and discover it has kittens in it.  How do they react?  Is it a hobbit who does it?  Why?  Do they find out it isn't all that uncommon on the farms?  Use Cathleen's grandma's cat - Pearl