Sam knew there was something up.  After all, he was turning seventy this year, and he had been hearing whispers (his hearing was still quite good, thank you, sir) since October at least.  Then there had been Rose’s increasingly pointed suggestions for fishing trips and winter hikes and other lads-only activities, and while some of that was certainly due to Elanor’s courtship and impending betrothal he knew it couldn’t be that alone.

Sam also knew that the best way to deal with a pleasant (he hoped) surprise was to feign ignorance entirely until the surprise happened.  One disappointed child had taught him that, quickly enough.

So he did not pry into his wife’s or his children’s affairs, and hoped that the surprise would not disappoint.

*  *  *

It had been Merry and Pippin, of course, although he did not want to be overly harsh on them as there was no real harm done, in the long run.  Pippin-lad had, the first time he’d heard old Mr. Bilbo’s tale, immediately asked what happened to the magic ring which had made people turn invisible, not connecting it with the bits of the other tale that he’d overheard.  There were all sorts of plans he had come up with—sneaking in and drinking someone’s beer right in front of his eyes, startling people by sneaking up on them…

Sam had only been too glad to inform him that not only was the Ring gone; it was actually a vile and horrible thing that stole your soul away from you a day at a time.

He had no idea that Pippin still had an interest in being invisible until after it was all over.

He’d dragged Merry-lad into it as well.  On one of the days when being Mayor simply could not be managed from Hobbiton, the two of them slipped into the closet, took the two Lórien cloaks, and headed out to the Road to await—and frighten—travelers who weren’t looking too closely.

Merry had gotten too close to the road, and when a cart had driven past, his cloak got caught in the wheel and started dragging him along.  The driver heard his cries, and probably would have been able to stop the cart before any bones were broken, but Pippin was quick on his feet, drew out his pocket-knife, and cut the cloak from his brother before any more harm could be done.

And that was how Sam’s cloak (thank heavens it was his and not Mr. Frodo’s!) got damaged.  Sam had never held too much truck with museums, not when things were still in working order (as the cloaks certainly were, or his son would never have got caught up in that cart in the first place), but it seemed rather wrong to give the Mathom House damaged goods.

So it sat in storage for quite a few years afterwards.

*  *  *

He had to wait until his birthday, but he did find it out.  They brought it to him after dinner.  Rose cleared her throat, and all of the lasses, down to little Ruby, filed out and came back in with what had to be the most imaginative quilt he had ever seen.

Patch-work quilts were still a novelty in the Shire, and Sam had always thought them impractical given how much work went into making a bolt of cloth.  They must have been very creative, for there were so many scraps, from so many places, and they were not cut in any conventional shapes.

They were a landscape, a beautiful grove full of trees—south trees, at that.  He looked sharply at his wife and Elanor.  Elanor blushed and smiled.

Then Sam looked closer—in the centre of the grove, in a clearing, were two cloaked figures, a hobbit’s height—one lying down and one sitting over a dull grey pan…

“It was Primmie’s idea,” said Rosie-lass.  “You were telling us about the Elven legends, and the lady Vairë who weaves history into her tapestries.  She wanted to know what yours would look like, and so we asked Mum, and we didn’t think it’d be too hard to manage…”

“So we asked everyone we knew for scraps of cloth, and Mum for help with piecing it together, and Ellie did all the broidery,” said Daisy.

“And then we asked Mum if we could use the cloak for the cloaks, since it was all cut up and it oughtn’t be lying around collecting dust, and we hope you don’t mind,” said Goldilocks.

Sam took the quilt in his arms, and looked at the cloak fabric better, and he could not quite tell what colour it actually was—grey or green.  “Well,” he said, as stoutly as he could manage, “it’s too fine a thing to use, so you had better enter this into the Free Fair this year, for I don’t know if I could ever—”

“You don’t have to use it, Father,” said Elanor.  “We didn’t make it for that.  We made it so that folk would look at it and be proud of you.”

“Well,” said Sam, “you can’t say any fairer than that,” and he hugged and kissed them all, one by one.

“And how,” said Frodo-lad, “in the Shire are we supposed to top that next year?”

*  *  *

“That must have been a good deal harder to manage than Rosie-lass expected,” Sam told his wife that night.

“It was,” said Rose, “but it was worth the effort if you ask me.  I’ve never done so much piecing and patching in my life—though the work was almost all theirs.”

“Well,” said Sam, “I must be the luckiest hobbit in all the Shire to have a family like ours.”

And he was, at that.