Chapter 63. Just another morning in the town of Bree

~ S.R. 1419, 12 March ~

It did not take many days for my many (more than I can number, at least) young friends in Bree – children of Men and Hobbits alike – to begin to anticipate our coming, Tall Bob's and mine, and leave off their games that they might gather to greet us. This day my benefactor's name is Sam – not my Sam, o' course, but a hobbit child of the same name and much the same smell, mingled of kindness and wonder and good, clean earth that nurtures the fresh green sprouts. He is a gardener's son, I have gathered, and he has come faithfully from his daily task of tending window-boxes and weeding front gardens to join the welcoming throng of children. His hands are dirt-smeared, and there is a streak of grime on his face from when he pushed a stray lock of hair back from his forehead and grinned at me just now.

'Ah, Poppet!' he crows, his face alight with glee (for my Violet has by this time persuaded almost all of my admirers that her chosen name for me is the proper one), 'and now, today, at last, 'tis my turn to treat you! And what a treat us'ns all have for you this day...!'

A general cheer goes up, covering the rest of what he has to say, but no matter. He holds out his grubby palm, a light-coloured lump resting in the middle, and I lower my head and nuzzle delicately for the treat. He laughs as my whiskers tickle his hand, setting all the rest to laughter, including Tall Bob. 

In recent days, my groom has taken on quite an air as we set out upon our morning constitutional. I am reminded of a day during our time of rest and healing in that marvellous Valley where, if all is well, Merrylegs still grazes and the Old Pet waits for news.

*** 

'Pip's father is a farmer, that's true enough; but my Uncle Paladin is also the Thain o' the Shire, about as close to a king as Shire-folk might come. We don't have an actual king, mind...'

'So he rules over the Shire as a king might, if your Shire-folk were to have a king...?' says the Elf sitting on the grass nearby, conversing at his ease with Merry – who fits his name quite well at the moment, for he throws back his head and laughs at the notion. Despite their differences, the two seem quite companionable – kindred spirits, even – having come out to sit amidst the horses and ponies grazing in the meadow, as if they enjoy our company.

'I wouldn't say he rules over anything or anyone!' my Merry-hobbit says at last, when he has finished laughing at such a notion. 'But then, I should say that hobbits are not the kind of folk that one might rule over! O they'll do as they're told if they think your request is reasonable...'

'And if not?' asks the Elf curiously. He is not a stable worker, and therefore not someone I have become acquainted with. Yet there is a certain air of familiarity about him in his interactions with my Hobbits, as if he has known other Hobbits before, in some earlier time. Perhaps he became acquainted with the Old Pet during that Hobbit's wanderings? Or did he, upon a time, know some others?

'Why, they'll agree with you and then turn around and do what they think is best, of course!' Merry says, and then he laughs again.

'There you are, cousin!' comes from behind me, and I startle. 

But Merry jumps to his feet, and he bows deeply to Youngest – who has evidently come in search. 'My Lord and Prince!'

At which address, Youngest screws up his face in puzzlement, before dissolving into laughter at the absurdity. 'Have you had too much of the Sun this afternoon, Merry? What are you on about? I'm supposed to be the one spouting nonsense, you know! You're supposed to be the sensible one!'

'I thought that was Frodo,' Merry returns.

'Frodo's a Baggins, and so there's no accounting for him,' Youngest says cheekily. 'But I have come to tell you that it's almost time for tea, and Bilbo's expecting us! He said as much to Frodo, and so Frodo asked Samwise to tell me to find you...'

'I deem that you must retain your crown as King of Nonsense, Pip!' Merry interrupts, and he delivers another sweeping bow to his younger cousin. To the Elf, he says, 'Sadly, it seems that I am called away! But if you'd like to hear more about the Shire, I'll be happy to meet you on the morrow, at the same time, in this same place... (for I simply cannot seem to find it in me to stay awake for any length of time in that Hall of Fire of yours)...'

'It will be my pleasure,' the Elf says, politely inclining his head and creating the impression of giving a bow of his own. That said, I notice he remains seated and, thus, can speak comfortably face-to-face with my Hobbits.

'If it please you, my Lord,' says Merry, extending his hand before him invitingly – but he is addressing Youngest and not the Elf at all! Then, with elaborate courtesy, he escorts Youngest from our meadow. Nevertheless, my Hobbits have seldom been able to maintain a serious and sober manner since our arrival here, once Master was pronounced "out of danger", I mean. When they are only halfway to the gate, the two of them begin chaffing each other and laughing as they go, and their mock-dignified departure ends in a footrace to the gate.

*** 

Just so, Tall Bob put on an air of dignity as we walked under the archway and into the street this morning, and now that he has finished laughing, he stands tall and proud at my side.

As I lip the treat from the small gardener's grimy hand, and delicious sweetness crunches between my teeth, young Sam tells all and sundry, 'Mistress Thistlewool, she give me a lump of real sugar to thank me for doing up her flowerboxes with her favourite colours!' He lowers his now-empty hand and shrugs. 'I didn't even know they was her favourite colours! I just planted the seeds my dad give me, and...'

One of the little ones gasps. 'Maybe she meant the sugar lump for your dad, then!'

But young Sam shakes his head stubbornly. 'No!' he insists. 'When she gives it t' me, she even tells me, she does, that today's my day to treat the pony, as she knows it very well – and that I should keep my bread-and-jam for my own second breakfast, seein' as how hard I works at keeping weeds out o' the beds!' 

Small, dirt-encrusted fingers stroke my face, and I nod my thanks at him, and at Mistress Thistlewool. He seems to take my meaning, for he whispers conspiratorially, 'I'll take your thanks back to the Mistress, and welcome!'

It is a wonder to me that even the adults know whose day it is to "treat the pony"! But then, from what I overhear on our daily wanderings, the least little thing serves as a topic for talk in the town these days. Perhaps their confinement within the walls of the town limits the scope for conversation. Or perhaps concentrating on the littlest things helps to divert their thoughts from the dangers encroaching upon the town outside the Hedge and Dike.

*** 

Author's note: Shire: Beginnings tells how Elrond offered refuge and healing to the migrating Fallohides for a time after they had crossed the Misty Mountains on their way westward. Thus, the Elf conversing with Merry in the meadow might well have come to know those earlier hobbits during that long-ago time.

***