story-telling, or singing, or just sitting and thinking best, or a pleasant mixture of them all. Evil things
did not come into that valley.
I wish I had time to tell you even a few of the tales or one or two of the songs that they heard in that house. All of them,
the ponies as well, grew refreshed and strong in a few days there. Their clothes were mended as well as their bruises, their
tempers and their hopes. Their bags were filled with food and provisions light to carry but strong to bring them over the
mountain passes. Their plans were improved with the best advice. So the time came to midsummer eve, and they were to go on
again with the early sun on midsummer morning.
Elrond knew all about runes of every kind. That day he looked at the swords they had brought from the trolls’ lair, and he
said: “These are not troll-make. They are old swords, very old swords of the High Elves of the West, my kin. They were made
in Gondolin for the Goblin-wars. They must have come from a dragon’s hoard or goblin plunder, for dragons and goblins destroyed that city many ages ago. This, Thorin, the runes
name Orcrist, the Goblin-cleaver in the ancient tongue of Gondolin; it was a famous blade. This, Gandalf, was Glamdring, Foe-hammer
that the king of Gondolin once wore. Keep them well!”
“Whence did the trolls get them, I wonder?” said Thorin looking at his sword with new interest.
“I could not say,” said Elrond, “but one may guess that your trolls had plundered other plunderers, or come on the remnants
of old robberies in some hold in the mountains. I have heard that there are still forgotten treasures of old to be found in
the deserted caverns of the mines of Moria, since the dwarf and goblin war.”
Thorin pondered these words. “I will keep this sword in honour,” he said. “May it soon cleave goblins once again!”
“A wish that is likely to be granted soon enough in the mountains!” said Elrond. “But show me now your map!”
He took it and gazed long at it, and he shook his head; for if he did not altogether approve of dwarves and their love of
gold, he hated dragons and their cruel wickedness, and he grieved to remember the ruin of the town of Dale and its merry bells,
and the burned banks of the bright River Running. The moon was shining in a broad silver crescent. He held up the map and
the white light shone through it. “What is this?” he said. “There are moon-letters here, beside the plain runes which say
‘five feet high the door and three may walk abreast.’”
“What are moon-letters?” asked the hobbit full of excitement. He loved maps, as I have told you before; and he also liked
runes and letters and cunning handwriting, though when he wrote himself it was a bit thin and spidery.
“Moon-letters are rune-letters, but you cannot see them,” said Elrond, “not when you look straight at them. They can only
be seen when the moon shines behind them, and what is more, with the more cunning sort it must be a moon of the same shape
and season as the day when they were written. The dwarves invented them and wrote them with silver pens, as your friends could
tell you. These must have been written on a midsummer’s eve in a crescent moon, a long while ago.”
“What do they say?” asked Gandalf and Thorin together, a bit vexed perhaps that even Elrond should have found this out first,
though really there had not been a chance before, and there would not have been another until goodness knows when.
“ Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks ,” read Elrond, “and the setting sun with the last light of Durin’s Day will
shine upon the key-hole.”
“Durin, Durin!” said Thorin. “He was the father of the fathers of the eldest race of Dwarves, the Longbeards, and my first
ancestor: I am his heir.”
“Then what is Durin’s Day?” asked Elrond.
“The first day of the dwarves’ New Year,” said Thorin, “is as all should know the first day of the
did not come into that valley.
I wish I had time to tell you even a few of the tales or one or two of the songs that they heard in that house. All of them,
the ponies as well, grew refreshed and strong in a few days there. Their clothes were mended as well as their bruises, their
tempers and their hopes. Their bags were filled with food and provisions light to carry but strong to bring them over the
mountain passes. Their plans were improved with the best advice. So the time came to midsummer eve, and they were to go on
again with the early sun on midsummer morning.
Elrond knew all about runes of every kind. That day he looked at the swords they had brought from the trolls’ lair, and he
said: “These are not troll-make. They are old swords, very old swords of the High Elves of the West, my kin. They were made
in Gondolin for the Goblin-wars. They must have come from a dragon’s hoard or goblin plunder, for dragons and goblins destroyed that city many ages ago. This, Thorin, the runes
name Orcrist, the Goblin-cleaver in the ancient tongue of Gondolin; it was a famous blade. This, Gandalf, was Glamdring, Foe-hammer
that the king of Gondolin once wore. Keep them well!”
“Whence did the trolls get them, I wonder?” said Thorin looking at his sword with new interest.
“I could not say,” said Elrond, “but one may guess that your trolls had plundered other plunderers, or come on the remnants
of old robberies in some hold in the mountains. I have heard that there are still forgotten treasures of old to be found in
the deserted caverns of the mines of Moria, since the dwarf and goblin war.”
Thorin pondered these words. “I will keep this sword in honour,” he said. “May it soon cleave goblins once again!”
“A wish that is likely to be granted soon enough in the mountains!” said Elrond. “But show me now your map!”
He took it and gazed long at it, and he shook his head; for if he did not altogether approve of dwarves and their love of
gold, he hated dragons and their cruel wickedness, and he grieved to remember the ruin of the town of Dale and its merry bells,
and the burned banks of the bright River Running. The moon was shining in a broad silver crescent. He held up the map and
the white light shone through it. “What is this?” he said. “There are moon-letters here, beside the plain runes which say
‘five feet high the door and three may walk abreast.’”
“What are moon-letters?” asked the hobbit full of excitement. He loved maps, as I have told you before; and he also liked
runes and letters and cunning handwriting, though when he wrote himself it was a bit thin and spidery.
“Moon-letters are rune-letters, but you cannot see them,” said Elrond, “not when you look straight at them. They can only
be seen when the moon shines behind them, and what is more, with the more cunning sort it must be a moon of the same shape
and season as the day when they were written. The dwarves invented them and wrote them with silver pens, as your friends could
tell you. These must have been written on a midsummer’s eve in a crescent moon, a long while ago.”
“What do they say?” asked Gandalf and Thorin together, a bit vexed perhaps that even Elrond should have found this out first,
though really there had not been a chance before, and there would not have been another until goodness knows when.
“ Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks ,” read Elrond, “and the setting sun with the last light of Durin’s Day will
shine upon the key-hole.”
“Durin, Durin!” said Thorin. “He was the father of the fathers of the eldest race of Dwarves, the Longbeards, and my first
ancestor: I am his heir.”
“Then what is Durin’s Day?” asked Elrond.
“The first day of the dwarves’ New Year,” said Thorin, “is as all should know the first day of the
Similar Books
