Read Online The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien - Free Book Online
Authors: J.R.R. Tolkien
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ago, when I was a lad. I’d not long come prentice to old Holman (him being my dad’s cousin),
but he had me up at Bag End helping him to keep folks from trampling and trapessing all over the garden while the sale was
on. And in the middle of it all Mr. Bilbo comes up the Hill witha pony and some mighty big bags and a couple of chests. I don’t doubt they were mostly full of treasure he had picked up in
foreign parts, where there be mountains of gold, they say; but there wasn’t enough to fill tunnels. But my lad Sam will know
more about that. He’s in and out of Bag End. Crazy about stories of the old days, he is, and he listens to all Mr. Bilbo’s
tales. Mr. Bilbo has learned him his letters – meaning no harm, mark you, and I hope no harm will come of it.
‘
Elves and Dragons!
I says to him.
Cabbages and potatoes are better for me and you. Don’t go getting mixed up in the business of your betters, or you’ll land
in trouble too big for you
, I says to him. And I might say it to others,’ he added with a look at the stranger and the miller.
But the Gaffer did not convince his audience. The legend of Bilbo’s wealth was now too firmly fixed in the minds of the younger
generation of hobbits.
‘Ah, but he has likely enough been adding to what he brought at first,’ argued the miller, voicing common opinion. ‘He’s often
away from home. And look at the outlandish folk that visit him: dwarves coming at night, and that old wandering conjuror,
Gandalf, and all. You can say what you like, Gaffer, but Bag End’s a queer place, and its folk are queerer.’
‘And you can say what
you
like, about what you know no more of than you do of boating, Mr. Sandyman,’ retorted the Gaffer, disliking the miller even
more than usual. ‘If that’s being queer, then we could do with a bit more queerness in these parts. There’s some not far away
that wouldn’t offer a pint of beer to a friend, if they lived in a hole with golden walls. But they do things proper at Bag
End. Our Sam says that
everyone’s
going to be invited to the party, and there’s going to be presents, mark you, presents for all – this very month as is.’
That very month was September, and as fine as you could ask. A day or two later a rumour (probably started by the knowledgeable
Sam) was spread about that there were going to be fireworks – fireworks, what is more, such as had not been seen in the Shire
for nigh on a century, not indeed since the Old Took died.
Days passed and The Day drew nearer. An odd-looking waggon laden with odd-looking packages rolled into Hobbiton one evening
and toiled up the Hill to Bag End. The startled hobbits peered out of lamplit doors to gape at it. It was driven by outlandish
folk, singing strange songs: dwarves with long beards and deep hoods. A few of them remained at Bag End. At the end of the
second week in September a cart came in through Bywater from the direction of Brandywine Bridge in broad daylight. An old
man was driving it all alone.He wore a tall pointed blue hat, a long grey cloak, and a silver scarf. He had a long white beard and bushy eyebrows that
stuck out beyond the brim of his hat. Small hobbit-children ran after the cart all through Hobbiton and right up the hill.
It had a cargo of fireworks, as they rightly guessed. At Bilbo’s front door the old man began to unload: there were great
bundles of fireworks of all sorts and shapes, each labelled with a large red Gand the elf-rune,.
That was Gandalf’s mark, of course, and the old man was Gandalf the Wizard, whose fame in the Shire was due mainly to his
skill with fires, smokes, and lights. His real business was far more difficult and dangerous, but the Shire-folk knew nothing
about it. To them he was just one of the ‘attractions’ at the Party. Hence the excitement of the hobbit-children. ‘G for Grand!’
they shouted, and the old man smiled. They knew him by sight, though he only
but he had me up at Bag End helping him to keep folks from trampling and trapessing all over the garden while the sale was
on. And in the middle of it all Mr. Bilbo comes up the Hill witha pony and some mighty big bags and a couple of chests. I don’t doubt they were mostly full of treasure he had picked up in
foreign parts, where there be mountains of gold, they say; but there wasn’t enough to fill tunnels. But my lad Sam will know
more about that. He’s in and out of Bag End. Crazy about stories of the old days, he is, and he listens to all Mr. Bilbo’s
tales. Mr. Bilbo has learned him his letters – meaning no harm, mark you, and I hope no harm will come of it.
‘
Elves and Dragons!
I says to him.
Cabbages and potatoes are better for me and you. Don’t go getting mixed up in the business of your betters, or you’ll land
in trouble too big for you
, I says to him. And I might say it to others,’ he added with a look at the stranger and the miller.
But the Gaffer did not convince his audience. The legend of Bilbo’s wealth was now too firmly fixed in the minds of the younger
generation of hobbits.
‘Ah, but he has likely enough been adding to what he brought at first,’ argued the miller, voicing common opinion. ‘He’s often
away from home. And look at the outlandish folk that visit him: dwarves coming at night, and that old wandering conjuror,
Gandalf, and all. You can say what you like, Gaffer, but Bag End’s a queer place, and its folk are queerer.’
‘And you can say what
you
like, about what you know no more of than you do of boating, Mr. Sandyman,’ retorted the Gaffer, disliking the miller even
more than usual. ‘If that’s being queer, then we could do with a bit more queerness in these parts. There’s some not far away
that wouldn’t offer a pint of beer to a friend, if they lived in a hole with golden walls. But they do things proper at Bag
End. Our Sam says that
everyone’s
going to be invited to the party, and there’s going to be presents, mark you, presents for all – this very month as is.’
That very month was September, and as fine as you could ask. A day or two later a rumour (probably started by the knowledgeable
Sam) was spread about that there were going to be fireworks – fireworks, what is more, such as had not been seen in the Shire
for nigh on a century, not indeed since the Old Took died.
Days passed and The Day drew nearer. An odd-looking waggon laden with odd-looking packages rolled into Hobbiton one evening
and toiled up the Hill to Bag End. The startled hobbits peered out of lamplit doors to gape at it. It was driven by outlandish
folk, singing strange songs: dwarves with long beards and deep hoods. A few of them remained at Bag End. At the end of the
second week in September a cart came in through Bywater from the direction of Brandywine Bridge in broad daylight. An old
man was driving it all alone.He wore a tall pointed blue hat, a long grey cloak, and a silver scarf. He had a long white beard and bushy eyebrows that
stuck out beyond the brim of his hat. Small hobbit-children ran after the cart all through Hobbiton and right up the hill.
It had a cargo of fireworks, as they rightly guessed. At Bilbo’s front door the old man began to unload: there were great
bundles of fireworks of all sorts and shapes, each labelled with a large red Gand the elf-rune,.
That was Gandalf’s mark, of course, and the old man was Gandalf the Wizard, whose fame in the Shire was due mainly to his
skill with fires, smokes, and lights. His real business was far more difficult and dangerous, but the Shire-folk knew nothing
about it. To them he was just one of the ‘attractions’ at the Party. Hence the excitement of the hobbit-children. ‘G for Grand!’
they shouted, and the old man smiled. They knew him by sight, though he only
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