It was a blustery day in the Shire. The North wind blew in fierce over the hilltops, whistling through houses and shaking the trees. All across the countryside, people were huddled into their burrows, keeping close to the fire, trying to keep the chill far away. Even the unlucky ponies whose owners didn't have sheds to put them in were kneeling under trees, shivering in the cold. In the pub, old hobbits whispered that when the wind blew like this, it was the last breath of Saruman, reminding them of how close he had come to destroying them. In a particularly famous burrow of the Shire, known still as Bag End, a Hobbit family of large size was avoiding the wind just like the rest of town. A fire burned brightly in the large fireplace, illuminating the very fine burrow. In a large red chair placed properly before the fire sat a plump, fair-haired Hobbit man, well-advanced in his years. He smoked a long pipe as he told grandiose stories about days of old, younger Hobbitlings gathered around his feet. They listened with wide blue eyes, attentive and gasping at all the right parts, though they had heard the stories many times over. If they truly wanted, they could recite them themselves without missing a beat. Part of the fun was having their old gaffer do it though.

Farther away from the sitting room, a trio of female Hobbits bustled around the kitchen, doing womanly things like dishes and cooking. One particular girl; however, always had one ear twisted to the sound of her father's voice. As she vaguely washed dishes, her cheeks would flush at an exciting part or pale at a dire moment. So wrapped up in her avid listening, she didn't notice when she began to wash a loaf of bread. Her sister screeched,

"Mother! Goldilocks is doing it again!"

Old Rosie Cotton Gamgee planted her hands on her ample hips and scolded,

"Young lady, what do you think you're doing there?"

Her face crimson with embarrassment, the pretty little Hobbit named Goldilocks Gamgee, the sixth of thirteen Gamgees, held up the now soaking mass of bread. She muttered under her breath,

"I thought it was a little dry."

Her sister practically shouted in the same obnoxious voice,

"Mother, did you hear that?! She's calling the bread I made dry!"

"Well it is!" Goldilocks exclaimed, marching over to stand nose to nose with her older sister. "I thought washing it might cure it!"

"At least mine doesn't taste like dirt," young Rose shouted back. Goldilocks pursed her pink mouth and hissed in a low enough voice that their mother couldn't hear.

"I'll make you eat dirt if you don't quit screeching in my ear, you old barn owl!"

This set her off wailing again, their mother trying to scold both of them at the same time and Goldilocks plugging her ears and singing loudly to herself.

"For crying out loud, what's all this infernal racket?"

In the doorway stood a bewildered Samwise Gamgee, leaning on a walking stick and looking perplexed over the fighting of his womenfolk. His wife threw up her towel and gave him a look that spoke volumes. He nodded and slipped an arm around Goldilocks. Squeezing her shoulder a bit, he nudged her toward the hallway.

"Come along, Goldi, let's have us a chat, shall we? We'll let your mother and Rose finish up the kitchen tasks."

As soon as they stepped out of line of sight and hearing range, Goldilocks balled her fists and exclaimed,

"Oh, I could just strangle her! Silly little twit anyway."

"Now, now," Sam coughed. "Don't be so harsh on your sister there. She just likes to do her womanly things and she takes offense when you criticize her. Exactly why were you washing the bread, dearie?"

She rolled her eyes and leaned against the wall with a slight smile.

"I didn't mean to. I was listening to you tell the young ones the old stories again. I just got a little distracted."

Sam smiled gently at the middle of his great brood of children. He could never admit it anyone, especially his wife, but Goldilocks would always be his favorite. From the wintry day she was born on where she screamed her way into the world, she had been bold, impetuous and always daring. She was constantly giving her mother gray hairs for she ran wild with the boy Hobbits of the town, getting dirty and playing rough. Even now that she was older, a teenager by hobbit standards and the prettiest lass in the Shire, she still hadn't calmed down. There was always a far off look in her eyes that sometimes frightened him. She would never be content with the Shire, his Goldilocks and he worried where that might take her.

Her eyes sought the gray-colored clouds on the horizon and wished she could fly away with the wind, wished someone would come take her away from the drab, provincial life she lived. She asked quietly,

"Poppa, why aren't there any brave Hobbit women in your story?"

"Now why do you ask that, poppet?" Sam chuckled. "Aren't the stories of Queen Arwen and Lady Eowyn enough for you?"

"It's not that," she sighed, turning to face him. "I love those stories. I just wish there was a brave Hobbit girl in one once in a while. Why if you and the uncles could have great adventures, why can't I?"

"A great adventure?!" Sam felt some of the color drain from his face. "Goldi, you don't what you're asking for. You should appreciate the fine, peaceful times we're living in. Adventures are not to be taken lightly. Don't you listen to my stories at all?"

"Of course I do, Poppa-that's why I want an adventure. I'd rather live through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered than be resigned to a life of dishes!"

Sam felt his heart swell fort his passionate little thing that had grown up on tales of valor and extraordinary circumstances. She just wanted a little excitement; she wasn't like her mother and her sisters. He asked,

"But now what about Elanor? She lives over in Westmarch now-that's a whole new exciting country, thanks to Strider-er, King Elessar, that is. Maybe I could send you to her for a while; you could help her and Fastred with the books."

The look of disgust was plain enough. She gagged, curling her lip,

"Boring! Poppa, being cooped up with Ellie and her library and her stuffy husband isn't adventure. I suppose I'll never do anything grander than throw Rose's bread in the sink. I'm going to find Faramir."

"In this weather? Goldi, I'm not sure that's such a good idea. Your motherly fret and I-"

Quickly to avoid any more of his protests, Goldilocks pecked a kiss at his cheek, grabbed her cloak and dashed out the door, calling behind her,

"I'll be home before dusk! Don't worry!"

Watching her run away from the burrow at top speed, Sam couldn't help but feel a pang of apprehension. Faramir was the daughter of his good friend Pippin, and while he was a good lad with an upcoming apprenticeship at Gondor, he was built of the same adventuresome fiber his father was. He worried endlessly that his daughter would only get into trouble with that hobbit.