Chapter Two: When Frodo Met Sam
Below Bag End, but tunneled into the same hill, were three houses on a road the locals called Bagshot Row. Number Three, Bagshot Row, was a small, shabby hole inhabited by Ham Gamgee, his wife, Bell, and a slew of homely, cheerful children. Their youngest son was named Samwise. A comical name, meaning that the baby was simple, or only half wise. But he usually went by Sam. From the time that he could toddle around on his fat little legs, Sam loved the Bag End garden. It was no surprise to see him there, really–Ham Gamgee worked for my uncle Bilbo, tending the garden, and since the family was poor, their children began work young. The Gamgees didn't hold with "book learning", talked rustically, and had hearts of absolute gold. So I enjoyed little Sam's company, although he was twelve years younger than I. I would often come home from some expedition with my friends to find Sam grubbing in Bag End's garden while Ham Gamgee gave Bilbo a lecture full of "sir"s and "begging your pardon"s on the proper growing of potatoes. Sam's adventures in the yard soon led to explorations of the house. He was fascinated by Bilbo's stories of travels and of the Elder Days. He would sit for as long as his father would allow, his brown eyes filled with wonder, and listen to me and Bilbo talk about far away places or speak Sindarin to one another, so intrigued that at last Bilbo decided to teach Sam to read and write. Though little Sam was, in truth, not an especially quick pupil, he was blessed with a perpetual good humor, and he got along very well. His father didn't exactly approve.
"Elves and dragons." He would grumble. "You're a gardener, Samwise, and mind you remember your place."
And Sam did remember his place. He always respectfully called me "Mr. Frodo". But Bilbo saw something special in the neighbor boy, and soon I began to notice it too.
One of the first questions I can ever remember asking my Gaffer was about Frodo. I was sitting on the floor in our hole, playing with a little wooden horse Bilbo had given me after he had caught me looking at it during one of my reading lessons.
"Da?" I said, "Who's the nice boy next door?"
"The one as lives with Mr. Bilbo?"
"Yes, him."
"That's master Frodo Baggins."
"Where are his mum and da?"
My father smiled, sighed and put down the pan he was trying to mend for Mama. "Well, they died. Nigh on four years ago, it was now. About the time you were born."
"How?"
"Drownded. They went sailin' on the river and fell in, which is why you never go out on the water. Mr Frodo lives with Mr Bilbo now. Mr Bilbo looks after him."
"Is he my age?"
"Mr Frodo? No, he's a good twelve years older than you. And he's one of your betters. You call him master, same as you do Mr. Bilbo."
I nodded, but I made up my mind to go talk to Mr. Frodo the next time I saw him.
I was coming home from a mushroom-collecting expedition with Merry Brandybuck, and I walked up the road and through my front gate absent-mindedly, enjoying the beautiful weather and humming an Elvish tune. Then I heard a tiny voice at my elbow.
"Hi."
I looked down into Sam Gamgee's big brown eyes. "Hullo, Sam. What can I do for you?"
Sam was staring at me. "Can we be friends? Dad says no cause you're my better."
I smiled and knelt down at the little boy's side. "Well, you ought to listen to your father. But you can talk with me all that you like."
Sam didn't stop staring at me. "Is your name Mr. Frodo?"
"Yes."
"All right, then." Sam seemed satisfied. "Mr. Frodo."
He walked away and sat down in the dirt to build a tower of pebbles. I watched him for several minutes, hoping to talk to him again, but he shyly ignored my presence. At last I smiled and went into the house.
"The littlest Gamgee lad is a funny fellow." I said to Bilbo, who was washing dishes at the sink.
"Samwise? Oh, yes. He's different from the other rustic folk around here, somehow." Bilbo replied. I was surprised at his serious tone.
"Why is he different, uncle?"
Bilbo shrugged. "Perhaps it's nothing. But the two of you seem to understand each other in a way that I haven't seen before."
"Bilbo, he's four years old." I laughed, superior in the fact that I had just had my sixteenth birthday.
"Which is why it is so peculiar." Bilbo responded. He stood gazing at me for a moment. "You were an unusual child from a young age too, you know."
"I was? How?"
Bilbo's eyes were on my face, but they were looking at something very far away. "The first time I met you," he said, "You were asleep in your mother's arms, only a few days old. You looked more like an elf princeling than a hobbit child. You had soft curls of jet black hair, and when you opened your eyes I was startled by how blue they were. Not many hobbits have blue eyes, you know."
I nodded. My eyes were a popular topic of conversation–they were big and as blue as the sky.
"And you had an Elvish light." Bilbo continued. "So much so that you seemed to shine in the dark. It faded, mostly, by the time you were two months old, but it has never gone completely. Sometimes I wonder."
I had never heard any mention of any "Elvish light" belonging to me before, and I stared at my uncle in confusion. "Wonder what, uncle?"
Bilbo didn't answer for a moment. Then he shook himself and quickly said "Nothing. Nothing. Perhaps you will go on adventures like I did. You would like that, wouldn't you."
He smiled, and I smiled back, but I wasn't sure what Bilbo had meant.
