Disclaimer: The characters' names and places belong to J.R.R.
Tolkien.
Chapter 1
"Frodo! Dinner!" Ninety-nine-year-old Bilbo Baggins stood in the
doorway of his large smial, Bag-End, and watched as his twenty-one-
year-old nephew Frodo hurried inside from the front yard.
"Hullo, Bilbo." Frodo greeted, planting a kiss on his Uncle's
cheek as he came inside.
"Did you have a busy day, my boy?" Bilbo asked as he followed
Frodo into the kitchen. "Ah, ah, ah. Not till after dinner." He
laughed as Frodo went to inspect the freshly baked ginger bread on
the counter.
"It looks wonderful." Frodo washed his face and hands with
freshly scented lavender soap before sitting down in his usual spot
at the old round table. Bilbo set the plate of roast duck, cream of
broccoli soup, and honey-dipped carrots in the center of the table
before taking a seat himself.
"Thank you. So tell me all about your day." Bilbo took some meat
and prepared to listen to his nephew's tale.
"Well--I went with Fatty to Myrtle Burrows' birthday party in
Bywater. It was great fun--lots of treats, dancing, games..." He took
a spoonfull of carrots.
"Yet you still have enough room for your dinner?" Bilbo raised
an eyebrow with suspicion.
Frodo's cheeks turned a light shade of crimson at the
comment. "Well--we had a bit of a work out on the way home. We cut
through Farmer Maggot's field as a shortcut and his big bull dog
chased us all the way through the field and up a tree before we could
get rid of him."
Bilbo shook his head. "What am I going to do with you?" He asked.
Frodo shrugged as he continued to eat. Bag-End was beginning to
feel like a real home to Frodo, who had grown up in an enormous Smial-
-Brandy Hall in Buckland. At the age of twelve, Frodo lost both of
his parents: Drogo and Primula, in a nasty boating accident on the
Brandywine River. For nine yars Frodo lived as an orphan at the hall,
not necessarily neglected but rather overlooked as Bilbo often told
the neighbors. Then, on his twenty-first birthday (September 22nd),
Bilbo adopted the lad and brought him to live at Bag-End.
"This IS good." Frodo complimented as he savored the thick,
creamy soup. After his third spoonfull, Frodo felt a horrible
prickling in his rather pointy nose and it wrinkled up. Bilbo
immediately knew what was coming and quickly handed Frodo a napkin.
The lad sneezed violently into it three times and was out of breath
when the fit ended.
"Are you all right, my boy? I hope you aren't catching a cold!"
Frodo shook his head as he wiped his now streaming nose with
the napkin. "I don't know, Bilbo. It felt as though there were
something in my nose."
Not quite convinced, Bilbo placed a hand against Frodo's
forehead, checking his temperature. "No fever."
Frodo smiled and gave Bilbo's arm a gentle squeeze. "It is
nothing. Just a few sneezes."
"I'll say." Bilbo relaxed and the meal continued. Frodo filled
his Uncle in on what exactly happened at the birthday party and sent
Bilbo into fits of laughter.
"You and females do not mix, do you?" Bilbo asked as he took a
bite of a fluffy biscuit.
Frodo smiled. "I'm afraid not. I just can't seem to understand
them, but the odd thing is that they understand us."
Bilbo had to agree with that one. In his youth he had had a
few "flings" but they never lasted long. Just as he was finishing up,
Frodo made to sneeze again, but pinched his nostrils together with
his thumb and pointer finger and sneezed silently.
"I think you had better get to bed, lad. I'll bring your
gingerbread to you."
Frodo rolled his eyes. In all honesty, he felt perfectly fine
everywhere else. His throat did not hurt and his head and muscles did
not ache, which were normally symptoms of his colds and flus.
"I'm FINE, Uncle, and you need help with the cleanup."
Before Bilbo could protest Frodo began clearing the plates away
from the table and bringing them over to the sink. Once the dirty
work was finished, Bilbo sent Frodo to bed and sliced a nice thick
piece of the sweet bread, poured the lad a cup of ginger tea and
brought the items into the lad's room. Frodo was undressing and
getting into his nightgown when his Uncle entered and climbed into
his soft featherbed. "Oooh." Frodo smiled as Bilbo came over and sat
the plate and teacup into Frodo's hands.
"Would you like me to read a story to you, Frodo? I know you're
getting a bit old for that, but..."
"I'm never too old for your stories, Uncle Bilbo." Frodo
admitted.
Bilbo glanced towards the window. "It's getting awfully stuffy
in here. I'll open the window a bit (now Frodo's room faces the
garden and the rosebushes are all along the bottom of the window. So
if the window is open, then what will happen with the pollen?) to
bring in some fresh air."
"Yes please." Frodo took a bite of the bread and watched as
Bilbo lifted the latch and lifted the pane before pulling a chair
beside his nephew's bed.
"Let's see now...which story shall I tell you tonight?" He
asked.
"How about the one about Tom Bombadil and when he goes boating?"
asked Frodo, sniffling a bit as he took another bite of his cake and
washing it down with the tea.
"All right, cricket." Bilbo laughed. Cricket was a nickname Bilbo
had chosen for Frodo following the lad's first serious childhood
illness. A cricket was small and frail but still full of life, so the
name fit Frodo perfectly. "The year was turning brown; the West Wind
was calling; Tom caught a beechen leaf in the Forest Falling..."
(BOMBADIL GOES BOATING can be found in the TOLLKIEN READER)
Tolkien.
Chapter 1
"Frodo! Dinner!" Ninety-nine-year-old Bilbo Baggins stood in the
doorway of his large smial, Bag-End, and watched as his twenty-one-
year-old nephew Frodo hurried inside from the front yard.
"Hullo, Bilbo." Frodo greeted, planting a kiss on his Uncle's
cheek as he came inside.
"Did you have a busy day, my boy?" Bilbo asked as he followed
Frodo into the kitchen. "Ah, ah, ah. Not till after dinner." He
laughed as Frodo went to inspect the freshly baked ginger bread on
the counter.
"It looks wonderful." Frodo washed his face and hands with
freshly scented lavender soap before sitting down in his usual spot
at the old round table. Bilbo set the plate of roast duck, cream of
broccoli soup, and honey-dipped carrots in the center of the table
before taking a seat himself.
"Thank you. So tell me all about your day." Bilbo took some meat
and prepared to listen to his nephew's tale.
"Well--I went with Fatty to Myrtle Burrows' birthday party in
Bywater. It was great fun--lots of treats, dancing, games..." He took
a spoonfull of carrots.
"Yet you still have enough room for your dinner?" Bilbo raised
an eyebrow with suspicion.
Frodo's cheeks turned a light shade of crimson at the
comment. "Well--we had a bit of a work out on the way home. We cut
through Farmer Maggot's field as a shortcut and his big bull dog
chased us all the way through the field and up a tree before we could
get rid of him."
Bilbo shook his head. "What am I going to do with you?" He asked.
Frodo shrugged as he continued to eat. Bag-End was beginning to
feel like a real home to Frodo, who had grown up in an enormous Smial-
-Brandy Hall in Buckland. At the age of twelve, Frodo lost both of
his parents: Drogo and Primula, in a nasty boating accident on the
Brandywine River. For nine yars Frodo lived as an orphan at the hall,
not necessarily neglected but rather overlooked as Bilbo often told
the neighbors. Then, on his twenty-first birthday (September 22nd),
Bilbo adopted the lad and brought him to live at Bag-End.
"This IS good." Frodo complimented as he savored the thick,
creamy soup. After his third spoonfull, Frodo felt a horrible
prickling in his rather pointy nose and it wrinkled up. Bilbo
immediately knew what was coming and quickly handed Frodo a napkin.
The lad sneezed violently into it three times and was out of breath
when the fit ended.
"Are you all right, my boy? I hope you aren't catching a cold!"
Frodo shook his head as he wiped his now streaming nose with
the napkin. "I don't know, Bilbo. It felt as though there were
something in my nose."
Not quite convinced, Bilbo placed a hand against Frodo's
forehead, checking his temperature. "No fever."
Frodo smiled and gave Bilbo's arm a gentle squeeze. "It is
nothing. Just a few sneezes."
"I'll say." Bilbo relaxed and the meal continued. Frodo filled
his Uncle in on what exactly happened at the birthday party and sent
Bilbo into fits of laughter.
"You and females do not mix, do you?" Bilbo asked as he took a
bite of a fluffy biscuit.
Frodo smiled. "I'm afraid not. I just can't seem to understand
them, but the odd thing is that they understand us."
Bilbo had to agree with that one. In his youth he had had a
few "flings" but they never lasted long. Just as he was finishing up,
Frodo made to sneeze again, but pinched his nostrils together with
his thumb and pointer finger and sneezed silently.
"I think you had better get to bed, lad. I'll bring your
gingerbread to you."
Frodo rolled his eyes. In all honesty, he felt perfectly fine
everywhere else. His throat did not hurt and his head and muscles did
not ache, which were normally symptoms of his colds and flus.
"I'm FINE, Uncle, and you need help with the cleanup."
Before Bilbo could protest Frodo began clearing the plates away
from the table and bringing them over to the sink. Once the dirty
work was finished, Bilbo sent Frodo to bed and sliced a nice thick
piece of the sweet bread, poured the lad a cup of ginger tea and
brought the items into the lad's room. Frodo was undressing and
getting into his nightgown when his Uncle entered and climbed into
his soft featherbed. "Oooh." Frodo smiled as Bilbo came over and sat
the plate and teacup into Frodo's hands.
"Would you like me to read a story to you, Frodo? I know you're
getting a bit old for that, but..."
"I'm never too old for your stories, Uncle Bilbo." Frodo
admitted.
Bilbo glanced towards the window. "It's getting awfully stuffy
in here. I'll open the window a bit (now Frodo's room faces the
garden and the rosebushes are all along the bottom of the window. So
if the window is open, then what will happen with the pollen?) to
bring in some fresh air."
"Yes please." Frodo took a bite of the bread and watched as
Bilbo lifted the latch and lifted the pane before pulling a chair
beside his nephew's bed.
"Let's see now...which story shall I tell you tonight?" He
asked.
"How about the one about Tom Bombadil and when he goes boating?"
asked Frodo, sniffling a bit as he took another bite of his cake and
washing it down with the tea.
"All right, cricket." Bilbo laughed. Cricket was a nickname Bilbo
had chosen for Frodo following the lad's first serious childhood
illness. A cricket was small and frail but still full of life, so the
name fit Frodo perfectly. "The year was turning brown; the West Wind
was calling; Tom caught a beechen leaf in the Forest Falling..."
(BOMBADIL GOES BOATING can be found in the TOLLKIEN READER)