-Page 5-

In spring a company of folk,

The fair-haired ones of elder days,

Passed South of Woodhall, silver-clad

And faded West to the ocean's haze.

We spoke to them, my gam and I

Atop the Yale-Height's stony head.

For, passing through the orchards, we

Heard what their distant voices said.

They called to us across the trees:

-Page 4-

Turnips and Garlic, Turnips and Garlic,

Turnips and Garlic for stew,

Brother and Sister, down by the river,

Fetching us Turnips for stew!

The summer night air was warm within their house. Yet, here Finchley was, putting logs upon the fire. For months now the old woman had complained of cold where there was none, hugging shawls about herself and shivering at the slightest breeze. Nineteen year old Finchley was neither oblivious or foolish about it. Over the last few weeks her heart had been slowly breaking into tiny little pieces; bit by bit, day by day, even as she wore her smile.

She knew as well as any common person did that Grams didn't have much time left.

-Page 2-

Following is the culmination of the work of Mr. Ganiago Puddifoot of Frogmorton: a volume of Hobbit-songs recounted to him most merrily in places across the Shire. The original is donated to the Most Respectable Mathom Society of Michel Delving for reading and display, and the exclusive right to reproduce this Work is granted to them by Mr. Puddifoot. 

On the facing page find an original poem by the Author, verbatum as performed before the Respectable Golden Perch Inn of Stock.

Brymborlos leads Greyhoof down the long cobbled road to Buckland as he sweeps his maple-green eyes over the fields and ruins on either side of the road. He sighs, shifts in the saddle. A gust of calm summer wind touches his cheeks and soothes his temper. Greyhoof huffed as his hooves clapped the stones of the road. 

Asmalinde came fully awake. She had been drifting half in half out between the elven world and the earthly one. Nothing was clear to her. Flashes of a deep stairway, fire and stars blotted out by shadows. She shook her head and broke from her all but non-existent camp. She had left her horse behind in one of the small farms dotting the landscape on the edge of the Old Forest and the east road to Bree-town.

He jumped from Petal without a sound and gave her a smile, letting her stay in front of the inn freely - she did not need his input.

He stepped into the dusty room, it was not his own but it was close enough. His eyes flew over the faces around, some he had known well, some he had only seen, some unknown to him still. The strangers would look at him, exchange a whisper.

Memoires of a Reluctant Champion

Ost-in-Edhil, Second Age of Middle Earth
 

Métime grabbed Envandiel’s arm, yanking her attention from the delicate wires on the bench in front of her. She yelped, nearly snapping the strand of fine metal.