Two fellows at the far end of the counter were holding a quiet conversation with Mr. Hardbottle, the innkeeper, a rather large, round hobbit, with a mass of salt and pepper curls upon his head.  The innkeeper nodded towards a group of four older fellows who were gathered close to the blazing hearth on the other side of the common room. 

     "No, you just can't find a dearer old Gaffer in all of the Shire than our own Master Samwise,"said Mr. Hardbottle fondly, indicating with another slow nod one member of   the group by the fire.

     "Why, o' course,"said one of the hobbits.  "We've known of 'im away down in the Southfarthing for many a year." 

      "If a body doesn't know that feller, then he doesn't come from the Shire!" the second hobbit emphatically replied.

     "Naturally, 'e doesn't get around all over the way he did for many a year," the Innkeeper added.  "A couple of his sons have taken up the name 'Gardener', though.  They go about makin' sure everything's looked after proper, and that's as it should be.  And his family keeps a close eye on 'im too, since Mistress Rose passed on."  The hobbit at the end of the bar sipped his pint slowly.

     "That's a sad thing, indeed, her passin'," he said sadly.

    "Aye, that's the truth!" exclaimed Mr. Hardbottle.  "e doesn't say too much about 'imself as a rule, but it's taken 'im hard, it has."

    Over near the fire, the group of hobbits, which did, indeed, include Sam Gamgee, were drawn up close together in a little semi-circle in front of the merrily dancing flames.  Their conversation ran to common things: which trees had especially lovely fruit this year, who among them had gained a new grandbaby this season, and so on.  As the hobbits' voices droned on, like the pleasant humming of bees in an orchard, Sam gradually fell silent,, gazing into the fire with eyes that saw things beyond the cheerful, flickering flames.He saw his own children as they were when small, playing about the garden; he saw himself sitting in a chair at the kitchen table, little Elanor on his lap, and there was Rosie, setting a steaming bowl of stew in front of him, and patting his arm companionably. 

     A log popped and sparked in the hearth, and with a start Sam saw the vision shift; but this time the flames of the fire became one tiny flame in a lamp, and that lamp was resting on his bedside table.  Sam himself was lying in bed, a plump bolster behind his brown, curly-haired head.  He turned his face away from the flame, and there was Rosie beside him, tucked up snugly under the covers.  Her small, work-worn hands were clasped together atop the coverlet.  Sam reached out to cover her hands with one of his own, slightly larger and sun-browned in contrast. 

     "We have had a busy day, haven't we, Rosie my dear?" Sam said with a sigh.  "Goodness knows, the children are more than happy to help with the chores; you must let the girls help you put up those beets and beans tomorrow" he chastised gently. "We must face the fact that we need to take things a little slower, I suppose,"  he continued whistfully.  Sam paused and glanced over at the well-known face on the pillow next to his.  Rose's eyes were closed, and the quilt rose and fell almost imperceptively  with the regular rhythm of her breathing.  "Why, I've talked you right to sleep, my dear," Sam said softly.  At that, her eyelashes fluttered, and Rose opened her eyes then, turning to gaze fondly at her husband. 

     "Dear Sam," she said, a smile playing gently at the corners of her lips.  "I'm just that worn out tonight; let's leave talk of beets and beans for the mornin', shan't we?" 

     "Of course, Rose dear; close your eyes now, and happy dreams my love," Sam replied as he patted the small hands once more.  As Rosie's eyes drifted closed, she said softly,

     "mind, Sam, that you put out the light."

Sam turned and extinguished the flame in the lamp on the bedside table, and lay back against the pillow in the velvet dark, a slight smile on his lips, and a warm spot in his heart.

     Sam was awakened next morning, as he had been nearly every morning in the Shire, with sweet notes of birdsong, and a fresh-scented breeze coming in through the window that was always left open just a crack.  He lay still for a few moments looking up at the ceiling, and thinking about the day ahead.

     "Well, Sam, once begun's as well as done," he said to himself, and turned the covers back with a sigh.  Sitting up, he turned his head to look upon the sleeping form of his wife.  "Rosie, my dear, you just have a bit of a lie-in," he whispered.  "I'll get the kettle on, and our breakfast ready."  Sam climbed out of bed and got into his clothes as quietly as possible, then tip-toed out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.

     In the kitchen, he got out a rasher of bacon from the pantry, and hummed softly and cheerfully to himself as he took down his favorite frying pan, and placed it on the stove.  When he'd got the bacon started, he filled the kettle with water from the pitcher on the table, and hung it on the hook above the fire.  Setting out the dishes,, cups and cutlery, he measured the tea into the familiar round, brown teapot.  After turning the bacon, Sam got out two eggs and, cracking the shells, poured the contents gently into the pan. 

     When all was at last ready, Sam walked along the passage, and entered their bedroom.  He crossed to Rose's side of the bed and called her gently, brushing back a few stray strands of hair from her face.

     When their son, Bilbo, entered Bag End some hours later, he found a cold pot of tea on the kitchen table, and a frying pan full of congealed bacon and eggs.  Puzzled, he proceeded down the hallway towards the back of the house.

     "Ma?" he called tentatively; "you back here?"  At the door to his parents' bedroom he paused; a faint breeze came from the partly-open door.  Bilbo pushed it open and peered in.

     Sam was still there, seated in an old rocking chair that was pulled up beside the bed.  He was holding Rosie's hand, rocking silently.

     "What is it, Dad?" Bilbo asked in a frightened voice.  Then Sam looked up, and Bilbo caught his father's stricken expression.  The son moved across the room to join his father;  he rested a shaking hand on Sam's shoulder, and gave a gentle squeeze.

     "Oh, dad," said Bilbo in a small voice, at a complete loss for words.  Sam heard as from a distance his son's voice calling; "Dad......dad.....," and felt a more persistant hand on his shoulder.  Sam came to himself then, and realized with a shock that he was no longer in his bedroom, but in front of the fire at the Ivy Bush.  The hand gently nudging his shoulder was, in fact, that of his son, Bilbo, come to join his father in a pint before closing time.  As the sounds of the common room came once again to his ears, Sam shook himself with an effort.

     "Well son,I was wondering when you'd be along; have you got your pint yet? Pull up a chair, my dear boy.  Have you brought your whistle along with you?  I'm sure we'd all like a tune, eh?" Sam asked his companions.  There were replies of assent and clapped hands.  Bilbo reached into his vest pocket and drew out his wooden flute, and began to play a lively tune.   Soon there was a much larger group near the hearth. Someone produced a fiddle and joined in the next song.  One tune followed another, and it was more than an hour later when Bilbo drained his pint.

"Well, dad, we'd best be off for home, else Ruby'll come lookin' for us," said Bilbo with a mischevious glint in his eyes. 

     "You're right, my boy, it's late; and that's a fact about your sister!" Sam chuckled.  Goodnights were said all around, and the Innkeeper stood looking out of the window and waving, as father and son started out on the road home.