6 April 1413 SR, Bagshot Row, Hobbiton

About an hour ago the Gaffer put us all out the door, saying our noise wouldn't bother the dark but it was sure bothering him, and he was for his bed. I think he scared the lasses, but after a while their voices came back up, and now we're a noisy, merry group. Tom and Jolly and my brothers are practicing their roopie in the road, and I hope they don't smash a window--there'll be the devil to pay and no pitch hot if the Gaffer has to deal with that in the middle of the night. Now Rosie Cotton's gone to join them, and bless me if I don't want to play, too. The ale I had after dinner limbers me up most pleasantly, and I'm game for the game.

It's just us left now, the Gamgees and the Cottons, and the air is chilly but not cold, and fresh--it has that green smell, the one that comes in April no matter what, and makes me glad I was born in this month of all others. The moon is at the half, and shining down clean and white, strong enough to cast shadows. There'll be rain tomorrow, I smell, but today stayed clear.

I gave presents to my family this morning at the table, and to Mr. Frodo when I got up to Bag End a little later. Mr. Frodo acted surprised to see me--him and his cousins were sitting around the kitchen table in their nightshirts, and I smelt mushrooms and eggs. I felt bad because I had no gifts for Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin--I clean forgot they were visiting, I guess they got to the Hill last night after I'd gone home--but they are gentlehobbits, both of them, and they fussed over me and made me sit down and eat with them. "Why are you here working on your birthday, and this birthday most of all?" Mr. Frodo asked, and I didn't know quite what to say--why wouldn't I work, it being a weekday and the weeds still growing, whether I'm 33 years old or not? He must have seen it on my face, my confusion, because he smiled after a second, and said I wasn't to work past two o'clock, and if the Gaffer asked, it was by his orders. Anyhow, I ate (while the others had second helpings), and then I went out to work. At one-thirty Mr. Frodo called me into his study.

"I just wanted to say happy birthday once more, Sam," he said, and I noticed the little potted plant I'd given him that morning was right there on the corner of his desk. "You've come of age, now," he said, "and I just wanted to remind you that your wages will reflect that, as of today."

Now, the Bagginses have always paid better than any other family in the whole area--Bywater, Hobbiton, Overhill, and all--and I opened my mouth to tell him no, but it seemed like he was just waiting for that, and he stopped me. "Not a word, Sam," he said, "you've been doing a grown hobbit's work for years already. Don't think I don't know how much you do for the Gaffer, to save his knees. This is overdue, and you're not to say a word about it." Well, I'm not so mean as to throw a gift back in someone's face, so I just said thank-you-very-much, and he stood and walked me to the door. "Have you a party planned, Sam?" he asked.

"Just a little one, sir," I said, "my family, and the Twofoots'll be over, and the Cottons for sure, plus the Widow of course--she's practically family anyhow."

"I'm glad, Sam," he said, and it was half in my mind to invite him and Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin, but then I thought of what the Gaffer would say, and how nervous Marigold and Daisy and May would be, and so I just smiled and nodded and walked away, toward home.

Now the stars are hard and bright overhead, and the lads are passing the ball, running halfway up the Hill, using two sticks they picked up from the road. Jolly passes to Ham, who catches the ball wrong and sends it soaring up the road, out of sight in the direction of Bag End.

"Ow!" comes a voice out of the darkness, and we all freeze, horrified. Peregrin Took comes trotting out of the shadows, carrying the ball, and lofts it to Jolly, who barely has the wits left to catch it, rather than dropping it. Mr. Merry and Mr. Frodo follow after him, grinning, their hands stuffed into their pockets, out for a stroll, or coming down to see us for all I know. "Well, where's the goal, and who're the sticks, and who's in charge of this game?" Mr. Merry demands.

Halfred has always been the quickest of us Gamgees, and he swipes the ball from Jolly's hands. "I expect we'll have to get the girls to play, for proper teams," he says, and Rose looks happy, and May, too, but Marigold and Daisy take some convincing. Before long we've got two teams of seven, and I'm guarding one tree and Mr. Merry is guarding another.

Mr. Frodo is a wicked stick, but he fumbles it once and the ball flies over Nibs's head and across the garden and then--o save and preserve us--right against a window. The window doesn't break, but the noise it makes--a sharp, echoing clack--stops my heart. And of course it was the Gaffer's window, of course it was. Before you can say "quick as a wink" the window crashes open and my father's night-capped head thrusts out. The warm hum of the beer is gone, replaced by a cold, uncomfortable sloshing feeling in my stomach.

"Samwise!" he roars. I sprint toward him, but Mr. Frodo is faster (and closer besides) and beats me. "Master Hamfast, I am so sorry, I humbly beg your pardon. That was all my fault, the ball was mine and I passed it disgracefully. Is the window cracked? I can assure you that I shall have it taken care of, by tomorrow afternoon at the latest, if it is." I skid to a halt, panting, right behind him.

I know I am only supposed to give gifts on my birthday, not get them, but seeing the Gaffer's chin drop like that--well, it's a mighty treat, that it is, and Marigold has to turn right around to keep her grin hid.

"Why, Mr. Frodo," he manages after a moment, "Tweren't naught at all, there's no crack and all. So you're out here--"

"--and us!" Mr. Pippin pipes up, waving a hand cheerily.

"--you're all out here, are you?"

"We are, and we've been far too noisy--I'm sure you're not the only person on Bagshot Row we've woken," says Mr. Frodo. "If it's all right with you, perhaps I could just steal these youngsters away up the Hill, and we could continue our roopie on my lawn."

"Oh--I, ah--well, yes, that would be fine I suppose. Though mind you don't step on them flowerbeds under the windows," he adds in a hissed aside to me.

I nod solemnly. "I'm sorry we wakened you, Gaffer," I say, as meek as a mouse though I think my insides may explode from trying to hold in a belly laugh.

"Well, no real harm done," he grumbles. "As the window ain't broke, and as it's your birthday... But mind you act more like a grown-up, now you are one, Samwise."

"Aye, Gaffer."

"All right then. Off you all go, where no-one else will be woke up by your shenanigans."

"Thank you, sir."

And so I find myself sitting on the counter of the Bag End kitchen at one o'clock in the morning, eating cake and biscuits and drinking (more) ale. The window is open to let in the cool night air, as it's quite cozy with 14 hobbits packed in cheek-to-jowl. I lean over to look out; the sweet April smell is powerful here, rising from the green grass and the sleeping daffodils just below the window. I can see clouds rolling in from the West, slowly covering the stars. There'll be rain in the morning, and at least 14 hung-over hobbits who will moan and groan their ways home through the damp. But for now I am pleasantly full, and the ale is making a fine buzz in my head (I would make a rotten goal guard right this minute), and I know that the Gaffer will let me sleep in tomorrow. It appears to me that it is a fine thing to be 33 years old, and surrounded by friends, and I lean over to tell Mr. Frodo so and fall right off the counter.

Thanks as always to Baylor for the entertaining game of roopie.