The pretty paper fell away slowly and Frodo held a pack in his hands--a traveling pack just like the one his uncle owned and used on his once frequent walking trips. Frodo stared at the pack in his hands, then up at Bilbo, then back at the pack again, too tongue-tied for words. Could it really be? Did his uncle really mean ...?

“You’re getting to be a big lad now, Frodo. And a mature and responsible one at that,” Bilbo said, putting an arm around the little shoulders and pulling his young heir closer to him. “I think it is high time we started having some adventures of our own. What do you say?”

Frodo nodded his head absently, his attention focused solely on the unexpected and well-thought gift resting on his lap. He lovingly ran his small hands over the pack in awe, hardly believing what he held and now apparently owned. The pack itself was a warm brown color, made from a heavy, long-lasting textile material that was resilient and would withhold in all sorts of weather. The waxed stitching was well-done, tight as a drum, and would not allow a single drop of water to leak inside. On the backside of the pack were two shoulder straps made from the most durable and resilient of leather. They were adjustable and would easily accommodate his growth into adulthood.

Bilbo chuckled at his stupefied nephew before reaching over to unbuckle the shiny brass latch securing the pocketed flap over the top of the pack. He un-cinched the draw cord and drew open the spacious mouth of the pack. “There’s more for you to discover inside,” he hinted.

At his uncle’s urging, Frodo overcame his bewilderment and delved into the pack bringing out numerous items, some wrapped in the same fancy paper, others not wrapped at all. There was a full-bodied, hooded cloak resplendent with a dark, cherry wood button at the closure. It was a rich pine green color and was an exact replica of the old cloak Bilbo had once worn on his adventure with Gandalf and the Dwarves long ago. Frodo supposed that Bilbo no longer had that cloak from nearly fifty years ago as he had never once seen it, only heard it described in his uncle’s tale.

“I’m afraid I had it done up quite a bit larger than you are now, so it will be roomy around the shoulders and hood until you fill out some,” Bilbo explained. “The length is done up right, though. We can let the hem out as you grow into it when need be.”

Frodo set the cloak aside with care to next unwrap a bedroll and blanket, which could be stowed by the small holding straps atop the pack. Tucked inside the soft, warm folds of the bedroll was a smaller version of Bilbo’s own favorite walking stick. Frodo ran his hands over the staff, marveling at the smooth, polished texture of the hardwood. His very own walking stick!

Next there was a water bottle crafted from the finest burnished leather. It too was sewn tight enough with strong leather lacings to prevent seepage and there was detailed scrollwork etched into the adjustable carrying strap. The bottle was heavy and Frodo uncapped it to discover it was already filled with water, much to his surprise.

Then there was a set of traveling garments. The breeches, shirt, vest, and jacket were not as fine as many of the other sets of clothing Bilbo had plied him with in the past year, but they were elegant enough for a gentlehobbit all the same. In fact, they were similar to the comfortable, yet plain, everyday sort of clothing he had worn when living in Buckland.

Frodo next unwrapped a metal nib pen; a stoppered inkwell that was much smaller than a normal-sized one; and a medium-sized leather-bound journal embossed in gold with his initials on the cover, its blank pages waiting to be filled with stories of adventure.

In the very bottom of the pack was a bundle of neatly pressed and folded pocket handkerchiefs. They were tied together with a blue ribbon and made from fine, white linen, his initials embroidered in blue thread on the corner of each one.

“Never go anywhere without a pocket handkerchief, my boy,” Bilbo told him. “For you never know when you might have use for one. Remember that.”

Frodo then explored the various buttoned pockets of the pack, finding even more useful items. There were many packets of dried fruit and meats and coupled with the filled water bottle, there were enough rations in fact to last a young hobbit several days. He glanced up at Bilbo with suspicion. A sneaking hope began to take shape in his mind. Was he finally going to have an adventure of his own? Bilbo had said so, but he couldn't believe it! It was like a dream come true to the young hobbit who was forever pretending of having his own adventures.

In another pocket, Frodo unwrapped a pocket knife; its sharp blade folded in on itself, tucking into a crystal quartz handle with a picture of a dragon with ruby eyes inlaid in silver upon it. Frodo felt honored that Bilbo thought him responsible and old enough to be trusted with such an object.

Last but not least, Frodo came upon a painstakingly hand-drawn map of the Shire folded into one of the pack’s many pockets. It had been made by his uncle on the best quality parchment, using the finest black ink. Its borders were decorated with scrollwork and the map itself was weather-proofed with a flexible wax coating serving as a laminate. To the East of the Shire and the Old Forest bordering Buckland, was an furled hand, the index finger pointing the way to the Misty Mountains and onward to the final desolation of Smaug the dragon. To the South led the old North-South road pointing the way to the realms of Men: Rohan and then Gondor. To the North was an arrow leading to the ancient ruins of Annúminas near Lake Evendim. To the West were the Tower Hills, the Blue Mountains of the Dwarves and finally, the Sea.

Frodo traced a finger over where the Sea was depicted, wondering if he was ever to see such a sight save only in his dreams. He looked up at his guardian with tears of happiness in his eyes. Bilbo had given him so much and the young tween felt overwhelmed. Bilbo had adopted him and given him a permanent home in Bag End, which was something Frodo felt he could never repay in his lifetime. Bilbo showered him with unconditional love and didn’t ask or expect anything in return, save Frodo simply be his heir. And now his uncle presented him with all this on top of giving him a wonderful gift yesterday, along with hosting their splendid birthday party--the first celebrated comfortably of many. It was too much for the young hobbit to take in.

This must have cost Bilbo a fortune. Why does he go to so much trouble for me? Frodo asked himself silently.

Uncle and nephew sat together and Bilbo watched the delight and joy light up Frodo’s little face while the young hobbit explored the contents of the bag. Nothing in all of Middle-earth made him feel more proud or accomplished than simply being able to put a smile on this one little hobbit’s face--this one little, orphaned hobbit who mattered more to him than any other being in all Middle-earth. And it was those rare smiles that not only lit up Frodo’s handsome face, but his striking eyes as well, that made him seemingly glow with an almost Elvish, unearthly inner light that no other hobbit possessed. To Bilbo, Frodo had the most beautiful and endearing smile in all Middle-earth. Frodo was worth more than any treasure or other riches he possessed. The old bachelor would gladly give up his life’s wealth in a heartbeat, so long as Frodo was happy. His heart rang with unbounded joy when Frodo turned to him, set aside the map, and squashed him with the greatest hug the smaller hobbit could muster.

"Hanta lle," Frodo said in Elvish. "Amin mela lle."

Bilbo was proud that he was able to pass down his own self-taught lessons of Quenya and Sindarin to his heir. Frodo showed a genuine interest in learning about the Elves' history and their languages. Frodo also had a hidden talent the way the Elvish words rolled off his tongue so easily, almost as if it were second nature to the tween. He was soaking up the knowledge as quick as Bilbo could teach it to him; it was something special that only the two of them shared, the only two hobbits of the Shire ever to do so. He had a feeling that soon Frodo would be called Elf-Friend as well.

“You’re very welcome, my lad. I love you too, more than you could ever know. You’ve made me a very happy old hobbit for as long as I shall live and I'm very proud of you, Frodo.” Bilbo squeezed the slight body in return before picking up the map of the Shire. He pretended to study it with deep interest before finally lifting his gaze upon his nephew. “So, Frodo-lad, where shall we have ourselves an adventure to first?”

The reality of such a gift and the possibilities it presented finally sank in. Thrilled with the prospect of traveling with his adventurous uncle, who had seen and done so much already, Frodo wasted no time in kneeling on the mattress beside his guardian, looking over his shoulder at the map. Steadying himself with a hand on his uncle’s shoulder, Frodo leaned over and randomly pointed to a spot near the top of the map. “There,” he proclaimed.

Bilbo nearly burst out laughing at the excitement in Frodo’s voice. His eyes tracked to where the small finger was pointing and he nodded his head in agreement. “A most-excellent choice, Frodo,” he said. The Bindbole Wood was not too far away a place for his nephew’s first outing and he himself had not traveled there in ages. Oddly enough, he found himself thankful that Frodo had not chosen a place beyond the safe boundaries of the Shire, such as the Lonely Mountain. Bilbo knew just how dangerous the Outside World could be and he both wanted and needed his lad safe. It was one reason why he had drawn the map to be only of the Shire, but he couldn't resist including at least some mention of the Outside World. Frodo already knew it existed and to deny it wouldn't make the Outside World disappear like the rest of the hobbits seemed to think in their content, centuries-old ways. Nearly all hobbits were, after all, content to ignore and be ignored by the world of the Big Folk. But as much as Bilbo wanted to protect Frodo, he wanted just as much for him to be prepared if the time ever came for him to set foot outside the Shire. He wanted Frodo to meet the Dwarves and Elves that sometimes traveled through their land, and to learn about the world of Men from himself and Gandalf the Grey. After all, he did not want Frodo to be as unprepared for the Outside World as he had once been.

Bilbo stood up from his seat on the bed. “Very well then. You get dressed and arrange your pack as you would have it while I change into my clothes and retrieve my own travelling things. We’ll start out immediately.”

Frodo’s head whirled. Everyday with Uncle Bilbo seemed like an adventure to him, the tweenager thought. “W-we’re going now?” he squeaked.

“Of course. I’ve been packed for weeks and I’ve already set the food and drink aside for such a journey. The Gaffer is aware I’m taking you on a ramble this afternoon, I’ve only to let him know where we are headed and how long we'll be away,” Bilbo tossed over his shoulder as he rose from the bed and was leaving the room to get dressed and see to his own things.

Frodo stared after Bilbo for several long minutes wondering, not for the first time, just how true the rumors of Mad Baggins really were. With a sudden frenzy born of excitement he began to carefully, yet hurriedly, stow the thought-out items back into his pack. His pack. Finishing in record time, Frodo hopped to the floor and began to jump up and down, grinning like a fool.

He was going on an Adventure with Uncle Bilbo!!!!

And so after eating what had to be the quickest second breakfast on record in the history of the Shire, the dirty dishes were washed and left to dry, and Bilbo and Frodo stepped out onto the threshold of Bag End. Frodo was dressed in his new traveling clothes and cloak. His filled pack, complete with attached bedroll, was slung over his shoulders. Bilbo had adjusted the straps for him, but the pack itself was rather large as it rested on his small back. It was no matter to Frodo and he proudly clutched his new walking stick in hand, ready to step out into the waiting world. ... Bilbo, however, stopped him before he could set foot onto the path leading from the green, round door of Bag End atop The Hill.

"There is only one Road and it is like a great river. It’s springs are at every doorstep, and every path its tributary. It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door. You step into the Road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to. Do you realize that this is the very path that goes through Mirkwood, and that if you let it, it might take you to the Lonely Mountain or even further and to worse places?”*

It was advice that Frodo would continue to hear for a good many years until Bilbo left the Shire on his 111th birthday and Frodo’s Coming of Age.

~The End~

*Quoted from The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Rings