I believe even a pony as lazy as Porridge was could get bored with the limited areas we had for riding. Unless one of the Rangers came along, we were entreated to stay within earshot of the waystation. I know that they feared for my safety, but I felt more limited by their worry than I had at home by that of my parents. I had come of age in the Shire, and my parents had begun to treat me more or less as an adult.

But even though I knew my new friends appreciated my skills as a hunter and as a cook, I think they still saw me as something of a child. It was only natural, as I was no larger than a half-grown child to them. In fact, I discovered that one of their words for hobbit-kind was “halflings”, and they meant no offense by it.

Longshanks was an exception-- although he too worried about my safety, it was clear that he felt the same about the safety of all of his Rangers as well. He treated me with grave courtesy and friendship, and only rarely showed amusement when I proved innocent of some matter common in the Wide World.

Summer was drawing to an end, and fall was rapidly approaching, when Longshanks asked me if I would accompany him on a journey to Bree. None of the others were going. He saddled a rangy black horse he called Flein-- which he said meant “Skinny”-- and I saddled Porridge, and with several days supplies, we rode away.

It was a pleasant journey for the most part. We rode through the day beneath a crisp blue sky, except for the third day when we took shelter beneath a huge oak from a light but persistant rain. I supplemented our travel rations with foraged mushrooms and chestnuts, or the occasional rabbit or squirrel brought down by my stones. Though Longshanks carried his bow, he did not attempt to hunt; after all, it was only the two of us! But one afternoon, we stopped early by a wide stream, and dined on brown trout and ash cakes.

Longshanks was a good companion. When we had been at the waystation among the others, he seldom talked about himself, and was rather reticent. But as it was just us two, he spoke more. He still said very little about himself, yet he had a store of fascinating tales of the ancient kingdoms, and of the Rangers, and once he told a droll tale of a journey he took once with Gandalf.

It was only a week until we joined the Road, and I recognized where we were-- it was very close to the spot where the brigands had taken me, and when I saw the Barrow-downs to the south, I shuddered.

Longshanks noticed, and for the first time I told in detail of my capture by the outlaws.

“I was such a fool!” I said bitterly. “I had escaped their clutches, and then I flew right back into them!”

“I assure you, Trotter,” Longshanks said solemnly, “your captivity by the ruffians was fortunate for you. Though it may not have seemed so to you, the torment you endured among them was nothing to what you would have endured had you been taken by the Barrow-wights! They are dreadful creatures, cold and undead, no mercy moves them nor can you anger them into ending your suffering quickly, for their malice runs chill not hot. Be thankful that you did not stray any further into their lands.”

I shuddered again, remembering. In the weeks that had passed, I had managed to make myself believe I had imagined my terror, but now I realised it was not so.

“At any rate, you need not fear today. It is broad daylight and morning, and we shall keep to the road, I assure you!”

I kept to his left, so that he blocked my view of the Barrows, and indeed the morning seemed a lovely one, the breeze just brisk enough to stay cool, and the Sun as bright as ever I had seen her in the Shire. Soon enough I began to whistle a cheery tune of the Tooklands, and after a few moments I began to sing. My companion smiled and hummed along with me, singing along with the refrain.

Up in the green orchard there is a green tree,
The finest of pippins that ever you see;
The apples are ripe and ready to fall,
And Rolly and Robin shall gather 'em all.*

Sing hey! Sing ho!
To harvest we go!
Sing high! Sing low!
To harvest we go!

Out in the field the barley is gold,
The bread will be brown, the beer will be cold.
Now is the time, let the reaping begin,
And Rolly and Robin shall gather it in.

Sing hey! Sing ho!
To harvest we go!
Sing high! Sing low!
To harvest we go!

Down in the dingle the mushrooms are brown.
Penny Buns and White-caps all cover the ground.
Creep into the dell before the Sun’s up--
And Rolly and Robin shall eat them all up!

Sing hey! Sing ho!
To harvest we go!
Sing high! Sing low!
To harvest we go!

Longshanks laughed at the last verse. “Somehow, Trotter, that seems like a very appropriate song for a hobbit!”

I grinned up at him. “I daresay it is! Hobbits do tend to enjoy talking and singing about food almost as much as they do eating it!”

We soon came in sight of the walls and gate of Bree. I had never seen a walled town before. The gatekeeper gave us a long and curious look.

“What brings you here, Longshanks?” I did not much care for the disrespectful tone the Man used to my companion.

“I’ve a bit of trading to do,” he said, reaching behind to pat the bundle of furs strapped to Flein’s back. He spoke mildly, but his expression forbid further questions.

“No offense, I’m sure,” the gatekeeper muttered in a surly fashion. He turned his gaze to me, somewhat more respectfully. “What about you, little Master?”

“I am Hildifons Chubb of the Shire,” I said. I am afraid I used a haughty manner with him, for I resented his treatment of my friend. “and I’ve a wish to see the town.”

“Well, Mr. Chubb, you have a nice visit here!”

I was surprised how much more courteous he was to me, but I gave him a bob of the head, and the two of us road into the town.

Longshanks looked at me shrewdly. “I do have some business I need to conduct on my own, Trotter. If you continue down the main thoroughfare, you will come to the Prancing Pony. It is by far the best inn in Bree, and the innkeeper is slightly less hostile to my kind than most. We can take supper there, stay the night, and then in the morning we may either depart together, or you may choose to return to your home. I will leave that decision completely up to you.”

He turned aside, and I watched him in shock. It had not occurred to me that this could be my chance to return to the Shire! And yet he seemed to say that I could remain with the Rangers if I chose! I would have to think about this!

Aside from the size of most of the buildings, and the height of them, Bree reminded me much of Tuckborough or perhaps Michel Delving on a market day. I saw both Men and Hobbits going about their business in a friendly fashion, and soon enough, I came to the sign of the Prancing Pony.

I went inside, and the innkeeper came up to me. He was rather young, I thought. “Hullo, little Master! I’m Bartson Butterbur. How can I help you?”

“I’d like a room, if I might.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry, Mister?”

“Hildifons. Hildifons Chubb of the Shire.”

“Mr. Chubb, all my hobbit rooms are taken up by a party of Underhills from Staddle, here on account of a wedding.”

“My travelling companion is one of the Big Folk,” I said, “and so a regular room would suit me just fine.”

He looked at me doubtfully. “All them rooms are upstairs?”

“That is quite all right,” I answered, although I felt a slight quiver of apprehension.

He nodded, and gave me a key. “Up the stairs, second room on the left.”

“Thank you. Mr. Butterbur, is your wife named Tilda, the daughter of Mistress Polly Thistlewool?”

He looked startled. “Why do you ask?”

“Some weeks ago I passed by Mistress Polly’s home, and she asked me to give her greetings to her daughter when I arrived in Bree. My journey was interrupted before I could arrive here, but as the old saying goes, ‘Better late than never’.

He smiled at that, and then called loudly: “Tilly! Tilly! Come out here!”

A rosy-cheeked young woman in a large white apron came out from what must have been the kitchen. “Tilly, this is a hobbit as has news of your mum!”

She smiled at me, and invited me to take a chair at a nearby table, and as soon as she sat down with me, her husband brought over a couple of tankards of ale. One was sized for hobbits. I also noticed that the rungs of the chair were placed so that a hobbit could easily clamber into the chair, and I could place my feet on one of the rungs to sit comfortably.

We spoke for a while of her mother, and I repeated as best I could my weeks-old messages, apologizing for the length of time it had taken to deliver them. I did not explain why I had been delayed, and she did not ask. Innkeepers and their families learn not to pry.

She was curious about the Shire, and I gave her some old gossip, being careful to avoid mention of Tooks as much as I could.

Then her husband called her. “Oh mercy!” she exclaimed, “what with our visit and all, I nearly forgot. I must get back to the kitchen! But I will send your nuncheon out on the house-- we’ve a nice chicken pie!”

Soon I was lunching on what was indeed a nice chicken pie, accompanied by some bread, cheese and pears, and more of the dark brown ale. I lingered at the table, and watched the people come and go, Big Folk and Hobbits alike. Later on, a party of Dwarves came in, and I confess I stared a bit at their beards!

I was startled to hear a soft voice behind me. “Trotter?” It was Longshanks.

I smiled up at him. “I got a room for us. It’s upstairs. Come, sit down with me, and we can have some ale, and some supper.”

He blinked. “Supper’s fine, but I usually sleep in the stable when I come into Bree.”

“You returned most of my money to me, that the brigands had stolen,” I reminded him.

He bit his lip, and studied me for a moment, and then said, “Very well. I will go and fetch my things from the stable, and join you for supper.” He turned and went out.

I had noticed Mistress Tilda watching my conversation with concern. She came over to me and bent over to whisper: “Mr. Chubb, you know that’s one of them Rangers you were talking to. I just thought I’d warn you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Mistress Tilda, he is my friend and travelling companion.”

She gasped, and stared for a moment. “P’rhaps you don’t understand, being as you are from the Shire and all, but those Rangers, well no one knows much about them, except they live out in the Wild. It’s not considered the best thing to take up with one.”

“Mrs. Butterbur! He has been a good friend and kind to me. I have the coin for our supper and our room. Is it a problem?”

She sighed. “No, Mr. Chubb. But if aught should happen amiss, don’t say as I didn’t warn you. I was just trying to help, seeing as you are acquainted with my Mum and all.”

“I understand that you meant it kindly. But truly, my friend is quite all right.”

She nodded and moved off, and when Longshanks came back, she served our courteously, and with only a quick glance of apprehension at him.

He saw it of course, and sighed himself. “The folk of Bree are suspicious of Rangers. We live out in the Wild, and look no different to their eyes than the outlaws who prey on others and whom we hunt.”

I nodded. “I gathered as much. It’s a shame, really, that they don’t know all you do for them.”

He shook his head. “No, it’s best this way. Believe me.” And as he sounded as though he truly meant it, I dropped the subject. But it bothered me still: these people should be grateful to the Rangers, not fear them.

After our meal, we went out to smoke our pipes and a sniff of the air, and then went up the stairs to our room. Mr. Butterbur had placed a cot in the room for me.

As I tried to sleep, I mulled over Longshanks’ suggestion that I think of going home. I wondered what my parents were thinking when they had when they had not heard from me, and how my brothers and sisters were.

But I fell asleep to dream of being at Gardenia’s wedding to Norbert, the guests there mocking me and laughing. Then their faces turned into those of my captors.

I woke up with my heart pounding. But then I glanced over to see my companion, sleeping in the large bed, with his sword by his side, and I felt much safer.

Once more I slept--this time, soundly and dreamlessly, until the morning.
________________________

A/N:
* The first verse of the song is a traditional children’s nursery song, slightly altered. The chorus and remaining verses are mine.