For the Birthday, and all I've come to honor on this site.

A Small Gift

          “So,” Sam said as he brought his Master a mug of tea, “we’re leavin’ tonight, then?”

          Frodo looked up from the crate of books he was sealing so as to make it ready to go into the cart Folco was to drive over soon from Overhill.  “Isn’t that what we have planned to do since last spring, Sam?”

          The gardener shrugged as he set the tea on a table that had been sold to Lobelia and so remained in the study.  He took a deep breath before answering, “I suppose as that’s the way of it, Mr. Frodo, sir.  But now as it’s come to actually goin’, somehow it don’t seem quite real.  I do wish as old Gandalf had come, though.  I wonder what’s come up as keeps him away?”

          Frodo returned his attention to the rope he was using to tie the lid into place.  “I wonder that, too, Sam.  But we cannot wait any longer for him, I fear.”

          Sam nodded.  “Well, as it is your birthday and the others are away for the moment, I wanted to give you somethin’, sir.  It’s not much, but then we won’t be able to carry much more in our packs, or so it seems.  Here—I hope as it will serve you well.”  From his vest pocket he produced a pocket knife and laid it upon the top of the chest.  “’Twas the Gaffer’s as he used for cuttin’ string for tyin’ up plants,” he explained.  “I ’spect as it’ll prove more useful than the pen knives as you’re more used to.”

          Frodo reached out to pick it up, and turned it to examine it closely.  He certainly recognized it.  It was perhaps five inches long, its haft of worn cherry wood, dark with handling; with two blades, one longer and broader than the other.  The Gaffer had used it regularly to cut twine and to dead head many of the flowers that needed such care.  He prised out the two blades and saw that they were well cared for.  He gently touched the edge of the larger blade and was not surprised to find it properly sharp.  Sam, he knew, always took great care of his tools.  With that thought in mind, he closed the blades carefully.  “You don’t wish to keep it in the Gaffer’s honor?” he asked.

          Sam flushed.  “It’s not like I truly need it,” he explained.  “I have a good knife as it is, and I’ll be takin’ it, of course.  Mum bought it off a Mannish trader as come to the Free Fair in Michel Delving when I was about eight.  She give it to me there afore I went off to my Uncle Andy’s rope walk in the Northfarthin’, back when I was still a lad, to learn if I’d mebbe like to be ’prenticed as a roper, and I’ve kept it by me ever since.  It’s a fine knife, and apt to my hand.  But this one needs use now.  My dad can’t use it no more—the rheumatics in his hands make it too painful, and he said as it would do for you, there in the new place in Crickhollow.  I know as you have pocket knives of your own, but this isn’t one of those as is pretty but not especial useful.  It’s a good workin’ knife.”

          Frodo found himself smiling at the thing, and he looked up proudly into his friend’s face.  “So it is,” he said.  Thrusting it into his trousers pocket he added, “I was thinking to take the knife I won from Isumbard back when we were both lads, but as you say it’s a pretty thing but perhaps not as useful as it could be.  This one has proved itself through years in your dad’s hands, and I will be honored to be entrusted with it now.”

          Sam’s face cleared, now that he knew his Master was pleased with the gift.  “Well and good, then.  The Gaffer’ll be that glad to know as his old knife is goin’ to be used rightly, and that’s a fact.  I’ll have mine, and my foldin’ skinning knife as well.  The right knife for the right reason, as Dad always says.”

          “Indeed,” Frodo said, fastening the knot to keep the crate’s lid in place.  Then he brought the knife back out to cut the rope and returned it to his pocket.  He’d give Bard’s knife to Pippin to carry.  A gentlehobbit’s knife for a gentlehobbit to use.  But Frodo himself would not be a gentlehobbit that much longer.  Tonight he was abandoning the home of his heart, and within a few days he’d be a wanderer on the face of Middle Earth, seeking to lose a treasure that was proving anything but advantageous.  Better to carry a knife that had always done useful work from now on.

          A working Hobbit’s knife for the homeless wayfarer I’ll be, he thought.  Somehow the solid weight of it in his pocket lifted a bit of that which lay upon his heart, and he whistled as he carried the crate out to the stoop to await Folco’s cart.