Hamfast and Aislin Gardner's brood of children were almost more trouble than their uncles and aunts had once upon a time been. Little Bell in particular, who was smack dab in the middle of the seven and seven years old herself, was a terror. Since her dad was a roper, she figured it only made sense to learn the art of tightrope walking, to teach herself to fling a noose, and to become proficient in the art of lashing her poor put-upon siblings to trees.

Her especial playmate was her cousin Rowan, daughter of Goldy and Farry Took. The pair of them would scramble over rocks and under fallen trees, learning the geography of the land so well they could probably have walked from one farthing to the next with their green eyes screwed tightly shut.

The lay of the Shire was changing, Sam-gaffer said. Settling into an autumn after a long and glorious spring and summer. It was the way of things, the cycle.

"But what will we do when winter comes?" Bell would ask, her wee freckled face screwed up in concern.

"We'll stay snug for a time, dear," answered Sam-gaffer, bouncing her on his knee until she giggled. "And then... well, hobbits were once travellin' folk, and I expect we will be again. It's wrong to fear change, girlie, and there's naught reason to at any rate."

"I could join a carnival. I can walk all the way along a rope when it's tied up in two branches, and I don't wobble much at all." Bell grinned, and Sam-gaffer laughed.

"Whatever you do in your life, you'll shine at it, mark my words," he said, and Bell puffed up her small chest in pride.

~

Pretty Good Year | email Mary