The mud had been calling to young Pippin all day. Heavy rains had proceeded the fall holidays, turning the road in front of Bag End into a delightfully dark brown mush pit with puddles big enough for a hobbit lad or two or three to enjoy without over-crowding. The weather was perfect for mud-diving, cloudy so that the puddles wouldn’t dry up and cool enough that the slight warmth of the earth could be felt between squishing hobbit toes.
Pippin, known throughout Hobbiton as the Gardner child with the uniformly faded gray wardrobe, had been warned by his mother to not soil his new breeches and jacket. He had been tricked into putting on the red and green velvet monstrosity under the guise that the tailor was fitting them for a cousin of about the same size, and then he’d been swept off to sit in the parlor with Rose-mum and the other older children while relations visited. It was too formal and clean for the likes of Pippin, and his suspenders itched terribly. But these were relatives of his mother’s, so he had to sit there utterly still and help keep up the pretense that the Gardners were a normal, civilized hobbit family.
Uncle Frodo and Sam-dad had already escaped the harsh scrutiny of Rose-mum’s sister-in-laws by leave of a small hobbit child bringing Messages of Utmost Importance for the Mayor, Sir. Pippin scowled. He’d bet next week’s desserts that Uncle Fo had slipped the lad a penny-piece earlier as payment for their means of escape. It wasn’t fair. He wanted to be outside playing instead of inside growing cobwebs.
He was interrupted from his fantasy mud-ball fight by his mother’s polite inquiry for him to fetch the tea things. Here was his chance. It was a move which had to be executed carefully, or else his immediate absence would be noted. On his way to the kitchen, Pippin rushed to his room and quickly switched shirts. Feeling much better now that he was free of the starched wool, he buttoned the jacket back up again and returned to the parlor with the biscuit tin.
Thus, one by one, he switched his clothing between trips to the kitchen. Rose-lass, less absorbed in the conversation of the adults, noticed his plan and secretly envied him. She was the only one who saw that, when he brought out the teapot and cups, beneath the ornate jacket he wore a pair of threadbare breeches. Giving her a conspiratol wink and the mumbled excuse “Privy” to the rest of the room, Pippin dashed as fast as his furry feet would carry him out the back door.
Long minutes passed while the adults talked about the weather and new babes and hobbit life across the river and so forth. Rose-lass sat in her stiff backed chair, nibbling her biscuit, and was quite surprised when Pippin reappeared, sulking and again wearing his new clothes.
“Where were you?” she whispered while her mum poured the tea. “I thought you’d gone out to play in the mud puddles.”
Pippin harrumphed and slid lower in his chair, ignoring the looks his mother gave him. He jerked his head towards the smial door, beyond which the sounds of dirt-clods hitting skin and little peals of laughter could be heard.
“Uncle and Da got there first…”
~