"Happy birthday to you, you're a hundred and two. Happy birthday to me, I'm a hundred and three..."

Bilbo looked up from his porridge in surprise. "What on earth is that racket?"

Frodo stood, going over to the window and glancing outside. "It appears to be Jolly Cotton tormenting one of the Rumble ewes."

Bilbo nodded, as if this was much the sort of explanation he'd expected. "Well, tell him to do it quietly. First breakfast time is hardly a suitable hour for noisy games."

By the time Frodo finished his own meal and went to see what the trouble was, however, Jolly had grown tired of the game and wandered down towards the Pool with his brothers. His sister was there, watching the wary flock as they settled back into ordinary sheep routines.

"Good morning, Rosie," Frodo said, leaning on the fence beside her. "What're you thinking of, so serious?"

"Poetry."

Frodo raised his eyebrows. "Oh yes?"

"Mm." Rosie nodded. "About how stupid it is."

That got a surprised chuckle out of Frodo. "What?"

"You heard me. It's stupid. Like 'baa baa black sheep'. What does that even mean? Sheep can't talk, and even a talking sheep can't cut its own wool off."

"It's just a nursery rhyme. I don't think the composer was worried about technical accuracy, Rose."

"Well, they should have been." Rosie sighed, then muttered the rest of the verse to herself. "One for the Master, one for the Thain, and one for the little boy who lives down the lane... I don't see what any of them need the black wool, anyway. The Master of Buckland and the Tuckborough Thain have lots of sheep of their own, and Sam's got that nice red jacket his sister May knitted last winter."

"So Sam's the little boy who lives down the lane, then?" Frodo grinned. Rosie Cotton's perpetual exasperation and grudging fondness for Sam Gamgee was endearing to watch, and both Frodo and his uncle suspected that it would last through childhood and for the rest of their lives. Bilbo had even put a little bag of the "Smaug vintage" gold aside as a wedding present already.

"Well, you're not little, and I'm a girl, and there's hardly anyone else worth mentioning. So, yes, Sam it is."

"No wonder you dislike poetry so much, with such a logical head on your shoulders."

"I never said I disliked it. I said it was stupid. Not the same thing at all," Rosie sniffed. "After all, I like you all right, don't I?"

~

Pretty Good Year