When Mr. Saradoc Brandybuck crossed the River, it was usually on matters of important business. Indeed, he never set foot over the Brandywine for any other reason, save the occasional wedding, funeral, or other large gathering where his various kin assembled, particularly when the usual fine feast was spread. On this occasion, as usual, he dressed well, cutting an elegant figure in his blue suede coat and tartans. Certainly the Hobbits of the East Farthing were impressed. Mr. Brandybuck was generous with his money, and liked to make frequent stops along the Road.

“Not quite so free with his money as old Master Rory”, the inhabitants of Frogmorton would say after he’d spent a leisurely night at the Floating Log, “but he’s fair enough. Going to be Master of Buckland himself, some fine day - and that little lad of his will need to learn what it means to be a laird.”

“What’s he here for, anyway? He hasn’t been this side of the River since the last important wedding in Tuckborough.”

“I’ll wager it has to do with that youngster Mad Baggins brought to Bag End and plans to adopt. I daresay he wants to make sure the lad is well and truly stowed before making it all legal as well as just unofficial.”

This was the general consensus of opinion throughout the region, and Mr. Brandybuck’s coming had been anticipated for the past several weeks. They were not terribly far from wrong, either. It was well known that despite their generosity and their elevated status, the Brandybucks and all the people of Buckland were a bit peculiar. So when Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End in Hobbiton made one of several long trips across the Brandywine River, there was a lot of relief when he returned home with a young Hobbit tween named Frodo, who was the lone survivor of his immediate family.

No one knew the whole story entirely, but it seemed that Drogo Baggins and his wife drowned in a boating accident, nine years earlier -- a thing that would never have happened among proper Hobbits of the Four Farthings, where such dangerous things as boats were always to be avoided -- unless you counted the small ferries that crossed the Water in various places. At the time, there had been considerable discussion over whether or not young Frodo should remain in Buckland where he’d lived all his life. Technically, he was a second cousin of Saradoc’s, and his mother was a much-younger sister of Old Rory’s, so he was arguably more of a Brandybuck than a Baggins, in spite of his last name. But in the end, Bilbo’s argument won out. He was unmarried, his nearest living relative was the odious Otho Sackville-Baggins, son of Bilbo’s own Uncle Longo, who had been equally odious, and the last thing he wanted was to see his not-inconsiderable property falling into the hands of unpleasant relatives. Rory, who had a healthy dislike as well for Otho’s wife Lobelia, was inclined to agree.

Young Frodo himself thought it sounded like a great adventure. He was full of mischief and curiosity, and had always been excited when “Uncle” Bilbo came to call. Bilbo’s arrival meant small presents and lots of stories about wonderful adventures that the adults only half believed. To go and live with Uncle Bilbo sounded like the adventure of a lifetime.

“You shall come with me, my lad,” Bilbo had said, “and someday you shall be more than just another face in Brandy Hall. You shall be master of Bag End.”

Bag End was not so grand as Brandy Hall, of course, but it was roomy, comfortable, and well lighted. He quickly became a familiar face around the neighborhood, and even gained a degree of responsibility that he had not previously had, though at heart he remained a dreamer.

In any case, a full year had passed since he had gone to live with Bilbo, and so it was deemed that now was a good time to make the adoption completely official. Seven adult witnesses were required to make the adoption legal, and in Saradoc’s possession was a leather portfolio of papers, including adoption papers signed so far by himself, his father, his wife Esmerelda, and his own brother Merimac. Only three more signatures were needed, and those would most likely have to come from the Baggins family, or close friends thereof.

On this particular trip, Saradoc had also brought with him his only son -- indeed, his only child--young Meriadoc. Merry was eight years old that summer, but a quick-thinking little rascal all the same.

“You’ll enjoy seeing Frodo again, my lad,” Saradoc told him as father and son rode up Hobbiton Road, approaching Bag End, clearly visible at the top of a green hill. “He was always fond of you.”

Merry said nothing, but he liked the sound of that. Frodo had always been a rather lonely youngster, perhaps because he was older than most of the children in the family. But he had always been quite friendly towards Merry, who he thought of as his “little cousin”, and they had gone fishing together many times. In any case it was Merry’s first trip away from Buckland, and the first time he’d ever spent his nights away from the cavernous, densely populated Brandy Hall.

With the possible exception of the Great Smials of Tuckborough, which Saradoc promised to take Merry to later, Brandy Hall was the finest Hobbit family dwelling in the Shire. It was an ancient, elegant place that radiated wealth, comfort, and authority. Once they had crossed the Brandywine, into the more open farmlands of the East Farthing, he was in a whole new world. The lights of Brandy Hall no longer illuminated the night, and there was no sign of commerce or the thriving river traffic that characterized his corner of the Shire. And yet here, the farms were twice as large and more widely spread apart. The villages, while in fact smaller, somehow seemed larger. Hobbiton and Bywater seemed to young Merry as if they were actually one village instead of two. Not, of course, that such distinctions passed consciously through the head of such a small Hobbit lad, but he was an observant youngster, and on some level he made note of it, all the same.

Of far more interest to Merry was the mysterious “Mad Baggins” of Hobbiton, whom his nanny had often told him about in bedtime stories.

The carriage passed through Bywater and Hobbiton without a pause, and Hobbits who saw them would stop work and look up, for it was quite a fine carriage, pulled by a pair of particularly handsome white ponies. The kilted Mr. Brandybuck looked to most more lordly than Thain Took. On the winding path of Bagshot Row, even the gardener stopped working and tipped his wide-brimmed straw hat.

“Good day, Master Brandybuck,” he smiled genially.

“And a good day to you too, Master Hamfast,” Saradoc nodded respectfully. Is Mr. Baggins at home?”

“I should say he is, sir,” Hamfast scratched his head.

“Very good. Those are fine children you have, Ham.”

Two little girls and a small boy stood nearby, the boy’s mouth hanging open like a trapdoor.

“Indeed they are, sir. My oldest has gone to be a roper’s ‘prentice, and the other is going to do for some fine people in the North Farthing.” He suddenly removed his hat and gently swatted his youngest son on the head. “Close yer mouth, Sam, you’ll catch flies.”

Sam shut his mouth with a snap, because his dad’s constant warning of flies was taken as a looming probability - but he squinted in the sun and raised his hand in a half-hearted wave as Merry grinned down from his carriage seat.

Mr. Brandybuck did not have to wait long before his knock on Bilbo’s green front door was answered -- but not by Bilbo nor even the redoubtable Mrs. Gamgee (Hamfast’s wife and Bilbo’s housekeeper). It was a fresh-faced lad who was slightly flushed and dirty, as if he had just come in from a long walk in the hot summer sun.

“Bless my heart,” Saradoc smiled, “but if it isn’t Frodo. You’ve certainly filled out well, my lad - how old are you these days?”

“Twenty-two this fall. Come on in, Uncle Sarry,” Frodo grinned, though he and Saradoc were actually cousins.

“Well, you look fine, Frodo. All this country air seems to do you good -- though you got about the countryside well enough when you were still living in Buckland.”

In truth, Frodo’s wanderings had been infamous, sneaking across the river on more than one occasion to explore, to steal vegetables and apples, and to stay out very late and frighten his poor mother half to death. Frodo didn’t like to think about his parents too much. Bad enough to have lost them and to endure the twelve years of uncomfortable gossip that accompanied the loss. Theirs had been a tempestuous marriage, and there had been a struggle in the boat according to witnesses. For that reason alone, he’d been glad to leave Buckland behind.

He at once noticed young Merry. “Hullo there, Merry,” he grinned, “Are you being good to Nanny Meg?”

Merry grinned, and he remembered at once how much he had liked Frodo. Nanny Meg had cared for two generations of Brandybuck children, and of course Frodo was a Brandybuck on his mother’s side.

“So, where is Bilbo?” Saradoc asked.

In answer to his question, a stout little Hobbit walked into the room, wearing a green shirt and a wide, friendly smile. “Hello, Sarry!” He came forward with open arms. “Come in, come in -- I was just preparing cold lemonade. Please excuse the frightful mess--my housekeeper is off today. Feeling a bit under the weather, you know.”

Frodo gave a short laugh. Mrs. Gamgee’s absence made little difference as Bilbo could mess up the hole quickly enough, then ask Frodo to “tidy up a bit” before she came back.

Bilbo didn’t even seem to notice Merry, but Merry certainly saw him, and every word of Nanny Meg’s bedtime stories came flying back into his head.

“...And they called him Mad Baggins, they did -- full of tall tales about Goblins crawling out from under rocks, Elves living in caves like they was Dwarves...”

“Wowwwww...” Merry’s eyes went round.

Merry’s eyes were round when Bilbo suddenly noticed him and bent to shake his tiny hand.

“So you must be Meriadoc,” he said with a twinkle in his blue eye.

“Yes sir.”

“Very good, very good. Well! You shall certainly have some cocoa and biscuits, and you and your dad will stay the night here. Frodo, why don’t you take this young fellow to the kitchen, and your dad and I will be out in the garden, discussing other matters.”

“All right,” Frodo shrugged, then turned to his young cousin. “Come on, Merry. I can make us a pot of cocoa. Mrs. Gamgee made us plenty of biscuits.”

There were actually four different cookie jars--peanut butter, oatmeal, shortbreads and sugar biscuits. A large teakettle was already on the stove, steaming and ready to whistle. Frodo grabbed a pot holder and snatched the kettle off the burner.

“Here’s a plate and a couple of mugs,” Frodo announced, “Take as many biscuits as you like while I stir in the powdered cocoa. Merry took two of each cookie and watched eagerly as the chocolaty steam curled up, but the first words out of his mouth surprised even himself.

“Does a Dwarf live here?”

Frodo’s eyes registered surprise, his mouth opened with a surprised laugh. “A Dwarf? Of course not. Where’d you get such an idea?”

Merry shrugged.

“I’m not going to say that Dwarves don’t come by here every so often, because they do. But none of them live here.”

“How ‘bout all the treasure?” Merry went on, emboldened. “I’d love to see a real treasure chest with gold and rubies and maybe a King’s goblet...” Romantic visions of Orcish bandits and pirates were racing through his imaginative head.

“Oh, I’m afraid there aren’t any of those,” Frodo shook his head. “Sounds like more of Nanny Meg’s stories. To tell the truth,” he lowered his voice, “When I first came to live with Bilbo, I went hunting for treasure, too.”

“What did you find?” Merry’s ears pricked.

“I found...a loose floorboard. I got a lot of dirty fingers, and I got into a bit of trouble for ripping it up and digging under the pantry.”

Both young Hobbits laughed.

“But there’s no ‘magic’, Merry. In fact, I don’t even think the Elves are really magical.”

Merry’s eyes were truly round. “You’ve met the Elves?”

“Twice now.” Frodo grinned.

“Do you speak any Elvish?”

“A little, but not much. Bilbo is teaching me. He speaks both Elvish and Dwarvish.”

“Wowwww...”

The sun was high overhead while Bilbo and Saradoc sipped their lemonades and nibbled fresh fruit under the tree. A picnic table and benches had been erected there, and it offered a fine view of all the surrounding countryside. Bilbo’s signature had been added to the adoption papers, and in a moment of inspiration, Bilbo had requested that Hamfast the gardener and his wife should be two more witnesses, all papers signed in triplicate. That left only one more to go before a courier could send it directly to Michael Delving and to Brandy Hall.

“Well, it will soon be official,” Saradoc folded his arms. “I must admit you’ve done a fine job of raising him. I was worried about him for awhile, you know. More than a little wild and wooly.”

“Frodo’s a good lad,” Bilbo chuckled as he filled his pipe and passed his pouch to his guest. “He always has been. Smart, spirited--not like his father. Drogo was all right, but he never really knew what he wanted. He didn’t think much of me, to tell the truth.”

“Drogo had other problems,” Saradoc sighed. “I don’t think he ever really liked living in Buckland, and only did so because of his wife. It was a marriage that probably should never have taken place. Both our families suffered a loss.”

“Ahhh, but then we wouldn’t have had Frodo in the family, would we. Never fear, Sarry, It all turned out for the best, I think. Frodo is a bit young now, but before too many more years he’ll be looking for a wife, himself, I daresay. Paladin Took has a couple of daughters, though only Pearl is close enough to Frodo in age.”

“Hmmmm. But as you say, he’s only twenty-two. He won’t even be an adult for several more years--so that’s a matter best left for later. And don’t forget, your Sackville-Baggins cousin is still going to be a force to reckon with. He has a son not much older than Frodo, and he’s going to be a bit put out when he finds out the adoption has actually gone through.”

“That’s why I wanted it finally done before Frodo comes of age,” Bilbo added more seriously.” Otho hasn’t forgiven me yet for coming back after my long journey East, back when he thought I’d gone off and vanished, and took matters into his own hands to put my property up for auction.”

“That must have been Lobelia’s idea, being as how Otho was your next-of-kin,” Saradoc added thoughtfully.

“It doesn’t matter whose idea it was, really. I’m sure they’ve been filling young Lotho’s head with all sorts of nonsense about how some day they would inherit Bag End. Would you believe that fresh-mouthed young scallywag actually told me to my face one day that he didn’t like me, and as soon as I was dead, Bag End would be his and he’d change it all up to suit his tastes! Well, that’s when I decided to put a stop to it.”

“...and take in Frodo.”

“And take in Frodo.”

“Well, I will still need one more trustworthy witness to sign these papers before it is done, and I was wondering if you could suggest someone reasonable, without having to run all over the Shire.”

“Oh, there are plenty of fine people right here in Hobbiton who know me and who know Frodo, and who also don’t think much of Otho and Lobelia. Master Proudfoot, down the road, is an admirable fellow with a sense of humor, and he doesn’t hold much with young Lotho, either.”

“An excellent suggestion,” Bilbo beamed happily. “I have a wonderful pot roast in the oven that I started before you arrived. Mrs. Gamgee will never admit that I can cook better than she can, but I really do. You’ll see.”

“That ain’t a snail, it’s a slug!”

Sam Gamgee was very emphatic. At eight, he was already greatly interested in digging his hands in good rich earth and watering seeds and bulbs. He especially liked weeding out the unwanted plants, and looking for bugs and worms. He already knew which caterpillars ate young tomatoes and which beetles liked the corn, and had built his first wooden birdhouse to lure in bluebirds. To meet a young gentlehobbit who mainly liked dirt to roll in and get muddy when he was supposed to keep his best clothes clean, instead of putting down seedlings, was just too much for him. And he didn’t known how it was possible to be unable to tell a snail from a slug!

“What’s the difference?”

“A snail has a shell on his back, and a slug don’t,” Sam said knowingly. “Want to know how to catch plenty of ‘em and keep ‘em from eating the plants? Get a half of a melon like this...” He was still eating a cantaloupe, “and when you’re done with it, you turn it upside down in the garden. The slugs crawl under it to eat it, and you pick it up when it’s full and dump ‘em in the grass. Then they can go eat something else. And they ‘specially come out when the sun goes down, like now.”

Merry was fascinated, but... ”You live around here. Frodo tells me there’s no treasure up in Bag End, but I still think there is. What have you seen?”

Sam looked stunned. “I ain’t seen nothin’, honest. My dad says it ain’t right to mess in the business of your betters.”

“Yes, but I’m not a gardener. I’m a relative. You’ve got to have seen something!”

Sam’s ears turned red. “I don’t know ‘bout no treasure. But Mr. Bilbo is teaching me some letters, and he knows how to speak to Dwarves and Elves. I’d sure as grass is green like to meet some Elves some day.”

”Well, I think there’s treasure up there,” Merry insisted. “Everyone says so, so it has to be true.”

”That’s not what my dad says,” Sam said doubtfully.

“I’ll bet there are old King’s crowns and maybe some swords with jeweled hilts.”

“I’ve never seen no jools afore,” Sam was growing interested.

“All kinds!” Merry was on a roll now, spinning a fantastic yarn from his own imagination. “Jewels and swords, and a King’s golden cup with pearls and diamonds crusted all over it. Maybe even a bottle with magic powders and a scroll with a map on it to take us to even more treasure.”

Now Sam began to use his small noodle. “I don’t know, now. I heard tell that the treasure all came from faraway places. Far away as Buckland, maybe.”

Merry shook his head. “Can’t be. I live in Buckland.”

”Maybe from the wild lands out yonder,” he waved his hand vaguely. Sam had no idea where or what the ‘wild lands’ even were, but he’d always heard that anything dangerous or adventuresome always came from the ‘wild lands’, full of monsters and strange Big Folk. Anything from such places was bound to be magic, too.

”Ever seen any...you know...magic?” Sam whispered, casting his eyes up the Hill.

“Well, no...not ‘specially. But my Nanny says there are all kinds of strange things up in there.” His voice dropped mysteriously. “Ghosts!”The treasure is haunted.”

Sam swallowed hard. He didn’t pretend he hadn’t heard such stories; his dad had repeated them often enough to the Gamgee children. Of course, he’d end the stories with a loud, good-natured laugh, but more than once Sam had wondered about it.

”Anyway, I think it’s here somewhere, and you and I are going to find it.”

“W-We are?” Sam quavered nervously.

”You’re not afraid, are you? Just ‘cause Frodo didn’t find it doesn’t mean anything. Tomorrow at dawn?”

”I don’t know...my mum and dad won’t like it one bit.”

”I’ll cover for you. I’ll tell ‘em I made you come, if anything goes wrong.”

The dusk was deepening, and the fireflies began to dance around the garden when the voice of Sam’s sister, Daisy, could be heard on the other side of his door, shouting that dinner was ready. He hollered back that he was coming, and took off at a gallop.

And that was when Frodo came up behind Merry, quite unexpectedly. “Come on in for supper,” he said. “There’s a pot roast and potatoes, a nice, green salad, and a plate of steaming mushrooms in a nice, hot butter sauce.”

”Right,” Merry sighed, but added as he turned, “Don’t forget - first thing in the morning.”

As the two cousins retreated up the path, Sam watched them go, and he began to wish he was almost anyplace else.

“Sam!” Daisy shouted, bursting out on the doorstep.

If Sam could have jumped out of his skin, he would have done so.

“Hurry it up, Sam,” she demanded, “Mum’s got all the food on the table; and if you don’t get in now, you won’t get none, and that’s a fact!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he said crossly, and quickened his pace to get into the well-lighted safety of the hole.

Sam Gamgee did not sleep that night. Every story about Bag End and Bilbo Baggins he had ever heard were now playing themselves around inside his head like a bad dream just on the edge of happening while he lay awake.

Worst of all, he knew that Master Merry was going to be expecting him to show up, and he would have to do it. His parents had long since drummed it into his head that a Gamgee’s duty was to do for Mr. Bilbo and Master Frodo, and by extension, any of the other gentry who might be part of the family

And yet, there was a part of him that liked the idea of hunting for hidden treasure in Bag End. Big chests filled with gold coins, ruby rings and opals, diamonds, emeralds - cups encrusted with jewels, maybe a King’s crown or a prince’s dagger. Ancient stories of Kings of Old filled his head, though most sensible Hobbits knew they were just fairy tales. He had never seen any of the Big People - which of course included almost everything that wasn’t a Hobbit - but he knew they existed all the same. He wondered if a crown would even fit on his head.

At last, he couldn’t stand it any longer.

He had no idea what time it was, but he rolled out of his little bed and dragged on his overalls, tucking his nightshirt deeply inside. It was still dark, and he didn’t dare wake up anyone. Almost as an afterthought, he grabbed for a wide-brimmed hat and a checkered bandana; then, as quietly as only a Hobbit child can be, he crept towards the back door which would take him out on the other side of the Hill.

As he pushed the wooden door shut, he heard a rooster crowing from one of the nearby holes. A faint yellowish haze was on the horizon, and he knew that the sun would be coming up quite soon.

If this was an adventure, it was certainly a daring one. He grabbed an apple from an open barrel and ate it fiercely as he looked around for things he might need on a daring treasure hunt. A shovel, a trowel, a rope, a stick...

He picked up the rope first, but it proved to be longer and heavier than he’s expected. Maybe the trowel would be better...

Where, he wondered, was Master Merry? No good going up to the front door and knocking on it, bold as a brass doorknocker. Go though the back door of Bag End? No, he didn’t dare. Bag End was a pretty big place, and he’d never been beyond the kitchen.

He scurried up the side of the Hill...

That was when he heard a quiet, creaking noise like the opening of a door. He hoped it was Merry, but he laid low all the same, to make certain. In the distance, he saw the postman sauntering up Bagshot Row, leisurely whistling and sorting the morning’s mail. Sam’s own hole was passed up, but the postman was clearly making the longer walk up to Bag End, carrying several letters and a small package.

Again the rooster crowed, and this time Sam’s ears picked up the sound of cart wheels were slowly rumbling up the road, and shortly the cart itself was seen, passing up the postman as if he wasn’t even there.

Sam felt awful. Already the village was coming to life, and still Merry hadn’t shown up. He felt like a complete fool, and almost considered creeping back down the Hill and slinking back to his home when the cart stopped in front of Bag End, and two well-dressed, sour-faced Hobbits disembarked.

The woman opened the gate first, and was heard commenting that the door was ajar, so obviously someone was home. Sam blushed as he watched from the safety of his vantage point, while her husband peeked through the windows.

”Bilbo!” He shouted, sounding no more like a gentlehobbit than the loudmouthed green grocer from the marketplace.

”Just go on in, Otho,” the woman said irritably, “He’s certain to be home this time of morning.”

And he would have, too -- except that Frodo came to the door first, yawning, wearing a housecoat, and holding a hot cup of tea in one hand. He smiled.

”Good morning, Otho--Lobelia--fancy seeing you here this morning.” He took a drink. “Care for some tea? I’ve got a whole pot.”

”We aren’t here for tea, but don’t mind if we do,” she said impatiently, pushing her way inside. “Where is Bilbo?”

”Well, I’m not quite sure,” he yawned. “I haven’t seen him.”

”‘Haven’t seen him’, indeed!” Lobelia sniffed. “I’ll wager he’s either still in bed or hiding out somewhere inside. Otho, help me look for him.”

Otho looked back as the postman arrived and opened the mailbox door. He nodded a cheery “good morning”, which Otho returned with an irritable grunt.

Sam had seen these dreadful people come to bag End before, and he didn’t much like them. And where, he wondered, was Merry?

But he didn’t wonder for very long.

It wasn’t because Merry suddenly decided to make an appearance, but because something else did!

Before his own startled eyes, the garden gate clicked shut. Not swinging shut, as if pushed a bit by a morning breeze, but gently and deliberately shut -- as if by an unseen hand.

Sam raised himself up on his elbows to get a better look, and saw the door of the mailbox open, and a small bundle of letters floated out as if carried by an invisible hand.

He could feel the hair prickling on the back of his neck, and his heart beat furiously.

There was a ghost!

The letters disappeared into thin air, and so did a small, square package. Worst of all, he could hear a soft whistle and a diabolical chuckling, coming from nowhere at all!

”There you are!”

Sam almost screamed.

”It’s only me!” Merry whispered. “Sorry I’m late.”

”There’s a ghost in the yard!” Sam cried. “A real, honest-to-gooseberries ghost!”

”There is?” Merry was anxious to see it, too.

”It was right over there!” Sam pointed a shaking finger toward the open mailbox.

Merry squinted. “Well, I don’t see anything. Anyhow, with all this racket, we’ll never get to do any meaningful treasure hunting. Maybe tonight...”

”NO!” Gasped Sam, suddenly terrified at the thought.

”So when, then?”

”I don’t know. Maybe never. What about the ghost?”

”How d’you know it was a ghost and not the wind?”

”’Cause the wind don’t pick up the mail and make it disappear!”

”Maybe Frodo knows.”

Before Sam could object too strenuously, Merry slid down the face of the Hill and started toward the open door. Sam didn’t have to be invited to follow him, but he kept looking nervously back over his shoulder all the same. They stepped through the door - and Otho and Lobelia came from the kitchen, indignant-looking as ever, and stepped out the door without a word.

As Frodo closed the door behind them, he looked around at the two young treasure hunters with some amusement. They were obviously up to something mischeivous, but he would soon get their minds off whatever track it was on.

”Just in time for breakfast, it seems,” he said pleasantly. “Come on in the kitchen, there’s scrambled eggs and bacon, hot toast and jam, a pot of tea. Enough for everybody.”

”There is a ghost here.” Sam said quietly.

Frodo looked a little surprised, then shook his head. “Nope. No ghosts, Sam. It’s pretty early in the morning, and you look as if you’ve been up awhile, when it’s still dark outside. Have you been telling him Nanny Meg’s scary stories, Merry?”

Merry shrugged.

”Well, my relatives are gone now, and I didn’t have to wake your dad up to make them leave. As long as they think Bilbo’s not at home, they won’t stick around.”

”Where is Bilbo?” Merry asked innocently.

Frodo looked at him awkwardly, then acted casual. “Ohhh... he’s around. Went for a walk. Probably went to get the mail, walk around the neighborhood for some fresh air.”

”He won’t get no mail, ‘cause the ghost stole it.” Sam said sullenly, not liking it that no one believed him.

”We were going to go treasure hunting,” Merry confessed suddenly. “Don’t suppose you’d care to help us, would you?”

”Treasure hunting!” Frodo’s face lit up. “Now, that sounds like fun. You won’t find anything, I’m pretty sure of it - but that’s explains why Sam thinks he’s seeing ghosts. All those spooky stories!”

Sam blushed, Merry just folded his hands. He’d never believed the ghost story parts, anyway.

And he was ready for breakfast, anyway.

So was Sam.

The following Summer, Merry returned to Hobbiton -- this time, to spend the whole, warm, lazy season at Bag End, cementing his friendship with Frodo. Despite the difference in their ages, they became close friends. It proved to be a pleasant summer of long hikes full of camping trips and explorations, up river to Rushock Bog and even to the edge of Bindale Wood, and sometimes they took along Sam.

The Summer after that was much the same, except that the two friends now included Sam Gamgee in all their outings and evening talks. This time, they decided to go north and explore Bindale Wood--at least the southern tip of it, that was still only a day’s hike from Hobbiton, and Sam’s father had a few nearby relatives. They brought backpacks and sleeping bags, and of course packed lots of food -- the kind they could cook on campfires, under the stars. This afforded plenty of opportunity to tease Sam by scaring him at night with campfire ghost stories. If Merry had come to disdain all rumors of phantoms at Bag End, and had all but forgotten about the “treasure”, Sam was clearly still spooked by Merry’s creepy description of walking trees that closed in around you after dark in certain forests of the world. And so there was a bit of unforeseen backlash when Sam refused to spend a single night in Bindale Wood, though lights from nearby Hobbit dwellings were clearly visible even from among the trees.

By the third Summer, Sam was more skeptical of scary stories, but all the same, it was noted that he was very hesitant to go home by himself after dark.

It was Merry’s fourth Summer abroad, and he was twelve years old. That was the year when a significant change in his now-routine summer visits occurred. His father and grandfather were both responsible, and that was how he first came to visit the sprawling stretch of farmland called Tuckborough, with its vast holdings of pipeweed rows, fruit orchards, and cotton fields.

”I’m just a farmer,” Uncle Pal would say in regards to his properties, but he was in fact, Paladin Took, cousin and direct heir to the Right Thain of the Shire, Ferumbras III, which was very much the same as being titled aristocracy, and on the same social plain as the Master of Buckland.

The Took family, like the Brandybucks, was very old and influential, and the Tooks were the wealthiest Hobbits in the Shire - richer than even the Brandybucks, and certainly richer than the mysterious Bilbo Baggins - and he was rich enough.

The reason for Merry’s arranged visit to Tookland was very simple. His mother was Uncle Pal’s sister, and more than that - the two families had connections that ran deep. They were historically close, going back together for centuries, even as far back as the days when the Brandybucks themselves were the Thains of the Shire. So their alliances were of great importance, and as Merry was in line to some day be Master of Buckland, after his grandfather and father, the year that Paladin’s first (and it turned out to be only) son turned five, was the year that Old Rory decided it was time for Merry to cut short his lazy summers in Hobbiton and get on with the business of spending a great deal more time with his kinsmen in the Great Smials

The Great Smials were deep, rambling holes, quite unlike the cozier apartments of Brandy Hall. The room he was given to stay in was quite large, the walls panelled with rich woods, and one wall was covered with bookshelves. In fact, he was to quickly learn that books were very important to the Tooks, and they kept a large an impressive library in the center of the Smial, filled with maps and books and elaborate family trees. There were more books to read in that one room than he could remember seeing in the whole of Brandy Hall. And the gardens! Even as he first set eyes on them, he could hear Sam Gamgee saying, “If that ain’t the finest garden ever, or I’m not a Gamgee, which I am!”

There didn’t appear to be anything else of interest in this place, however. The only people near enough to his age were his cousins, Pearl, Pimpernel, and Pervinca, but even the youngest was three years his senior, and with lassies, it was never quite the same as going off with some fine Hobbit lads. His infant cousin, Peregrin, was of course hardly a candidate for companionship, so that meant he would have to spend a long, dull summer exploring the old Hole.

But there was more happening at the Great Smials than he might have imagined. The library alone proved that, once he decided to invesitigate it. Some of the books he opened were quite rare, telling histories of the Shire and its more important families, books about farming and the weather, about herbs and oils, and even books written in strange languages, using strange writings that he could not understand.

He was also astonished to find very old artifacts from strange and faraway places, and things that must have been in the Took family for centuries. He even found things that once had belonged to the Brandybucks. Some things were not of Shire-make.

More than once he thought back to comments heard round and about the Shire that the Tooks were a curious lot, and that more than a few of them over the years had gone off on mysterious adventures in strange, distant lands. Some had never returned. More than once, even the strange name of “Gandalf” was discovered in family records.

”Why, this place contains all of the Shire’s history!” He said aloud in amazement, and the walls echoed in a rather spooky way that sent prickles up his neck. But with this knowledge, he was beginning to finally understand who he was and who his people were.

Merry learned a great deal more that summer, including that his small cousin, Peregrin - more often called Pippin - was something of an annoyance, constantly hanging at his heels. He also learned to respect the aged and musty old Thain Ferumbras, who spent his days sitting in a great chair at the back of the ancestral hall, ruminating on a mysterious past, under family crests and tapestries.

”You don’t want to go in there,” Peregrin said nervously.

”Oh? Why is that, Pip?” Merry asked, seeing the fear in his cousin’s eyes.

”Because he’s old and creepy and covered with cobwebs. He looks like a ghost.”

A wicked thought passed though Merry’s mind. “Maybe he is a ghost.”

Pippin gasped and covered his eyes. It was like dealing with Sam Gamgee all over again, all those years ago. Then he grinned, “Noooo, I don’t think he’s a ghost. Might be dead, but never a ghost.

He pushed open the heavy, creaking oak door that lead into the ancestral hall. It was a huge room with a high ceiling - at least, high for a Hobbit Smial, and more vaulted than rounded. There, sure enough, seated unmoving in his chair, was a wrinkled old Hobbit with white hair, bald on top, and his shoulders covered with a large shawl. Merry noticed that it was a Brandybuck tartan shawl. The old fellow had never married and had no direct heirs except his younger cousin, and he had been a fixture of that very room for as long as any living Hobbit could recall. And he almost never stirred. Even Merry was in awe, and he half understood why Pippin was a bit afraid of him.

Pippin hung back by the door, and Merry tiptoed up toward the big chair. Suddenly, the two old eyes looked up, brighter than they had looked in decades, and a smile cracked the wrinkled face. He almost looked pleasant.

”Gone to see Master Baggins, have you?” he chuckled. “Met Gandalf the Wizard, have you? Master Baggins, who vanishes into thin air--poof!”

To say that Merry was shaken would have been an understatement, but that was when he began to recall a summer morning, years ago, when he and Sam Gamgee had plotted to go on a treasure hunt at Bag End, and Sam had seen ... a “ghost”.

That was partially in his head when he jaunted over to Hobbiton for a short weekend visit that ended up lasting for two full weeks. It was good to see Frodo and Bilbo again, and Sam too. He had really missed them all. Besides, it gave him a few days to escape from Pippin.

”There was a bigger difference in our ages when we first met,” Frodo grinned. “Look at us now--fast friends.”

”Maybe so, but I just had to get away. Too many questions are coming into my head, and there's too much...well, too much of the Tooks.”

”Ah, they’re good people,” Frodo shrugged. “And who knows? In a few more years, he’ll probably want to go camping with us. Or fishing.”

”In a couple more years,” Merry said cynically, “you’ll be almost of legal age and probably looking for a wife, so you won’t have much time for me any more.”

”Don’t be silly,” Frodo laughed, “I’ll always have time for you. I’m only twenty-five, not anywhere near thirty, let alone thirty-three. As for dear old Bilbo...”

That was when Merry’s ears perked up. “Bilbo! Frodo, how old is he, anyway?”

”He’s going to one hundred and four this September--same day I turn twenty-six. Doesn’t he look good for his age?”

Merry didn’t repeat what his own father had commented a few months earlier - “Bilbo’s got to be at least a hundred, but he doesn’t look a day older than I do. Just isn’t...natural.”

The subject did not pass between them again that summer, nor indeed for the next several summers, when Merry made a point to spend at least two weeks with Frodo up at Bag End, and more time was devoted to campouts, fishing, and ramblings in the woods. And eventually, just as Frodo had predicted, Pippin began to come along as well - though more often than not he was rather useless when it came to outdoor skills.

The summer of the year 1400 was a particularly significant one.

It was that year that Bilbo, one hundred and ten years old, was showing signs of a restlessness and irritability that Frodo had never noticed before, though no one but himself paid much attention to it

It was also that year that Merry Brandybuck made for Hobbiton unannounced, and without the ubiquitous Pippin, who was mercifully at home, in bed with a bad summer cold.

It was early in the morning, and Merry walked along an unaccustomed path to take in the fresh Hobbiton air, not terribly far from Bagshot Row and its neat gardens and doorways. And that was when, a bit to his surprise, he saw Bilbo.

The old Hobbit had a wide straw hat on, his hands in his pockets, and seemed to have no particular destination apart from simply taking a stroll. Merry grinned, and thought of surprising him. After all, they were quite alone.

Or were they!

In the distance, Merry though he saw several Hobbits who were heading in Bilbo’s direction, and they were clearly pointing at him as they talked among themselves. Merry wasn’t sure, but they seemed to be arguing.

Suddenly, Bilbo turned his head, aware of the approaching party, and Merry heard him mutter a phrase of disgust. He slowed his steps for a few seconds...

...And in a moment that Merry would remember for the rest of his life - Bilbo vanished!

Yes, he vanished, as if the air had swallowed him up!

Had Merry been sipping a drink, he would probably have choked on it.

He kept his wits about him long enough to scramble into a hedge on the side of the road, hoping that Bilbo’s site and hearing were as invisible as his person, and tried hard to keep his heart from pounding too loudly.

The Hobbits in the distance - three of them - were Otho and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins again, and this time they had their obnoxious son, Lotho, with them. Quarreling they were, as usual, but they walked on, right past Bilbo - or at least where Merry last saw Bilbo.

”I could have sworn I saw him,” Otho looked exasperated. “He was right around here somewhere.”

”Maybe he ducked off into the bushes,” Lotho suggested, upon which his father thumped him hard with his hat.

”Now, why would he do that, you young imbecile?” Otho growled, but all the same he started glancing over the hedgerow.

”I didn’t see anything,” Lobelia folded her arms. “You’re seeing things - as always!”

”He isn’t up at Bag End, anyway...”

Merry heard nothing more their conversation. All he could think of was the way he’s made fun of poor Sam all those years ago about seeing ghosts, and here he was, seeing Bilbo vanish into thin air, before his eyes!

He kept staring at the spot where he’d last seen Bilbo, straining his eyes to see through the air itself, when suddenly there was a faint glint of gold...

First a ring appeared, then an instant later, Bilbo reappeared, chuckling wickedly. He kissed the Ring and stuck it back into his pocket, then kept on walking.

Merry’s head whirled in circles as he tried to make head and tail of this turn of events. A ghost, Bilbo clearly was not - but he had been wearing a golden ring, and it had made him invisible.

“The treasure!” He suddenly whispered, his eyes going round. “That’s it! Bilbo’s treasure!”

He turned and ran as fast as he could - away from Bilbo, away from the direction of the Sackville-Bagginses, and cut across the ground for a shortcut to Bagshot Row. He was almost out of breath when he raced up the hill and through the open garden gate, and he didn’t even have to knock on the door as it was wide ajar.

”Frodo!” He called out, but there was no answer.

No one, it seemed, was at home.

He walked carefully, now, trying to recall every story, every bit of gossip he had ever heard about mysterious goings-on at Bag End, and every shred of disbelief he’d once harbored had gone. Indeed, he now no longer knew what not to believe about Bilbo Baggins.

Very slowly and carefully, he walked into the library, which was more cluttered than usual now that Mrs.Gamgee was no longer able to keep house, and from there stepped into the one room he’d never ventured before - Bilbo’s private study.

If there were any answers to be found, he reasoned that he might as well find them here. Even Frodo rarely went into this inner sanctum, and he wondered what hidden secrets it really contained.

The room was filled with boxes, baskets, small tables, bottles of ink and containers of writing tools, and among those things, a curious, weathered old map of a strange countryside he did not recognize, creased and battered from age, its dominant features being a mountain range, a large forest, and a single mountain with a picture of a dragon beside it. It was held down by an odd paperweight - a Dwarflike figure carved from quartz and pink marble, carrying a round shield and a sword. Merry wanted to touch it, but dared not. It was as strange as anything he’d seen at the Great Smials, and otherwise he might have assumed it came from there, as Bilbo’s mother was herself a Took.

But then there was the book!

Bilbo’s infamous book that Frodo had mentioned he was writing.

Supposedly he had been writing it over a period of years, and Merry had always assumed it was a collection of tall tales based on a curious adventure he’s supposedly had once upon a time.

It was a large book, bound in red leather, very thick, and it was closed. He stepped up to it and opened it to a blank page, perhaps a quarter of the way through, as if a long story had already been told, but there was room to spare for a tale even longer.

He thumbed carefully through it; it was written in Bilbo’s handwriting, sprinkled occasionally with ink drawings, as if he was preparing to tell his tale to people who know none of it.

”In a hole in the ground, there lived a Hobbit.”

Merry frowned, and kept reading. It was a curious beginning indeed, as if being written for people outside the Shire who perhaps had never even heard of Hobbits - something Merry found unimgainable.

His hands turned the pages hurriedly. There was no time to sit down and read it in detail, but the few things he glanced at were interesting in the extreme - giant spiders and a sword named “Sting”, a wondrous jewel called the Arkenstone - and there it was! A golden magic ring that made you invisible when you wore it!

”Where’d he find it? Where’d he get it?” Merry was muttering aloud as thumbed the book nervously.

There was a sound of whistling near the front door. So intent was Merry in his search that he almost didn’t hear it until it was too late.

”Frodo - are you here?” Bilbo’s voice called from the entrance hall.

Merry shut the book as quickly as he dared, then took a deep breath to compose himself before stepping out of the study. He hoped Bilbo didn’t notice what room he’d come from.

”Ah! Merry Brandybuck!” Bilbo beamed. “You’re here a might early, aren’t you?”

”Oh, I stayed the night at the Green Dragon,” Merry said, truthfully enough.

Bilbo gave him a strange look. “The Green Dragon? At your age? I’m surprised they’d let you in.”

”Well, they didn’t let me go into the pub,” Merry confessed, pleased with his own acting ability as he pretended that nothing unusual had happened.

”Well, when Frodo comes back from wherever-it-is he is, be sure to tell him that the S-B’s are in the neighborhood again, and he is notto let them in. I’m in no mood to trifle with Otho and Lobelia today.”

”Not with that pimply-faced Lotho, either,” Merry grinned, then almost bit back his own tongue for fear his own words might have given him away.

”Oh yes...” Bilbo nodded, making no connection. “Lotho iswith them today. He’s with them more than ever lately. Nasty lad, he is. Nasty. In any case, my boy -- you must be starving. Help yourself to a breakfast, first or second, whichever, and make yourself at home.

”Oh, I already have,” Merry grinned, producing a peach, which he’d grabbed from a fruit bowl. “I’ll be waiting outside for Frodo, if you don’t mind. I need to talk to Sam.”

”Very good. And when you’re at it, remind him that the lawn need cutting.”

”Don’t worry, I will,” Merry called over his shoulder.

He slipped outside and took a deep breath, for the air inside Bag End had seemed somehow stiffling.

He glanced to one side of the garden, and the first thing he saw was Sam Gamgee, sitting on the ground, cracking old terra cotta pots with a mallet.

”Good morning, Samwise,” Merry said quietly as he walked towards him.

Sam looked up, startled at the formal-sounding use of his full name. “Oh! Good morning, Mr. Merry,” scratched his nose with a dirty hand, the mallet still in his grasp. “Hot work this is, to be sure -- bustin’ up old pots so I can aerate the new planters.”

”Hmmm,” Merry nodded thoughtfully. “Sam...”

”Yes sir?”

”I’m sorry, Sam.”

Sam blinked. “Sorry, sir? About what, sir?”

”That I doubted you..”

Sam was thoroughly puzzled. “Doubted my what?”

Merry almost spoke, then thought better of it. “Never mind, Sam. Let’s put it this way - I’ll never again make fun of anything you say.”

Sam was starting to feel distressed. “I don’t understand you!”

”Maybe not, but I’m sorry all the same.”

”If you say so, sir.”

”Oh, and - Sam...”

”Yes?”

”You were right. There is a phantom at Bag End.”

Sam still didn’t seem to understand, but Merry did - and he wondered what Frodo really knew, as well. And as the morning sun rose high, he gazed out past the shade trees and across the landscape below. From his vantage point, the Shire looked so still and quiet; so peaceful. So innocent.

What did Bilbo’s writings portend, and what was the truth behind the golden, mysterious ring?

He wondered.

Some day, he made up his mind, would find out.

by Daisy Brambletoes