by Crystal Baggins

Once, many years ago, further back than even Bilbo could remember, a young Brambletoes lass travelled to Bree to hire herself out as a servant. The Big Folk were surprised to see a Shireling at their Fair, for they only knew of the Bree hobbits, and really knew very little of them as the halflings kept their own counsel.

Everyone passed her by, not knowing how hard a hobbit of the Shire, in particular a Brambletoes, was willing to work, nor how skilled and clever they might be. At last, an odd-looking Man, exceedingly tall and thin, with lank grey hair, bushy sidewhiskers, and a ruddy nose, engaged her services and brought her home to live in his dwelling and tend to his housekeeping.

After walking to the very outskirts of Bree and climbing the tallest hill Thistle had ever seen, they arrived at a peculiar home, built, not into the side of the hill, but on the very peak. It was fashioned in the shape of the towers of the great cities of Men, but was made of wooden planks and shingles, with huge glass windows overlooking the valley below. Thistle was rather taken aback by its size and guessed that the Man must have a large, wealthy family to have so grand and sprawling an abode. As they approached the front door, she saw the place was in a bit of disrepair and there were no signs of any other inhabitants save an enormously fat white cat, sitting on the doorstep, idly grooming her long fur.

"Well, lassie, I've something to teach ya," the Man boomed in a voice certain to carry over the fiercest of storms. "You'll have to do a bit of learning for here, in my home, I've my own names for things."  He pointed to his chest and said, "What will you call me?"

Thistle bobbed in a curtsey, then replied, "Master or Mister, or whatever you please, sir."

He drew himself up to his full imposing height, towering menacingly over her. "You must call me 'Master of all Masters'." He opened the door and led her inside to his bedroom. The cat followed lazily, not sure if she liked the new housekeeper or not.

"And what, my lass, would you call this?" he asked, pointing to his bed.

"Bed, or couch, or whatever you please, sir," Thistle replied, eager to please him.

"No!" he startled her with his outburst. "That's my 'barnacle.' And what do you call these, eh?" he continued, pointing to his pantaloons.

"Breeches, or trousers, or whatever you please, sir."

"You must call them 'Squibs and Crackers'," he bellowed. Thistle backed away, trying to hide her horror at the Man's odd behaviour, accidentally treading upon the cat's tail. The feline yowled and raced from the room, deciding she did NOT like this interloper at all. "And what would you call her?" he came to stand over the lass again, pointing after the cat.

"Ummm...cat, or kit, or whatever you please, sir," she blushed, trying to regain her composure.

"You must call her 'White-faced Simminy'. And what, halfling," he pointed to the fire blazing merrily in the hearth, "what would you call this, hmmm?" Thistle was certain he was trying to make her feel the fool. Perhaps she shouldn't have left the Shire.

"Fire, or flame, or whatever you please, sir." she replied quietly.

He shook his head as if she were half-witted. "You must call it 'hot cockalorum', my lass." He led her to the kitchen and pointed to the bucket beside the sink. "And what is this?"

Thistle looking into the bucket, swallowed, and replied. "Water, or wet, or whatever you please, sir."

"Nooooooo!" he bellowed, scaring the poor lass into backing into the wall. "Pondalorum is it's name." He frowned furiously.  "And just what would you call all of this, eh?" He gestured to the whole of his home.

The Brambletoes lass squared her shoulders and looked up at him, determined to keep this job and do it well, if for no other reason than to prove this mad Human wrong in his obvious delusions about the intelligence of Shirefolk. "House, or cottage, or whatever you please, sir."

The Man drew himself up importantly, thrusting his chin and chest out in such a self-agrandizing manner, the lass had all she could do to not laugh at him. "You must call it 'High Top-a-Mountain'."

Thistle could do aught but stare at him and nod. The cat glared at her from beneath the kitchen table.

With a "hrumph," the Man turned and left the lass to her work. Thistle spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning in the kitchen, setting things in their proper places, and preparing a meal for the odd Man.

The Master had eaten and, with a grunt of satisfaction, and a bit of a suspicious glance at his new servant, still thinking the hairy-footed halfling simple, retired to his room and went to bed.

The hobbit lass even tried to apologize to "White-faced Simminy" by giving the cat bits of the chicken innards, but the creature simply took the delicacies and swallowed them whole, then arched her back and hissed. "Your loss, Kit," Thistle said, finishing cleaning up after supper and preparing for bed.

Just as Thistle wearily blew out the candles and turned toward her new room, she heard a tremendous caterwauling. Peering back through the door of the kitchen, she took a terrible fright and ran to the Master's room, pounding rapidly on the door.

With a few muffled oaths, the Man opened the door, staring at the lass as if she'd gone mad.

"Oh, Master of all Masters, get out of your barnacle and put on your squibs and crackers. For White-faced Simminy has got a spark of hot cockalorum on her tail, and unless you get some pondalorum High Top-a-Mountain will be all on hot cockalorum!"

Which is harder to say than "Pungo Proudfoot picked a peck of pickled peppers."

The End

Crystal Baggins is a delightful Hobbit lady who lives here, in the Shire.. This particular story was based on a traditional English folktale.

The stories themselves and any original characters contained within are the exclusive property of the author, Crystal Baggins,
and may not be reproduced without written permission. © 2003