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"The 22nd day of the month September. Hobbiton. The Shire. Middle-earth, the third age." Grizwald Baggins sat at his study desk in his hobbit hole. He wore a red waistcoat and emerald green short trousers on. The room was cluttered with differant maps and writing, half of the books that filled the room were doubke the size of the others, very large for the man to read. But still he had read every one of them.
"There and back again, a hobbits tale, by Grizwald Baggins." he placed his quill in he small pot of black ink that sat atop his writing desk. "Now, where to begin..." he sat forwards ready to write as inspiration came to him. "Ah yes, concerning hobbits." he wrote in squared and dotted writing.

"Hobbits have been living and farming in the fiur farthings of the Shire, for many hundreds of years, quiet content to ignore and be ignored, by the world of the big folk. Middle-earth being, after all, full of strange creatures beyond count, hobbits must seem of little importance, being nether renowned or great warriors, nor counted among the very wise." he chuckled to himself and there was a knock on the door.
"Toby! Someone at the door!"

"Infact, it has been remarked by some, that hobbits only real passion is for food. A rather unfair observation, as we have also developed a keen interest in brewing of ales, and the smoking of pipe-weed. But where our hearts truly lie, is in peice and quiet, and good tilled earth. For all hobbits share a love of things that grow.
And yes, no doubt to others, our ways seem quaint. But today of all days is brought home to me. It is not a bad thing to celebrate a simple life."

The knocking came again.
"Toby, the door!" the knock came again. "Sticklebanks. Where is that boy?"

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"The 22nd day of the month September. Hobbiton. The Shire. Middle-earth, the third age." Grizwald Baggins sat at his study desk in his hobbit hole. He wore a red waistcoat and emerald green short trousers on. The room was cluttered with differant maps and writing, half of the books that filled the room were doubke the size of the others, very large for the man to read. But still he had read every one of them.
"There and back again, a hobbits tale, by Grizwald Baggins." he placed his quill in he small pot of black ink that sat atop his writing desk. "Now, where to begin..." he sat forwards ready to write as inspiration came to him. "Ah yes, concerning hobbits." he wrote in squared and dotted writing.

"Hobbits have been living and farming in the fiur farthings of the Shire, for many hundreds of years, quiet content to ignore and be ignored, by the world of the big folk. Middle-earth being, after all, full of strange creatures beyond count, hobbits must seem of little importance, being nether renowned or great warriors, nor counted among the very wise." he chuckled to himself and there was a knock on the door.
"Toby! Someone at the door!"

"Infact, it has been remarked by some, that hobbits only real passion is for food. A rather unfair observation, as we have also developed a keen interest in brewing of ales, and the smoking of pipe-weed. But where our hearts truly lie, is in peice and quiet, and good tilled earth. For all hobbits share a love of things that grow.
And yes, no doubt to others, our ways seem quaint. But today of all days is brought home to me. It is not a bad thing to celebrate a simple life."

The knocking came again.
"Toby, the door!" the knock came again. "Sticklebanks. Where is that boy?"