J.R.R. Tolkien

"I wish life was not so short," he thought. "Languages take such a time, and so do all the things one wants to know about."

Frodo was now safe in the Last Homely House east of the Sea. That house was, as Bilbo had long ago reported, a perfect house, whether you like food or sleep, or story-telling or singing, or just sitting and thinking best, or a pleasant mixture of them all. Merely to be there was a cure for weariness, fear and sadness.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken, A light from the shadows shall spring; Renewed shall be blade that was broken: The crownless again shall be king.

"We will make such a chase as shall be accounted a marvel among the Three Kindreds: Elves, Dwarves and Men. Forth the Three Hunters!" Like a deer he sprang away. Through the trees he sped. On and on he led them, tireless and swift, now that his mind was at last made up. The woods about the lake they left behind. Long slopes they climbed, dark, hard-edged against the sky already red with sunset. They passed away, grey shadows in a stony land.

"I think really Bilbo preferred slipping off quietly in the end," said Gandalf, "Don't be too troubled. He'll be all right now. He left a packet for you. There it is!" Frodo took the envelope from the mantelpiece, and glanced at it, but did not open it. "You'll find his will and all the other documents in there, I think," said the wizard. "You are the master of Bag End now. And also, I fancy, you'll find a golden ring."

"Speak no evil of the Lady Galadriel!" said Aragorn sternly. "You know not what you say. There is in her and in this land, no evil, unless a man bring it hither himself. Then let him beware!"

Gandalf did not move. And in that very moment, away behind in some courtyard in the City, a cock crowed. Shrill and clear he crowed, recking nothing of wizardry or war, welcoming only the morning that in the sky far above the shadows of death was coming with the dawn. And as if in answer there came from far away another note. Horns, horns, horns. In dark Mindolluin's sides they dimly echoed. Great horns of the North wildly blowing. Rohan had come at last!

The Road goes ever on and on Down from the door where it began. Now far ahead the Road has gone, And I must follow, if I can, Pursuing it with eager feet, Until it joins some larger way Where many paths and errands meet. And whither then? I cannot say.

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort. It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened on to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with panelled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs.

Chip the glasses and crack the plates! Blunt the knives and bend the forks! That's what Bilbo hates - Smash the bottles and burn the corks! Cut the cloth and tread on the fat! Pour the milk on the pantry floor! Leave the bones on the bedroom mat! Splash the wine on every door! Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl; Pound them up with a thumping pole; And when you've finished, if any are whole, Send them down the hall to roll! That's what Bilbo Baggins hates! So, carefully! carefully! with the plates!