'Today's my birthday.' thought Daisy to herself, as she hauled out of bed. Bullroarer had called her name several times, reminding her that they were going out to check the traps they had set yesterday and go hunting again for small game.
'Hurry down, girl!' he yelled from the kitchen doorway, effectively waking the remainder of the sleeping Hobbits. 'I've made a pot of hot oatmeal, and if you don't get down here soon it will all be gone. He turned, serving spoon in hand to the thin, young Hobbit who sat shoveling a steaming bowl of the porridge into his mouth. He almost had this second bowl of it gone.
'Now here's someone who doesn't mind the old Took's cooking!' he beamed, thinking how his wife always shooed him out of her kitchen whenever he offered to help. He turned to the hob by the fire and gave the pot a stir.
'Well, Sir,' came the voice of the boy, whose spoon now scraped against the sides of his empty bowl, 'to be honest it is kind of lumpy, but mighty tasty!' He smiled disarmingly and held out his bowl again.
Bullroarer raised one eyebrow and smiled a half-smile at the proffered bowl. 'Of course it's lumpy. I meant it to be that way. Sticks to your ribs better, Tom!'
He ladled another generous helping into the lad's bowl, wondering if Tomba had a hollow leg. He strode to the kitchen doorway, pot in hand. 'Better hurry, Daisy! You've got competition for this last bowl of mush!'
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Eldest, that’s what I am . . . I knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless - before the Dark Lord came from Outside.
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