[Bêthberry]

A creaky, battered old wheel barrow clattered and rocked over the mossy green of the Party Field. Like all parts of Middle-earth, the Party Field had been seeded, howed and rowed by hand, in ages so long ago that its true origins were known only in myth and legends. Some said it was the work of one Gardener; others insisted that the work of all other gardeners labouring over the field should also be remembered and acknowledged. Indeed, it was difficult at times to tell what the original plan of the Party Field had been, so overworked was it with winding old paths from previous parties, stumps of trees that had decayed and fallen now used as seats and legs for table planks, large patches of grass worn down by dancing feet and then reseeded by later hands. Still and all, whether this was an archetypal Party Field or some enchanted grass land, there was no denying that mobs of party goers were having a great deal of fun experiencing the Party rather than attaching any particular meaning to it.

However, the result of all this seeding and reseeding was a bumpy field even though the finest Gardener had attempted consciously so in the reweeding to clear a straight and narrow path through it. So it was that a wheel became stuck, and no matter which way the woman pushed or pulled, the wheel remained rutted in place, the heavy contents of the wheel barrow making it too difficult to lift up and out. It was full, piled high with mathoms, perennial plants that the woman had divided and dug up from her garden.

"Whew and humpft," said the woman. With that stupendously critical comment, Bêthberry paused to look around and put the barrow down.