Upon seeing the ghostly knight, our peerless poet gave a start! Quite a sight the knight was too, although a little indistinct at times. Hurriedly, the poet snatched for his book and started scribbling. In my house there lives some ghosts, Mischief is their second name... The poet looked for a long time at these notations shaking his head sadly. He crossed through the words and snapped the book shut. This quite startled a hobbit lass right before him, and caused a fox, trotting past on errands unknown, to look reproachfully at him.
The hobbit child, a small mass of brown curls and green tunic, waved a muddy piece of paper at him triumphantly. She jumped up and down, her head barely reaching the height of his belt.
"Mister! Mister! Your paper!" squeaked she, her voice shrill beside the hum of conversation from the adjacent road.
"Hmm?"
"You have been dropping your papers, sir, not to impose or no..."
"Ah," said our poet, a little bewildered by the unbridled energy of youth. "Yes, I see."
"Here it is sir, should you want it still!"
"Ah, but what's a word's worth?" asked our pentametre practitioner, with a twinkle in his deep blue pools of eyes.
Flustered, she thrust the dirtied parchement into his hand and scampered off, curls bouncing.
Our poet sighed, but being a man of curious nature, decided to question the approaching apparition as an intellectual aperitif before his appetite for appetisers overcame his aptitude for the application of conversation.
Making his customarily unobtrusive path to the undead steed's flank, he peered up, shielding his eyes from the sun as it filtered through the treetops.
"Good day," cried he. "What brings so lifeless a lord to this unexpected festivity?"
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And all the rest is literature
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