Eternity and the Language of Flowers

Spring moved into Summer, who smiled and lingered well into September. The gardens of Hobbiton had grown and flourished well this year, and had painted the town in a glorious spectrum of colour. Now the leaves were turning, and the Shire was aglow with rich, earthy colours.

Frodo Baggins sat beneath his favourite tree in the garden of Bag End, the leaves cushioning the ground. He tried to read, though his mind had drifted elsewhere. As he looked at the plants, which were now fading, he was reminded of his first day in Hobbiton. He had met Sam and spent the afternoon at the Gamgee’s house being taught everything Sam knew about gardening. And for seven years, he knew a lot.

Frodo remembered Sam’s eagerness and bubbly chatter as they wandered around the little garden in Bagshot Row. Pointing out and naming a fair amount of what grew, and proudly showing off his own patch in the garden.

Then Frodo’s thoughts drifted to another matter that had briefly stolen Sam’s warm smile: his illiteracy. He knew the strange names of many a plant and flower, and yet he couldn’t write his own name. Sam didn’t know the alphabet, while all the other children on the Row were racing ahead in that aspect, and wouldn’t hesitate to show this talent off to poor Sam. Frodo wondered why Hamfast Gamgee wasn’t bothered if Sam was uneducated. Certainly, Sam had told him it was because his father said he was only going to be a gardener, but surely there were plenty of gardeners and servants and farmers who could read and write! Bilbo had told Frodo during lunch just how far Hamfast’s talents extended, and Frodo was very interested to find that this included writing and reading, although he didn’t “waste his time on something so trivial as faeries’ tales”. But why was he unwilling to give his son the same chance?

Sighing as the daylight had now faded, Frodo stood up and headed back towards the Smial, stomach grumbling.

“Ah, there you are, lad! I didn’t expect you to be out for so long – it’s well past time for dinner now. Come in, come in!” Bilbo danced around on the front step of Bag End and ushered Frodo into the dining room with a sense of urgency. Frodo almost laughed out loud – he thought this amount of carry on over meals was only restricted to large, frantic households such as Brandy Hall.


After devouring the food that lay on the dining table, Bilbo and Frodo shuffled through to the parlour with full but comfortable bellies, each carrying a mug of cool ale, “which slides down nicely after a roast!” as Bilbo had said before taking a long draught.

They settled in front of the fireplace, and Bilbo turned to Frodo. “Now then, lad. What’s on your mind?”

Curling up in a large armchair, Frodo put his mug down and faced Bilbo. “It’s Sam.” Frodo chewed his bottom lip in thought. “He’s so intelligent! And bright, and perceptive…but he can’t read, Uncle, doesn’t even know the alphabet! Is there any way you could teach him? He would love to be able to read and write his name. And…if he was just given a chance, I’m sure he’d make a remarkable pupil.”

“Well, you know Ham can write…I don’t see why I can’t do something for Sam. If his Gaffer agrees to it, and he keeps working with his father, I will offer to teach the boy his letters and numbers in his free time.” Bilbo sat back in his armchair and smiled around his newly-lit pipe.

“I’m sure he’ll be very grateful, Uncle.”

“I am sure.”

*****

“Come on lad, up you get! The sun is shining and there is work to be done!”

Frodo grumbled as the heavy drapes were drawn back and soft autumn sunlight flooded his room. “It’s still early!” He muttered and pulled the sheets over his head, only to have them suddenly disappeared from his grasp again. “Oh, Uncle!” Frodo cried, sitting up.

Bilbo chuckled and folded the bedcovers down neatly then reached up and ruffled Frodo’s sleep-tangled curls. “It is not ‘still early’, Frodo Baggins! You’ve missed first breakfast already, and it’s after nine o’clock now. But I thought, ‘there now, let the boy sleep for a while, he was up late last night’. So I allowed you to stay asleep. And now you can get up – come on, you lazy lump!”

“Very well. I suppose if by ‘work’ you mean lessons, then I can drag my lazy bones out of bed. But I’ll let you know I was quite comfortable.” Frodo padded over to his dresser and pulled out a fresh cotton shirt and casual breeches. “Will you allow me to wash and dress before breakfast?”

“Of course! I wouldn’t have you sit at my table looking like a pig’s mess!” Bilbo made a dismissive gesture before heading towards the kitchen, calling out, “I’ll have breakfast ready in a half-hour.”

By the time Frodo entered the kitchen, hungry and looking to be fed, Bilbo was nowhere around. Frodo briefly checked the dining room and parlour, but could see no sign of him, until he heard familiar laughter coming from the front garden. He crossed over to the front door and watched Bilbo talking to Hamfast, and little Sam running around about them, picking up what appeared to Frodo to be snails, and depositing them carefully in a bucket.

“Good morning, Mr Gamgee,” Frodo called as he wandered over to join Bilbo.

“Why, good mornin’ to you, too, Mr Frodo, and a right nice mornin’ it is at that!” Ham nudged the boy by his feet. “Hoy, Samwise.”

Sam looked up at his father, then in the direction he indicated to. He immediately stood and smiled brightly. “Hullo, Mr Frodo.”

“Tell Frodo what Mr Bilbo’s goin’ t’be doin’ for you,” the Gaffer prompted, though he said it somewhat stiffly.

“Oh, he’s goin’ to teach me, Mr Frodo! I’m going to read!”

Frodo smiled widely and glanced at his uncle. “Wonderful, Sam! When will he be starting this, then?”

Sam faltered slightly, having forgotten what he had been told. Bilbo answered for him with a fond look in his direction. “I told him we would start today, after he finished helping his father.”

“And I’ve agreed, so long’s the lad is home by seven,” he said gruffly, mussing Sam’s brown curly hair.

“Yes, sir, I will be,” Sam looked up at his father with barely contained excitement.

“Well, then Mr Bilbo, I’ll send the lad over to you when he’s done with his tasks.”

And with that, Frodo and Bilbo returned to the hole for their second breakfast while the Gaffer and his son returned to their work. It was now time to prune shrubs and clip back rose bushes, preparing them from a restful, if cold, winter sleep.

As Frodo hungrily devoured his breakfast, Bilbo kept up a running commentary on his conversation with the Gaffer that morning. He tapped his spoon against his third egg of the morning him, satisfied when it cracked opened with very little mess. “Sam stood beside while I was talking to his father…with his little bucket in his hand…” Bilbo looked up from his breakfast. “He looked like all his family’s birthdays had come on one day…those big brown eyes staring between his father and myself in total amazement!” he laughed and picked up a finger of buttered toast. “Aye, he’s a fine lad.”

Frodo nodded in agreement as he continued munching on toast thickly covered with blueberry jam. He took a sip of tea and asked, “when will Sam be coming in, then? Would you like me to give you some space?”

Bilbo swallowed a mouthful of egg and toast and dabbed his lips with a napkin. “No, no, Frodo. I was thinking that you could stay and help. Do you have any chalk and a slate? I believe it will be easier for him to learn with that first before ink and paper.”

“Of course. I’m sure I still own the slate I used when I was being taught my alphabet. And I found some chalk in your desk, Uncle, when you asked me to clear out t-”

“Ah, yes. Good, good.” Bilbo brushed crumbs from his embroidered waistcoat and finished off his tea. “Well, that’s everything organised. I’ll be in my study for a while, Frodo. I want to find some things for Sam-lad. We’ll begin your Elvish lessons later today, yes?” As Frodo nodded, Bilbo smiled and stood up. “Well, then, I can trust you to do the breakfast dishes? Good lad.” And then he trotted off to his study, where he spent the rest of the morning comfortably.


It was early afternoon before Sam turned up at Bag End again. Frodo smiled at the familiar, timid knock on the front door as he went to welcome the boy inside. “Good afternoon, Sam! Come in and I’ll just let Bilbo know you’re here.”

Sam cautiously stepped over the threshold of Bag End, fidgeting nervously with the woollen scarf around his neck. “Thank you, Mr Frodo,” he murmured shyly. He stood aside to allow Frodo to close the door before watching him disappear down the tunnel to Bilbo’s study.

As discretely as he could manage, Sam began to take in his new surroundings, much in the same way as Frodo had done when he first arrived in Hobbiton three months previously. He gazed in awe at the ornate carvings of the joins and supports in the tunnels, the smooth, polished wooden floor and the various decorative items on walls and small tables. Noticing the two cloaks hung upon two pegs against the wall, Sam shuffled over to them, and reached out to touch them. He drew in an astonished breath at the feel of the fabrics that had been used in making them, which was nothing like any of the clothes that Sam or his parents and siblings owned. Even for his tender years, Sam suddenly felt uncomfortable, and for the first time realised what his father meant when he talked about ‘stature’ or ‘class’.

His small fingers let go their grasp of the cloaks and he took a few steps backwards, head bowed slightly, and waited for Bilbo.

“Well, hello, Sam-lad! This way, come on!” Bilbo’s voice rang clear and loud, causing Sam to look up with a start, before he nodded and padded quietly behind the Master of Bag End. The walk from the front hall to Bilbo’s study seemed terribly long and unnerving for young Sam, whose fingers were once again tangled up in his scarf. “Would you like me to take your coat and scarf?” Bilbo asked.

Feeling very flustered and nervous now, not knowing how to behave in such circumstances, Sam hesitated to answer. “Well, I-I…I…”

Smiling, Bilbo spoke encouragingly and patiently. “If you’re going to be here for a while, Sam, you may find you would be more comfortable if you removed your outerwear. I can get Frodo to hang it up beside our cloaks at the door.”

“Well…thank you, Mr Bilbo, sir.” Sam removed the scarf and hand-me-down coat and looked back to Bilbo expectantly. Frodo appeared from behind his uncle and took the items from Sam.

“Would you like a glass of milk, Sam?” Frodo asked before leaving

“Oh, erm, that-that…” Sam looked quickly between Frodo and Bilbo. “That would be nice, please, Mr Frodo.”

“Alright then, I shall organise that. Uncle, would you wish a pot of tea brought through?” His uncle nodded and Frodo left the room for a few minutes.

Sam still stood in bewilderment at Frodo’s serving him. Surely Mr Bilbo didn’t keep his nephew to wait on him?

“Now, Sam, come over and sit down.” Bilbo patted the chair at the desk, padded with many extra cushions so Sam would be able to sit at the desk properly. Sam scrambled onto the big chair and peered up at Bilbo with his large questioning eyes. “Right then!” After pushing Sam closer to the table, Bilbo sat down in another chair and moved closer. Then, reaching over to pull something from a drawer, Bilbo placed the slate and a piece of chalk in front of the young boy. “These are yours.”

Sam’s brown eyes went impossibly wide and found he couldn’t speak for a few moments. “Oh…Oh, Mr Bilbo, thank you!” He whispered.

“Well, then, now you have something to write on, I suggest we start showing how to do so!”

And there began Sam’s first lesson. Bilbo patiently taught him the names and strange shapes of all the letters, demonstrating on a sheet of paper, getting Sam to repeat what he had said and drawn, which Sam painstakingly did, over and over. His shaky handwriting filled the slate, and was cleaned away repeatedly, and throughout the afternoon he became more confident at writing down each letter.

Towards the end of his first lesson, Bilbo took out a bundle of small cards, each with a letter written in the middle. Bilbo had seen such cards used as a teaching method in Brandy Hall, and had made a set specially for teaching Sam. “Now, Sam. I’m going to hold up a piece of paper, and on this paper is written a letter. I want you to copy the letter onto your slate and then tell me which letter it is.”

“Yes, sir.” Sam replied with a nod, chalk poised ready over the slate.

Bilbo held up the first letter, and Sam immediately ducked his head and slowly wrote it down. Then, looking up again, he said quietly, “Is it the little ‘m’, sir?”

“Ah, no, I’m afraid you’re a little bit off. It’s the little ‘n’, see? The ‘m’ has three ‘legs’, remember?” Bilbo’s finger traced the form of the letter.

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry, Mr Bilbo.” Sam squirmed a little in his seat.

“Your name has a little ‘m’ in it, is that not so?” Sam frowned in thought for a second, then slowly nodded. “Can you spell it, Sam?” He asked encouragingly.

His frown deepened, then he spoke softly. “S…” he squinted and chewed his lip. “A…M.” he looked at Bilbo hopefully.

“Then next part?”

Sam’s frown returned as he thought hard about the second syllable of his name. “W. I…Z……no, S.”

“And…?”

The boy watched him in confusion. “And…and…uhm…” he looked about the room for help.

“It’s alright, this is only your first lesson and--”

“E! There’s an E at the end of my name!”

“Yes! Well, done, lad!”

At that moment, Frodo returned to the room with a tray laden with food. All afternoon he had been popping in and out of the study, whether to bring tea, or clear away cups, or to fetch more paper and ink for his own studies. “Are you hungry? How are you getting on?”

Bilbo patted Sam’s cheek and answered proudly. “Sam is making excellent progress, and can spell his name! Now, I’ll get you to write the alphabet a few more times, after tea, of course, and then see if you can write you’re name down on the slate. But now, I think you’ve earned your crumpets.”


Sam arrived home promptly at seven o’clock, skipping happily with a big smile on his face. After tea with Mr Bilbo and Mr Frodo, Sam had surprised them both by confidently scribing his name on both slate and paper, after some carefully teaching with quill and ink.

“Dad! I’m home!” He called out happily, forgetting that –

“Hush, boy, your sister’s asleep!”

“Sorry papa.” Brightening again, he continued his happy chatter, waving a small sheet of parchment. “Dad! I can write my name now! And I know the alphabet and Mr Bilbo showed me how write with a feather and ink!” And he held up the paper in two hands.

Bell Gamgee smiled in the kitchen at her son’s enthusiasm. Her joy, like Sam’s, was short-lived though.

“I don’t think it’s such a good idea that you keep with your learnin’, Sam.”

Bewildered, Sam stared at his father, who extinguished his pipe and stood from the armchair where he had settled after dinner. “But…”

“There’s no use’n you learnin’, it won’t never be of use to you. I’ve told you afore, lad, you’re a gardener, a servant, nothin’ more.”

“Da’…you-you said that you could write, and read…why can’t I too, then? You-”

Interrupting Sam’s reasoning, Hamfast spoke again. “My father taught me when I was younger, he had some fool-idea in his head that I would be needin’ it one day. When we both of us realised ‘twere pointless, my lessons stopped and I concentrated on what mattered – earnin’ my keep and puttin’ food on the table. And that became even more important when he had to take early retirement from work.”

“But…”

“I’d thought it best to keep those same foolish notions from your head, Samwise, but when you’re brought up bein’ told faery tales and workin’ for the like of the Bagginses, it’s harder to avoid.”

“But, dad, I can write my name now…”

“Oh, and what use will that be for you when you have a family of your own to provide for?” The Gaffer shouted.

“You said I could get the lessons from Mr Bilbo, Da.”

“Aye, and maybe that wasn’t such a good idea after all. Next thing I know is you’ll start some crazy talk and start gettin’ ideas above your station!” Standing intimidatingly over his youngest son, Hamfast continued. “You are a *servant*, Samwise Gamgee. Them Bagginses, all they’ve ever been is wealthy and never needed to worry about money or clothing their children, or where their next meal will come from. When was the last time you heard of a Baggins, or Brandybuck or Took for that matter, being hard-up or starvin’, strugglin’ to clean the dirt off their faces? When have you seen them in aught but fancy clothes and with their fancy talk?”

Sam had started crying softly, but his father ignored his tears and carried on ruthlessly. “You and I, this family and half of Hobbiton, we’ll never be half of what them posh folk are. We’re here to serve them, to keep them and the gardens healthy, safe, well tended. And if that don’t take up all your time during the day, then you’re not doin’ it right. You get up in the morning and go to work. You keep workin’ til it’s time to come home at the end of the day. Then you spend the evenin’ with *your family* before you get to bed. Then mornin’ comes an’ you start over again.”

“But, daddy!” Sam wailed. His face and eyes were red from tears and total despair by his father shattering his dreams. Oh, yes, he wanted to be as good a gardener as him, but oh, he so badly wanted to read and write! And Mr Frodo had said he wanted to be friends with him, and indeed, they had become friends in the short space of time Frodo had been in Hobbiton already. His stomach clenched in fear at the thought of his father forbidding him to be friends with his Master’s nephew.

“Samwise Gamgee, I won’t tell you again!” Hamfast raised his hand as if to strike his son, but his wife Bell intervened and grabbed his arm with brutal force.

“Hamfast, I will not allow you to strike our son over something as trivial as writin’. Gracious, it’s not as if he wanted to run off and go on an adventure like Mr Bilbo, now, is it? What harm can it do the lad to keep at his lessons? What father would deprive his son of the chances that he once got?” Loosening her grip on her husband’s wrist, she added. “It’s nobody’s fault you didn’t keep at your learnin’, Ham. You chose to give that up. But you know enough, do you not, and can write a little, just like myself. Do you remember the first letter we got from Hamson, after his uncle taught him to write? And May and Daisy learnt from their seamstress.”

“It’s different for Sam, though…”

“WHY is it, Ham?” Bell was unhappy and close to shouting herself. “Can you see how his future is paved? Maybe, perhaps, he needs to know how to write. There maybe some powers in the world who gave our Sam his curiosity, his…his need to learn, for a reason. Even if he doesn’t ever need to read when he’s bringing up his own family, what harm will it cause by letting him learn right now, when he’s still this young?”

Sam snuffled loudly as if to remind his parents of his presence. Hamfast looked down at him again and sighed.

“Are you afraid that Sam will take over you, or become more than you? Ham, I love the hobbit you are, you are magnificent and strong and I couldn’t ask for a better husband or more lovin’ a father for my children. But, dear, please do not stop your children from doing what their hearts desire, jus’ ‘cos it don’t fit in with what you want for them, or ‘cos you never got the chance to do it yoursel’.” She brushed her fingers lovingly over his reddened, weather-worn face. “Let Sam have this. It’s important to him. And you heard what he said: he can write his name now. Already, after one lesson. He has that talent, you see? He wants this so much, Ham.”

Bell won Sam’s fight for him. Hamfast relented, and with another deep sigh crouched down beside his little boy. “My dear lad…I.” He sighed again. “I will let you keep takin’ your lessons. Even if nothin’ is to come of them…I guess there is no harm in…in lettin’ you continue for the time bein’. Just don’ go gettin’ ideas ahead o’ yersel.”

Tears still slipping down his damp cheeks, Sam nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

“Aye, alright, then. Get to bed, you’re workin’ with me at the Goodbodys’ tomorrow mornin’.”

Sam looked at his father, hoping for a hug, then scampered off quickly after he received a brief pat on the head.

And Bell looked after her son as he disappeared down the tunnel to his bedroom, momentarily fancying that she had seen a gentle light other than relieved happiness in his eyes. Aye, he was a special one, she thought, and, reclining in her rocking chair by the fire, picked up her knitting and settled into the steady rhythm of completing her new creation.

~End, part 2~