The Harvest Festival at the Grange

The crowd that has gathered tonight at the Grange is indeed impressive. The smell of hot cooking food lilts through the air, and there are so many hobbits together that it is difficult to hear one another speak. Of course, as well, there's the Mended Drum, that loveable band, who keep playing regardless.

The leader of the Mended Drum silences the band a moment and then calls out. "Let the dancin' begin!" and with that gets the band going again. Immediately, the crowd shifts and moves, and dancers search for partners. Some younger lasses crowd together, looking on with nervous glances and eager smiles.

One hobbit, however, doesn't look like he's enjoying himself. It looks to be the son of Gaffer Gamgee--Sam, and although he's dressed to the hilt, there's a dark look on his face. The gardner lad holds a mug of ale in hand and looks up under dark brows to the dancers. He's quite alone, over to the side of the Rat Racing Tent (people seem to have lost interest in that particular event). A red-headed young Brown lass walks up to him and before she can even get in a word, he gets red in the face, and runs off in the opposite direction. Once securing himself next to the Food Tent, he looks on... a forlorn sort of look in his eyes...

Marigold sways her dress to and fro as the music starts up, but she is lacking a partner. She too gazes about, as though she might be looking for someone. A cute little pout appears on her lips as the person she is looking for does not appear to be around just yet. She sips from her mug of juice watching the dance floor somewhat enviously.

Acco enters the Grange from North Hill Lane.
Acco has arrived.

"Rosie not here yet, eh, Sam?"

The teasing voice is just loud enough for Sam himself to hear: the tone is too low for anyone else to make out over the music and chatter. However, for Sam it should be unmistakable: Frodo Baggins, dressed to the nines, slips in behind the Gaffer's son, tapping him lightly on the shoulder with a mischievous grin.

The discordant notes of the Mended Drum reach your ears as they play His Happy Baby's Clattering, a well-known chant: ...bang-bang-bang, la-la-de-la, niddle-diddle-de-doo, da-da-da-daaa, doobie-doobie-doo...

Sam startles, and swallows--but the mistake is that he's got ale in his mouth, and the combination makes him cough voilently. His face turns another shade rosier, and he shakes his head as if to dispel his master's observation. Once he has gathered his wits and his voice, he looks, bug-eyed at Frodo and frowns. "I... no," says Samwise, his voice straining and rough. "It ain't... that... really. Just--I hate this song." Sam wrinkles his nose and narrows his eyes in the direction of the Mended Drum. "You wouldn't believe how batty some of our lasses go over them old musicians, either."

      "Nearly wouldn't let me come... I hope she's here soon."
      A faint murmur and a wrinkling of the brow follow Allico Diggle as he walks in, scratching his head. His clothes are less than clean and more than presentable, a stable medium between the two that any fashionable lower or middle class hobbit can only hope to strike. The hands though, with some careless scars, show him as a hard working tailor, and with the sparseness of them, a good one indeed.
      Looking around him cautiously for a good minute so he doesn't get lost, the hobbit soon heads to the table full of ale to loosen nerves.

"Oh, you wouldn't, eh?" Frodo grins, winking as he pats Sam on the back. "I'm sorry, Sam. . .I shouldn't have. But it *was* nothing short of irresistible." He pauses, looking around curiously. "How is it all going this evening? Quite the crowd. . .though I should say Marigold doesn't look too happy at present."

 Marigold twirls a lock of her hair, and gazes at the dance floor as though to lend great credit to Sam's statement about musicians for she's watching them now. But by the look in her eyes, she probably wishes that she was there with the person she was looking for earlier and her cheeks pink a little as she realizes that she'd been staring like a ninnyhammer.
 
The discordant notes of the Mended Drum reach your ears as they play Andromeda's Spectacular Bittersweet Crumble, a bass lullaby: ...la-la-de-la, froo-froo-free, bang-bang-bang, nippy-pip-pop...

"Aw, she's sour 'cause Tom ain't here," says Sam, ironically. He sips his ale again, looking utterly unimpressed. "But what's to be done, then?" Sam holds up his mug and looks through it, squinting one eye. His world for a moment is an amber-tinged world. He sighs and looks to Frodo. "You look mighty dressed for the evenin', I'd say," he notes, raising an eyebrow. "I tried to, of course, but I never was much for getting myself dapper. I can't seem to ever get the dirt from my toes." Sam puts down his mug of ale, and watches Marigold from across the room.

Imp says, "Ready gang? Let's do this. A one, a two, a one, two, three, four!" The band immediately breaks into a fine version of My Rosy Winter Cat, a rare bandinerie... ...la-dee-da, la-dee-da, doobie-doobie-doo, tum-ta-tum, picci-picci-poo...

A grin slowly forms on the broad face of Nibs Cotton as the band starts into their next tune. The lad strolls on the outskirts of the scene, idly sipping from the ale mug that is held firmly in hand. His eyes flit attentively over the faces on the dance floor, taking note of who is in attendance and finding a few obvious absences. After a moment more, he finds the despondent Marigold and plods his way toward the lass. "Ello, Marigold. Fine setup they got t'night ain't it?" The Cotton doesn't seem to notice the faraway look in her eyes; otherwise he might not have asked such a dull question.

Marigold lays the mug on a nearby table and swishes her skirt a little. She glances up at her friend Pansy and shakes her head, they seem to be talking. As Nibs comes over and speaks she at first had not seen him. She turns around her face alight as she'd obviusly mistaken his voice for Tom's and it falls when she realizes who it is. She musters her wits about her putting on an instant smile. "Oh...Hullo Nibs...Aye, 'tis indeed."

      Allico reaches the table full of various ales, meads, and other drinks, and takes a frothy mug of ale in hand. He stares at it half-heartedly for a moment and then sips some of it. The richness of it seems to brighten his face some, but only briefly, the light disappearing shortly thereafter, replaced by a neutral expression.

"You look *fine*, honestly. . .nothing to worry about!" However, the compliment to his own attire leaves Frodo a bit pink in the face. "But thank you. . . ." He glances across the room, smiling as Nibs begins conversing with the little lass. "Well, while we're both partnerless, perhaps we should get something to eat and keep an eye on things? I think Tom's brother might be willing to step in for him. . . ."

The youngest son of Gaffer Gamgee watches his younger sister with a critical eye. "Aye," says Sam, nodding to Frodo's suggestion. "It's a doubtful thing, though, as Nibs is still hardly--" Sam pauses to work it out on his fingers, "hardly twenty summers if I reckon right. Marigold's a gal who's got her eye on the older Cotton, that I know for sure. There's somethings you c'n just tell with your siblin's. With me and Marigold, well, I reckon there's some times we don't even need to speak a word to each other, 'cause we know what we're gonna say."

Frodo nods, blue eyes following Sam's gaze with critical appraisal.

"Still a boy, really. . .Tom's more suited for her, certainly. Age-wise, at least. Perhaps Nibs can at least keep her company a little, though, till he arrives. . . ." For a moment he seems about to say something, then tightens his lips, as if hesitating.

"Sumthin' wrong, Mari?" Cocking an eyebrow, Nibs takes a gulp from mug, sending a small amount of the contents dribbling down his chin. He has to stop himself from wiping it off on the long sleeve of his shirt, suddenly remembering his manners and instead brushes it discreetly away with the palm of his hand. "Notice yer not runnin' out there te dance..." He indicates the bustling dance floor with a quick nod of his head, sending a few of his neat curls bouncing out of place.

 She purses her lips a little as her friend Pansy is taken off to the dance floor. "Nibs," she shakes her head though, smiling "Not every girl wants t'make a rucus on th' dance floor with every hobbit whut happens t'ask. I'm feelin' just as pleasant sittin' right here, thankee." she glances over at Sam and Frodo noticing eyes upon her. She looks away however and jumps up on a stool, sitting awkwardly while she watches.

Sam snorts, that's all that can be said. There is no other word for the sound he makes--like the grunt of a boar. "Bah," says Sam as he notices his sister's flustery behaviour. "I don't think Tom'll be here t'night, no. Two nights in a row, and just Nibs. I like Nibs plenty--but--ah, it'd be nice to have the whole Cotton family here, of course," says Sam, hesitating, attempting to cover his tracks. He puts his empty beer mug on a nearby table and hooks his thumbs in his braces, sucking on his teeth idly.

Frodo nods, touching Sam on the shoulder in an effort to deter him toward the trays of food. "True. But the evening isn't over yet, and there's tomorrow night still. . .don't worry; they may still come." Lowering his voice a bit, he continues, back turned to all save Sam as he takes up a plate, studying the array before beginning to make selections. "How old *is* Mari now? Only three years younger than you, isn't she?"

      Slowly, Allico forces himself to walk away from the table and out more. With ale in hand, he talks briefly with a family friend, nodding at the information they give. With a sigh he glances around, and begins looking. This search takes him to where Sam and Frodo stand, and he bites his lip as he shows up before them. He recognizes neither of them as he speaks.

 "Excuse me, I need to know... have you seen a ladyhobbit, about..." He holds out a hand to indictate his own height, shorter than average. "And with a less rounded appearance as me, but still well filled out. Nice blue flower dress...?"

"Yeah, I reckon she's..." Sam starts to say but is interrupted as Allico approaches him. He listens, and nods, the points over to a young lass who's sitting sulkily by the Frog Jumping Tent. "That her over there?" asks Sam, raising an eyebrow. To Frodo, he turns, and says quickly, "Well, maybe it's best I stay here--you can go get food, and I'll keep an eye out for R--for Tom, for Marigold... you see..."

Stifling a smile, Frodo nods. "All right, then - can I bring you anything while you're waiting?" He glances once more in the direction of Nibs and Marigold, brow furrowing a little in a pensive expression. "What does she do to stay busy, Sam? Mari, I mean. At her age a girl's long past playing with dolls. . . ."

Nibs sighs, nodding slightly. "S'pose yer right..." The youth pauses, thoughtfully swirling the remaining ale round in his mug. Finally breaking out of his apparent reverie, his inquisitive eyes refocus on the lass in front of him. He clears his throat, unsure of how else to respond to Marigold's flustered display. "Wull, can I get ye another ale er anythin' else? I'm fixin' te git meself a fresh mug..."

"No, no, nothing for me," Sam says, looking quizzically at his master, not without suspicion in his glance. "But whad'you mean about that, Mr. Frodo. Marigold, yes, she'll come of age in about a handful of years, and she's... not a kid anymore, but she sure is a tweenager," he says somewhat slowly. "She ain't ready for marryin', if that's what you're thinking."

 "That's... not her, but I may as well talk to her! Thank you..." With a cordial nod to Sam and a glance to Frodo, he turns away and sips his ale, chuckling to himself as he walks closer. Not one to be caught with a lady in one hand and a drink in the other, the glass is carefully handed off to a perplexed passing hobbit. With a smile he approaches, and aftar a moment of introduction they strike up a conversation, and enjoy themselves as fully as they can.

 "Thankee Nibs." she smiles having brought her wits back into place. She now sits primly, quite at ease. "That would be lovely. ...mind...no ale now fer me. Just juice, if ye please. She shakes her head to a hobbit who had come over shyly with his sister, a friend of Mari's...and had asked her for the next dance. "Not just now, I reckon. I'm a little parched, I am. Mayhap in a little while." her words though are kind as she tucks her legs under the stool to prevent them from moving to the tune of the music.

"Sam!" Reddening, Frodo shakes his head. "Goodness, Sam, what sort of person do you take me to be? I was just curious, though yes, I was wondering rather about something. . .I'm really getting to the point of needing. . .well, a bit more help than I have. It's wonderful not having to worry over the garden, and I've someone who's to come up soon and start making some deliveries. . .mushrooms, some cooking and such. . .Woodrose Gamgee. . .but. . . ." He pauses, taking a deep breath. "You know by now that I really prefer to be careful of who's in Bag End, and for how long. Your family's the only one I've ever felt comfortable seeing in there for more than a short while, and I'd trust all of you with my life. . . . But spending my day dusting and cooking every meal doesn't really leave the time I'd like to attend to Bilbo's old notes and things. . . ."

"Oh," says Sam, snapping his mouth shut rather quickly, and grimacing. "Sorry. Didn't catch your meaning, Mr. Frodo. Guess you could say that I take the role of being the older brother a little strong sometimes," he adds with a shy laugh, and a shrug. He clears his throat, wiping the sweat away from under his hat and then licks his lips. "Yep. You could use a li'l more help, I reckon, 'specially seeing that the Gaffer won't be there at all... and I'll be taking care of mostly everything in the garden, I won't have time to do much else... though I am awful fond of your frying pan."

Laughing, Frodo smiles warmly, giving a pat to Sam's shoulder. "It's all right, Sam! A girl her age needs that; would that every tweenager in the Shire had a big brother like yourself. . .I don't know Mari as well as I know you, but if she's half your talent with the stove I'm sure we'd have to expand my measurements next fitting at the tailor's! And there's no reason you and I can't have a bit of a tradition: I know the garden keeps you occupied, but perhaps a night a week we could sit down and have a good supper together, frying-pan and all. You know I fancy your fried fish and chips above anyone else's. . . ."

Sam reddens again, as if perhaps mulling over his night of mistakes. He sighs. "I just hope... tonight is as nice as it can be," he says, chewing on his bottom lip. "I reckon Tom and I might go to Bywater pond, and if we do that, well, you'll have your fish and chips as right as rain, Mr. Frodo."

"I'm sure it will be. And thank you, Sam. Will you think that over, and perhaps talk it through with Mari. . .and your parents, if she's interested? I'm expecting to pay rather nicely," Frodo adds, lowering his voice further, "and as far as her age and all. . .well, you'll be right outside, where you can just look up at the kitchen window and see her any time you choose. . . ."

 Marigold glances over at Sam...she seems to have felt eyes upon her once again and she gives him a curious look, especially at the red in his cheeks. She is quite the picture of working class hobbit lass perfection, with her apple cheeks, wholesome looks and fine yet worn garb. Indeed, more than one young hobbit has his eyes in her direction. With Tom not present that night, the young daughter of Gaffer Gamgee is catching attention. Most however, are deterred by the presence of her older brother. She does not notice, and continues to wonder whether or not she should risk dancing with someone else. If Tom came in though and saw. What would he think? No...better to wait and be patient. No sense in being a ninny over dancing.

"With ... the Gaffer," Sam says, and though he says it gently, it's obviously a correction. "I'll talk it over with the Gaffer, yeah. I don't see why he wouldn't like it, and all, seeing as Mari's been mopin' around the house most days doing next to nothing. I tried my hand at teaching her some letters, but she ain't got the brain for it, and I have no time. I reckon it's a grand idea, Mr. Frodo."

Nibs nods and tips back his mug to finish it off fully. "Be back inna wink..." With that he leaves Marigold to her thoughts and shuffles toward the kegs. He fills his mug to the brim, froth streaming down the sides and forming puddles on the floor. The Cotton lifts the mug to his lips, sipping the contents down to a more reasonable level and sets it down on the table nearest the kegs as he makes his way toward the large containers of juice. Quickly filling a mug with chilled apple juice, Nibs hastens back to retrieve his ale. Once both hands are occupied with their respective beverages, the lad carefully makes his way back to Marigold, promptly extending the juice-filled mug to the lass.

Frodo promptly blushes again, biting his lip. "Sam, I'm so sorry. . .force of habit. Forgive me." Turning to the second part of the young gardener's response, he nods. "It would be a great help to me. . .you're already such help yourself, and what with Mari around, I can't imagine a hobbit who'd be better looked after, really." He glances toward the trays, still a bit pink. "I'll be right back, Sam - just going to get a bite to eat; I'll join you in half a moment - " With that, he makes his way to the tables, beginning to work on filling his plate.

 And indeed, the presence of Nibs makes certain that interested hobbits keep their distance. She smiles in thanks taking the glass, "My favorite. Thankee Nibs, how did you know?" she peers at him curiously, scratching the side of her nose.

Sam settles himself back in his corner, watching with eager eyes... for something... someone... somewhere... He sighs. "I need an ale."

"Here you are, then!"

Balancing two mugs and a plate, Frodo returns, handing Sam the mugful of ale carefully before settling his own mugful on the nearest tabletop, beginning to eat with the sort of hearty appetite that might make one wonder why the young master of Bag End isn't better filled out through the paunch than he is. Spearing a forkful of root vegetables against a bite of cornbread, he offers a slight smile.

Sam takes the mug thankfully, a little red in the face. He clears his throat. "You didn't have to get nothing for me, Mr. Frodo," he says, eyes wide. "That just ain't right." Sam puffs up his chest, in mock anger, but can't keep angry as he watches Frodo down his food as if there were no tomorrow. "Slow down there, Mr. Frodo--you might get some food on your nice suit there!" he warns.

"Oh, I think I heard Tom say that you fancied it," Nibs shrugs, taking a seat next to the lass. Starting in on his fresh ale, the lad glances at Marigold with a little smile.

She blushes quite to the roots of her hair at the idea of Tom Cotton talking about her at all. She stammers a bit and smiles shyly, regaining her composure as best she can. "Is...Rosie comin' later with Tom? I haven't seen her in a while, an' was curious."

The discordant notes of the Mended Drum reach your ears as they play The Dim Baby's Toadstool, a baritone ode: ...toop-toop-toop, froo-froo-free, la-la-de-la, tum-ta-tum, doobie-doobie-doo...

Frodo laughs, but obediently slows a bit in his pace, taking a mouthful of cauliflower in mushroom sauce and a bite of meatloaf, following it with some cornbread. "Well, Sam, if the food weren't so wonderful, I wouldn't have that problem, now, would I?" With a mischievous grin, he takes a long sip of ale. "So, while we're watching for Ro - I mean *Tom* - what night would you prefer for our little get-togethers?"

Fraibert enters the Grange from North Hill Lane.
Fraibert has arrived.

"Doesn't matter to me none, Mr. Frodo. My schedule's as bendy as you'd like it to be, of course, you know. You've got more to do'n I do, you know. All I do is tend the roses..." Sam trails off and stares at Frodo and shakes his head. "You know what I mean."

Nibs seems a bit disinterested with the current turn of the conversation. He reaches a chubby hand back to scratch his dark curls. "Eh, I ain't too sure either way, Mari... Tom weren't feelin' none too well this morn but 'e said 'e'd try 'is best te be here." He shrugs, taking another swallow of ale.

Lila enters the Grange from North Hill Lane.
Lila has arrived.
Thilvar enters the Grange from North Hill Lane.
Thilvar has arrived.

The discordant notes of the Mended Drum reach your ears as they play Your Hearty Sassy Snip-Snip, a little-known round: ...na-na-na-na, whoop-whoop, ratta-tatta-tat, loop-de-loop, click-click-click...

Musing this over, Frodo smiles quietly, beginning work on the sizable portion of stewed apples included on his plate. "Mmm. . .what about. . .perhaps Tuesdays? That might work. And it would leave you plenty of time to. . .deal with the roses."

Sam sips his ale, the first time he's done so since Frodo brought it over to him, and he swallows slowly. "Good draught," he says nodding slowly, sniffing the top of his mug. "Tuesdays it is, then, Mr. Frodo. Sure thing. I'll just let Marigold know that's her night to make dinner for the Gaffer. He gets really cranky if he don't get his food on time."

Lila tip toes into The Grange looking about as if she were expecting trouble of one type or another, when nothing seems to immediately form she relaxes visably letting out a soft sigh of relief. A wide grin claims her lips, her feet plant themselves fully on the ground and she starts toward the nearest visable source of food which looks to be unclaimed. The bounce in her step makes her appear a different hobbit completely.

The discordant notes of the Mended Drum reach your ears as they play Daddy's Unbelievable Addictive Love, a jaunty parody: ...bang-a-lang, bang-bang-bang, loop-de-loop, ka-plung...
Announcement: Matrim has changed the poll to: As usual: Moo.

Marigold holds her drink in her hand, her brows furrowing in concern. "Not feeling well? Oh dear...I hope that its nothing bad." she looks over towards where Sam is. "Why don't you go let Sam know, Rosie's tending to Tom right now, I expect. He was hoping to see Tom here too."

Frodo grins. "Bilbo always was the same way. Morose, really. . .he'd go on about how an old hobbit misses his meal! Not that we ever have been very late with meals at Bag End as a rule. . . ." Shrugging, he takes another bite of apples, poking in a bit of cornbread with his spoon as he continues eating.

Lila's head bobs in a quick manner as she passes Marigold and Nibs, acknowledging the pair just long enough to appear friendly and social then continues with her quick pace toward the food. She licks her lips in anticipation and doesn't manage to wait for a plate, her fingers become stick with this and that even as she manages to locate a plate and pile it high with buttered corn, hearty bread, and tasty meatloaf. She's nearly dancing herself by the time she finishes her little ritual and appears nigh oblivious to the rest of her surroundings.

With one last look toward the door, Sam sighs sadly. "Well, it's getting late, and all. The Gaffer wasn't feeling to well, so I figure I'll be heading on down back home to make him some tea, and fry up some taters. He always feels better with a little bit of tater in him, I reckon," Sam says, finishing off his ale with a big swig. "You're welcome to stay here, Mr. Frodo. I'm sure Marigold'll look after you if you need anything..." Sam straightens his hat and prepares to go, waiting for an answer from Frodo.

The discordant notes of the Mended Drum reach your ears as they play The Uncoupled Jingling Song, a popular bandinerie: ...ka-plung, toop-toop-toop, doobie-doobie-doo, da-da-da-daaa, la-dee-da...

"Oh, Sam! I'm sorry to hear that. . .I thought he just was busy elsewhere; do give him my best, won't you?" Nodding, Frodo glances toward the Gamgee lass. "Go on, Sam, and don't worry about a thing. Mari and I can look after each other, and I'll see to it she gets home safe and sound. We'll be just fine."

Lila's bright skirt is set into motion as she does a little jig, shuffle playing a careful game of balance with her plate. She smiles during those moments when her mouth is not filled, as few as they seem. She's avoiding people for the moment, acting as if she's missed the rest of the days meals and is set to make up for it all at once. She finds a seat and drops the plate to her lap--still not the safest place for the plate her feet continue to wiggle with the music and her shoulders move up and down--not just carrying food to her mouth.

Sam sighs, and it sounds as if all the joy has been sapped from him. He shrugs, and looks at Mr. Frodo rather sadly, his eyebrows arched up in the middle. "Looks like there ain't no more for me to do here, then," he says mournfully. Snapping this braces, he nods to Frodo. "I'll see you round, then, I s'pose. Have... fun." With that, Sam heads toward the door, intent on leaving... and he does. Once a Gamgee has something on his mind, it seems, it's hard to shake...