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Respectable hobbits in town think somewhat poorly of Mr. Bilbo's queer ways, but I've known him all my life and I say his ways aren't a harm to anyone and he's always treated my Gaffer with respect. And he tells good stories, even when townsfolk frown about it. Those same folk may also think ill of Mr. Frodo, but I know they've got him wrong. He's a bit different, yes, but his life's been different than most.
Losing his parents when he was just a wee lad would be more than enough to make him different than folks who've always known the shelter and care of their parents' home and hearts. Spending a few years amidst the bustle of Brandy Hall must have been hard at times for him, too, though that was before my time... he's not exactly the hearty ale crowd type, that's clear to anyone!
It's good he came to live at Bag End. Mr. Bilbo needs the company of someone who understands him. He's always puttering with his papers and his books and his maps, and though my Gaffer let me learn my letters and listen to his stories... well, just me around to nod in the right places and to try to keep unwanted visitors away wouldn't really have been enough for Mr. Bilbo without Mr. Frodo living there.
For Mr. Frodo and Mr. Bilbo, living just the two of them together at Bag End is just right. Just as I'm at home in its gardens, they're at home at its big oaken table, or at the step enjoying a bit of Old Toby of a summer's evening. And Mr. Frodo's at home anyplace he can sit under a quiet tree to read. It fits them, not having a pile of relatives sharing their hobbit-hole, even as big as Bag End is.
So why am I all caught up in thinking about this now? This is their party, and I should be just enjoyin' myself. Mr. Bilbo's celebrating his eleventy-first birthday, though I'm sure he doesn't look that old. And kind of forgotten, in the middle of all of this bustle, Mr. Frodo is turning thirty-three. Coming of age.
He's my friend, my best friend, and he confuses me. He's out there dancing now, his smile shining through the tangle of bobbing and weaving happy faces. People think that's really him, that that's his only smile, but I know better. The real Mr. Frodo has a soft smile that creeps over him like sunshine breaking through an overcast day, like sunrise, lighting up his whole face with such obvious joy... He reserves that smile for Mr. Bilbo, whom he loves dearly, for Mr. Gandalf, who doesn't visit very often, sometimes for a special few cousins from the Brandy Hall days, and lately, for me. I think I haven't been near him these past few months but that he has one of those smiles. Or his softer, more thoughtful kind of smile, starting at the corners of his mouth leading up to a soft glimmer in his eyes...
That doesn't bother me, but it's starting to remind me of Rosie. She gets like that, too, and while I'm not sure what it means all the time, sometimes with her I can at least guess. She's a simple kind of girl, and my Gaffer reminded me that she's reaching the time lasses set their minds to wanderin' about settling in someplace with a stout fellow and having a big, happy family. Seems lasses just like to think on that sort of thing. I don't think I'd have figured that out nearly as quick as when my Gaffer explained it, though I would have after a while. But what does it mean when Mr. Frodo can't help but smiling when I'm near?
I've heard talk, when I wasn't supposed to overhear, of folk who never marry, who spend their lives with another fellow or another lass... the townspeople look down their noses at them, but I guess that's just another way of being different. Maybe eccentric is a better word. Mr. Bilbo laughs when people call him eccentric.
Mr. Frodo's always been a bit eccentric, too. I wonder if that's what his smiles are about? Though he's of age now, he's probably doesn't know all of what it is that he wants from life... I'm not too far behind him, and I've got almost nothing of what I want from life figured out. I know I want a big beautiful garden. And I know I need my best friend. I'd like it if he needed me, too. He's always been quicker to figure things out... I've got to think twice as hard to keep even with him. My Gaffer'd laugh at me for even trying, but I know I can figure things out just as well as grown hobbits if I just put my mind to it and just give it some time. I guess that's the real reason I've been sitting here staring at my near-empty ale for who knows how long...
Suddenly he's at my side, all flushed from dancing and grinning at me. He wants me to ask Rosie for a dance... but I'm not done thinking. I could at least be staring at a full glass, though... Nope, he's spun me around with a shove, and suddenly I've an armfull of Rosie Cotton.
Guess I'll have to think later, I've got to keep from running us into anyone, and my feet from treading on hers... the swirl of people flashes past as we turn, and I catch a glimpse of Mr. Frodo, still smiling, but it seems different, somehow.
At the end of the dance, after she pecks me on the cheek, I look for him again, but don't see him. I know I've got more thinking to do, so I finally get another ale and find a seat by myself again.