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My heart is beating in time with the pulsing need in my sex as I root through the box for the lacy bits I seek. Christian is always seductive, sensual but today he’s gone out of his way to tease and hike up my desire – I’m ravenously ready. For a moment I wonder what to do about the panties, Christian’s avaricious fingers tore right through them under the dinner table, there’s no point in keeping them on. I make a mental note to always buy two pairs of panties with every set of lingerie I purchase as I hook my thumbs underneath and slip them off. I reach for the beautiful bra, giggling to myself – such a waste; I probably won’t keep it on for very long. I fasten the garter around my hips and as I bend to slip the silk stocking over my toes I catch sight of the perfect red hand shape on my rump in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors of the closet doors in front of the bed. The image darts straight to my core and again I have to bite my lip to stop my impatient moan from escaping. A hot flush races over my skin, almost matching the hot pink of the handprint. Just as my fumbling, hurried fingers clip the last slide in place and I run my hands from my ankle, along my leg to smooth the stocking I feel Christian’s presence behind me. From my vantage point I can only see his sexy naked feet peeking from beneath the black tuxedo slacks, I blush deeper thinking of the view he must have of me, pantyless and bent over like this. The admiring sound he makes can only be described as a feral growl, “stay as you are,” his masculine, commanding rasp almost has me convulsing on the spot. His hands bracket my hips; firmly he pulls them further back as he grinds himself into my behind. “Fuck,” he hisses, “so beautiful, so hot.” “Please Christian,” I raise my head, begging already. Looking at him in the mirror as he stands behind me I catch the hunger that flares in his eyes as well as the image of the two of us in this sexy pose and I nearly lose my breath. Holy shit that’s hot! I’m transfixed, eyes glued to our reflection I watch him bow over me as he runs a flat palm from my neck right along my spine. I feel his body heat soaking into me, the ripple of his stomach muscles as he moves, visible in the open line of his unbuttoned dress shirt. His hand comes to rest on the handprint, like he’s confirming it’s his own. A devilish smile curls his mouth before he gently caresses it, sending hot shivers rocketing through me. Again his hand glides up my back, this time fisting in my hair as he pulls me up and against him, almost aggressively. With my back fused to his front, he regards me in the mirror, his darkened gaze roaming languidly as I slot my arms around his neck. “Do you like the mirror Mrs Grey?” the hoarse whisper next to my ear suggests that he too, is a fan. One arm is locked around my waist, securing me to him and the other is trailing slow, fingertip-circles over my belly, not going anywhere near where I want them to go. My head rolls back onto his shoulder, my eyes almost flickering closed, lids heavy with desire, “mmhh,” I mewl my affirmation. He chuckles quietly, “look at us baby,” the sharp spike of pain that connects my nipple to my sex makes my eyes fly open as Christian pinches the straining bud. I gasp and shudder embarrassingly against him. “So eager Mrs Grey, so responsive,” he teases, “shall I make you come like this?” he’s rolling my peak between his thumb and forefinger, a leisurely squeeze and roll through the lace of the bra – just enough to drive me wild but not enough to get me off. “Please,” I manage past my panting breaths. Any which way, I don’t care as long as you do! Watching him – us is unspeakably erotic; my desire pooling, building, heaving I decide to help things along. He senses the shift in my arms that I want to slip from their hold so I can touch him but his growling order stops me, “keep still baby, if you move I stop.” I whimper and re-join my hands behind his neck, thrusting my breasts forward. “I want you too baby, I just want to play a bit, enjoy this moment with my wife.” Instead of soothing me the way he draws out the word wife sends lashings of fire through my veins, my stomach muscles already starting to quiver in anticipation of my brewing release. Fuck! “Look at your breasts Anastasia,” he cups one breast from the bottom, holding it for our mutual appreciation.  The balcony bra retains my breasts in a perfect display, the very low cut of the demi cups only just covering my puckering areola. His voice is turning huskier, his look darker as he brushes his thumb over the dark raring point. This time we gasp together, sucking in a fervent breath before Christian spins me around, crushing his mouth to mine. The harsh assault steals all reason, only awareness of blazing sensation remains; it feels like his hands are everywhere at once. I push off his shirt and roughly undo his belt, my fingers suddenly deft in their eagerness. I slide my hands down the sides of his torso, beneath the elastic of his boxers to get rid of both undies and pants in one go. He steps out of his slacks and I grip him firmly, working my fist down the length of him. When he inhales against my vigorous attack I trace the seal of his mouth with my tongue. Bodies joined, hungry sounds escaping, he starts walking us back, up against the edge of the bed. I break away; placing both palms on his chest I push so he topples backwards onto the covers. He laughs at my audacity, the throaty rumble is a shockingly sexy sound so I follow, crawling up to straddle him. In a surprise move he sits up, holding my hips in place, “so brazen Mrs Grey but I hope you know you’re not in charge right now.” Even though his eyes are smiling they’re also scorching with his unguarded want, clearly he has a plan for our first wedded union. I pout and bat my lashes but truthfully, I’m eager to be driven to passion by his expert steering. “Turn around baby.” I swivel and sit on his lap; my legs tucked back, knees planted on either side of his thighs, facing the mirror once more. His plan is suddenly crystal clear, I’m completely open to him, legs spread wide. Like this, both of his hands are free to touch and caress wherever he wants. His erection, currently hot and rigid between the cheeks of my behind, ready to push through my wet folds and we can watch it all, together. I’m grateful that he seems to have reached the edge of his control as he lifts my hips and brings me down, his hips shoving up to fill me with all of his hard length – finally letting me feel the delicious stretch my sex has been aching for. He grunts, his teeth bared as if in pain as he fights to hold off his release, keeping me still. I groan in pleasure, one hand finding a grip on his thigh while the other rakes through his hair. His hand snakes down, finding the sensitive heart in my slick mound his fingers start to circle there, the pressure perfect. “Fuck Ana, you’re so tight, so wet. Move baby, push up with your knees.” He growls though his gritted teeth as his other hand finds my breast. Pulling the bra cup down he tweaks my nipple, echoing the phenomenal pleasure down below. I don’t need to be asked twice, flexing my quads I drive up, to his very tip before forcing myself down, finding that sensational grind and friction that starts the inevitable spiral resulting from this much stunning stimulation. Watching him touching me, filling me has us unravelling rapidly, “come baby, come now!” he demands, his clever fingers increasing their fantastic rhythm, matching the increasing speed of my strokes up and down his ever hardening shaft perfectly. I fall hard, spectacularly as the coiled tension releases like a cracked whip in a blinding shudder that’s intensified by Christian’s vicious pulsing inside me, the aftershocks of our shared orgasm prolonging my gratification. Christian pants into my neck, dropping tender, out-of-breath kisses behind my ear as we float back to our senses. “That (kiss) was (kiss) incredible (kiss).” He pulls us to lie down then rolls so we’re spooning. Our chests are heaving in tandem, drawing precious breath to steady our hearts as I lie overtaken but content in his strong embrace. He’s right, that was, well…. mind-blowing! An engulfing need to confirm the words of our love washes over me and I turn, almost frantic with urgency, “I love you Christian, so very much, so completely. Please tell me you know!” The plea smacks of desperation, a desire that’s as deep and powerful as the need we feel to constantly consummate our union. His arms around me draw tighter, crushing me to him, “I know baby…. Hush, I know.” His mumblings have a veneration to them, proof that he’s as profoundly affected as me. I bury my face in the curve of his neck, his unique Christian scent soothing me. “I love you too, more than I can ever say. I’m so…” he searches for the right word, “relieved you’re mine again.” It takes every ounce of my self-control not to apologize once more; instead I nuzzle closer, sighing with absolute pleasure. Christian kisses my hair, the atmosphere around us still thick with emotion and silently we both choose to allow it to immerse us. The last few days have been a bit of a whirlwind, I expect us to fall asleep but I’m oddly energised in spite of our vigorous lovemaking. Before long Christian’s low voice murmurs in my ear, “I have something for you baby,” he’s stroking the length of my arm in gentle sweeps, the tips of his fingers only just touching my skin. I giggle, “I bet you do,” I drag my head back, resting it on the pillow beside him so I can stare into his gorgeous eyes as I walk my fingers down his chest, toward his lap. “Mmhh,” he groans then gifts me with a cheeky smirk, “that too but I wanted to give you something special tonight, are you up to coming outside with me?” he takes my meandering fingers, bending all but one then takes it in his mouth to suck, his luscious mouth and slick tongue laving my finger, vividly reminding me of the sensational skills his master tongue possesses. I’m intrigued; he couldn’t possibly top the day we just had. I bite my lip, caught up in his stare as his look reels me in; that familiar, irresistible pull – much like gravity, isn’t something I can or want to fight. It always surprises me though – just how much I’m bound to him, how with a solitary look or well-placed word he can reduce me to a single pinpoint of wild, compelling need. Even the thought of being with him is enough to starts a delicious rush of blood to my wanton sex. That, coupled with his beautiful, romantic spirit he seems to be a force – and a wonderful freak of nature. I smile, no beam at him, feeling the pinch of the strained muscles in my cheeks – I’ve almost smiled my head off today. “I’d love to Mr Grey; I want to be wherever you are.” At my endearing words the slate in his gaze turns blacker as he swaps my finger for my mouth, first freeing my lip from my teeth before pushing his way inside, licking at me like I’m a decadent morsel. For a second I think the gift can wait but he stops, a childlike excitement overtaking him. “Come baby, let’s get your robe.” It’s always easy to be swept up in the moment when he’s like this, his gifts always generous and thoughtful if not a little over the top. I follow him, padding on the soft carpet to the closet that he opens. The monogrammed Bellagio robes are, like the hotel, lavish. They’re made with velvety soft, organic bamboo viscose that makes terry cloth seem plain by comparison, the creamy colour rich and reminiscent of a cloud. He watches me undo my bra and the clips of the garter; a wistful look joins the naughty grin on his face when I catch him staring, “what?” I can’t quite make out his expression but I find myself answering his smile. “I fully intended to enjoy taking every last bit of that off you,” his eyes indicate the lingerie, “but as usual, I couldn’t contain myself around you.” He rests his forehead against mine; rubbing my upper arms, “see what you do to me?” Oh I love, love, love shaking that tightly reined control of his! My arms reach behind him, finding the deliciously firm curves of his buttocks I feel reckless and playful when I squeeze, pressing up against him. “And I can’t wait to do it again.” I wink just before the unexpected scarlet flush flares across my skin – I’m not usually this audacious. He laughs at my brazen arrogance and shakes his head as he holds up the robe for me. I slip into it, feeling like I’m being comforted and coddled by the fluffy fabric. Looking down at me he takes my hand, his besotted grin the best thing I’ve ever seen. He leads me to the opulent lounge where thick candles are dotted and lit, gently glowing in what looks like a path leading somewhere. Some are on the floor, some placed on tables but they’re all paired in a distinct ribbon that forms a definite trail. Who did this, when? As if he heard my thought he answers, “James has been very useful but he’s gone home now; even Taylor has the night off.” Mmmhhh, just me and my husband with no distractions…. “It’s lovely,” I breathe seeing the candle way continuing through the glass French doors that lead to the patio. Christian opens the framed doors, allowing me to walk into a wonderland of candles and flowers. The whirlpool is swirling invitingly, the heat rising off it seductive, curling like smoke and filling the courtyard with a dreamy fog. The rose petals on the stone tiles are red, the hues varying from a gentle blush to a deep blood. Next to the whirlpool is a low table, laden with fruit, melted chocolate and champagne chilling in an ice bucket. Christian picks up a small remote control; a single button pipes music from hidden speakers, softly filling my ears and the enclosure. It’s a song by Dionne Warwick, tailor made for this moment – I’ll never love this way again. 04 I’ll Never Love This Way Again Could this be any more romantic? In three long, sinuous strides he’s standing in front of me, the hungry look back in place, softened only by the inciting, friendly slant of his mouth. He searches my face for approval and I readily give it to him, my eyes sparkling with unadulterated joy. “I believe I have something that belongs to you Mrs Grey.” He murmurs; a hint of mischief in his low timbre. From the pocket of his robe he produces a small box, no logo, no distinct features that give away any clues to the contents. Apart from my heart, what can he have that belongs to me? I smile but my brow knits into a question as I tilt my head in curiosity. He takes my hand and places the box on my palm then kisses the frown between my brows, his gaze still mysterious. My eyes flick to the box then back up to him. What is it? I wonder as I lift the lid, my heart and belly fluttering excitedly. I’m winded, dropping the lid as my hand flies to the base of my neck – astounded. It’s lying coiled around a little velvet island and held into place with tiny velvet finger cut outs, the matte black fabric offsetting the sparking platinum perfectly. It’s my charm bracelet, the one he gave me for my birthday with all our firsts – an Eiffel Tower, a London black cab, a helicopter for Charlie Tango, a glider, a bed, a catamaran like The Grace and an ice cream cone. Hot tears pool in my eyes as I remember the beautiful, bitter-sweet day he gave it to me and worse, the day I took it off for the first time, leaving it and my heart behind at Escala. It’s something that I often thought about, desperately missing the gentle jangle of the charms around my wrist, an unfailing reminder of the remarkable man that Christian is. With blurry vision I take it out, clutching it like a talisman as I curl my arm around Christian’s neck, his mouth streaked with amusement at me coming to pieces under the weight of his gift. “Thank you Christian,” I whisper hoarsely, my tight throat dry and scratchy. He presses me close, never missing an opportunity to meld our bodies but his laugh is off, a little nervous. “You’re welcome baby, are you okay? I didn’t mean to upset you.” “I’m not upset,” my leaking eyes telling a different story, “I… It’s just… you’re too good for me, I don’t know what to say.” He laughs again, a tad more at ease this time. He pushes his hands into my hair, on either side of my face to lock his gaze with mine, “you can start by giving me a thankyou kiss, I’ll think of something else a little later.” He lifts his brows playfully, suggestively; leaving no doubt that my repayment will involve something kinky. Magnificent man that he is, he always manages to zero in on a problem and solve it, this time with humour as I giggle, my feelings of inadequacy banished before I pull his face toward me for a coy, soft kiss. “No Mrs Grey, I’m afraid that won’t do at all.” He shakes his head, a serious frown making the game seem believable. Never one to shy away from playful Fifty I flirt right back, “I do apologize Mr Grey, my lack of skill must be due to the sloppy training I received, you see the man I married is a very poor kisser, he needs plenty of practice.” This time his laugh is rich and throaty, “is that so Mrs Grey?” his ash eyes shiny with mirth as he brings his mouth right up to mine, his warm breath making my heart jump and my skin race. My teeth rake across my lip, my whole body lights up with awareness of his closeness as my eyelids flutter flirtingly. I nod, not trusting my voice that I know has turned thick with desire. He adjusts his stance, planting himself firmly, “well then, there’s nothing for it, I’ll just have to practice.” His voice is low, mesmeric as he inclines his head to a slight angle, getting his approach perfect before he licks his lips, just a hairbreadth away from my yearning mouth. When the seal of my lips break to accommodate my quickening breath he takes his opening. At first he gently traces my lips with his tongue, his hands in my hair and on my jaw, anchoring my head in place. Slowly, softly, smoothly he starts to work his mouth to mine, moving at a faculty stealing pace. It in no way reflects what it’s doing to me – where this kiss is unhurried, measured; everything inside me has gone into overdrive. My pulse is suddenly hasty, my blood pounding, briskly surging heat through my veins, my breath – shallow and ineffective, adding to the dizzying effect of Christian’s unbelievable oral skills. I’m grateful for the stability of his hold; my body melting from the inside out. I sense him smile against me, obviously enjoying the reaction my body is so freely giving him. He deepens his effort, his strong tongue pushing through my seduced lips and finding mine is a long, stroking dance. Holy fuck! The heat breaks out like fires across my body starting with my nipples that bead into unbearably hard points then turns to my belly, making it tumble in sweet expectation. Next are the folds of my sex, suddenly sensitive and swollen, leaking between my thighs. It rips a thrust from my hips in a fervent search for that satisfying friction. Christian’s maddening mouth abruptly pulls away, a grin combined with hooded eyes looks into my flushed face, now distorted with an annoyed scowl. Whoa, he can’t just stop like that! “I see what you mean Mrs Grey,” he nods, feigning thoughtfulness, “lots of practice might just be what I need.” He bites down on his bottom lip to stop himself from laughing at me staring at him – befuddled and blatantly aroused. “You can breathe now Mrs Grey,” his self-satisfied smile is taunting me, completely secure in the knowledge that he needs hardly lift a finger to work me into a breathless frenzy. I narrow my eyes at him, wondering if I’ll ever be able to out-sex him. “Come,” he chuckles and takes my hand again, leading us to the steaming whirlpool. It’s of little consolation to me that he sports another raging erection when he drops his robe and slips into the whirling water, especially if he’s going to insist on tormenting me like this. I eye the fruit and the melted chocolate thinking about how I can play him at his own game. My robe pools at my feet as I shrug it off, watching Christian closely I’m rewarded with his renewed interest at the sight of my nude body. I force myself to linger, taking my time to get into the tub to give him an eyeful of what he seems to appreciate so much. I push through the water, wearing my bedroom eyes I reach him. His breath catches as he readies himself for my sensual raid but instead of kissing him I hold up my bracelet, fluttering my lashes at him demurely. I’m modestly personified when I ask him, “will you please fasten this for me?” His gaze sparks with humour, “so is the game now Mrs Grey?” a quizzical brow arches as a crooked smile moves his lips. His eyes never leave mine as he fastens the bracelet – assessing me like he’s calculating the next move in our carnal game of chess. I sit on a low bench seat against the contoured wall of the spa that has strong jets of water pulsing into various parts of my back, it’s heavenly. I enjoy it for a beat, trying to look unconcerned, “Thank you,” I say still playing innocent while I hold up the dangling charms to admire, “but I don’t know what you mean Mr Grey.” He smiles a knowing smile then shakes his head, a touch of admiration fleeting over his chiselled features. I get the sense that he’s saying game on and it gives wings to a million butterflies in my belly. The seat he’s chosen is much higher than mine leaving his stunningly formed torso exposed. My gaze drifts over his enticing pecks and abs; following the water rivulets snaking down the dips of his muscled ridges I wonder idly how crazy I could drive him if I lapped them up. With a fluid shift he slips off his perch and into the warm water where he stands, pushing his thighs between my legs so I have to look up to him. A look of pure sin colours his visage – he’s clearly making the first move in our little contest of seduction. Smug and utterly self-assured he murmurs in a raspy voice, “you missed one.” His eyes flick to the charm bangle that now decorates my wrist. Huh? He waits patiently for my brain to make the connection while he reaches past me to pour us some champagne. True to the Bellagio’s form I recognize the label of one of our favourite bubblies as the distinct Bollinger bubbles form little lines to pop on the surface of the soft pink drink. My mind doesn’t dwell on the astounding attention to detail for long as I grapple with Christians riddle. My eyes fall on the bracelet and I lift it, paging through the charms one by one, taking stock. When I flip my wrist I instantly see the new addition, a charm that blasts its way through my consciousness with an almost violent force – it’s a tiny baby, obviously Chris. My jaw drops, shocked eyes darting between Christian’s smirk and the significant add-on to my beloved piece of jewellery. I’m rendered speechless, it’s a powerful message about his acceptance of our little family and a heartbreakingly beautiful sentiment. Damn! I realise that he’s outmanoeuvred me again, not even relying on his immense sexpertise but simply melting me with his kind thoughtfulness. Checkmate! There is no way I can play unaffected, resist him somehow – I’m too deeply moved, shaken even. Game over! This potent, sentimental display of love makes my surrender to him sweet, easy. Without preamble and with utter sincerity I take him into my arms, intent on giving him every inch of me he wants to take. “I don’t know what to say, thank you – again! It’s perfect, like you.” Words tumble out but none seems adequate, I can only hope to show him with my actions. My lips find his as my legs wrap around him, every stroke of my tongue reigniting the forceful surge of lust that he unleashed with his earlier kiss. Wet hands glide – slipping and sliding smoothly over shoulders, arms, backs and chests – like fireworks bursting across sensitised skin. The pounding jets at my back create the illusion of another set of hands working the surface of my body – a deeply engaging sensation that makes me want to give Christian the same bliss. More than anything I feel the need to worship him with my grateful mouth. I’ve never been more eager to show him how I feel and having sex has always been our favourite way of expressing that love, cementing the ties of our relationship. When we come up for air, chests heaving from our passionate kiss I wriggle off my seat and turn around. Christian takes the opportunity to palm my behind while pushing his swollen flesh between the apex of my upper thighs. Drawing in and out his thick length drags over my clitoris, making my body judder and shake in appreciation. I gasp and he growls as he runs a practiced hand over the full body goose bumps he’s elicited. I don’t want him to stop but I’m keener to give him my own gift. I pull the melted chocolate and the fruit platter closer, positioning it on the edge of the hot tub. I pick up a strawberry, plump and fragrant and swirl it through the rich, dark chocolate. When I turn back to Christian his charcoal eyes widen, realisation curving his full mouth into a welcoming grin. I hold out the strawberry tip, enticing him to take a bite while sucking chocolate off my finger. His watch starts to burn, drilling into me, taking in every movement as he slowly sinks his teeth into the ripe, pink flesh. I swipe the fruit over his lips then join the feast, licking the smeared chocolate from his lips, trailing my tongue down his chin to lap up the trickled juice. A low hum reverberates from his chest and he grabs my wrist, determinedly pulling me against him. Without ever leaving my gaze he scoops his fingertips through the thick dark mass then salves it across my breasts, finger painting patterns over the pointing peaks of my nipples. My unslaked desire edging ever higher as he stands back to survey his art. Nipples beading harder at the force of his want on display I push out my breasts, inviting his hot mouth for a hard suck. I slip my hands into his wet hair, watching his dark head move as his mouth closes over the needy tip. Blood rushes, filling and swelling the peaking bud as he slicks his tongue around it before increasing suction, drawing in the whole areola. I moan, neck arcing as I relent to the erotic suckling, my pelvis thrusting forward in a jealous bid for the same attention. His mouth comes away and his fingers take its place, rolling, elongating while his other hand dives below the water. His mouth bares a dark ring of smeared chocolate that I’m eager to taste but I’m too excited about the actions of his hand under water, it has me rooted in place – staring. I expected him to find my sex but instead he grips himself, in the swirling water I can just make out his fist jacking violently up and down his strained stalk. I’ve never seen him like this, other than teaching me how to touch him I don’t ever remember watching him pleasure himself. The force he uses is shocking and thrilling at once, so masculine, blatantly sexual – deeply arousing. His lids low he watches me watching him, “you drive me wild Anastasia.” His hoarse words nudging my need to take him in my mouth to an irresistible level – the erotic challenge unmistakable in the severe cut of his mouth. As the sexy shock gives way to a deepening burn I wake up from my staring trance, “Please, let me.” I swallow, fighting against the shallow breaths of my passion. I nudge him to the edge of the spa. With flexing biceps he pushes himself out of the water and turns lithely, taking a seat on the edge. What a sight! His rigid column at the perfect height for my mouth’s ministrations. I’m salivating for the feel of hot, velvet covered steel. He looks down, into the water seemingly searching for something and when I reach him he lifts me onto my knees on a low seat in the tub, then moves us to the right. I wonder what he’s doing but when I push up, standing on my knees I realise why, a jet of water hit my sex, vibrating the folds in a way I know is going to make me come hard. He watches my realisation, his wicked grin far too knowing. To hide my feverish blush I wrap my mouth around him, gripping the base of his erection to keep him still. I revel in the cry that tears through him as I pull him deep, lapping at the sensitive spot on the bottom just below the ridge of his head – a new trick that I read about, I’m wildly eager to please him with a modicum of the skill that he possesses. Already I can feel him grow thicker in his relentless race to orgasm. His hands slip between our bodies and cup my breasts, firmly kneading, flicking his thumb pads over my nipples while the jet powers onto my aroused fleshy folds. “I’m close baby, don’t hold back.” He forces the words through his locked jaw, his face taking on the distortion that comes with pleasure. I let go, thrusting my hips into the surge of water and double my efforts on him, plunging harder and faster, flicking my tongue over that secret spot with every drive until we both tense, teetering on the brink of release. With his fist pulse I quake then shudder, stomach muscles clenching into a shattering free-fall. Vaguely I feel a fist in my hair, showing me the rhythm to finish him off. My body still racked with juddering shivers I hear him, forcing out my name in a ragged groan as his hips flex, thrusting brutally one last time. Overjoyed with the stunning result I smile up at him, no doubt glowing with satisfaction but it’s short lived. The sexy sated look he wore a second ago now a furious glower – jealous, accusing eyes boring into mine, “where the fuck did you learn to do that?” In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort. It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened on to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with panelled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats - the hobbit was fond of visitors. The tunnel wound on and on, going fairly but not quite straight into the side of the hill - The Hill, as all the people for many miles round called it - and many little round doors opened out of it, first on one side and then on another. No going upstairs for the hobbit: bedrooms, bathrooms, cellars, pantries (lots of these), wardrobes (he had whole rooms devoted to clothes), kitchens, dining-rooms, all were on the same floor, and indeed on the same passage. The best rooms were all on the left-hand side (going in), for these were the only ones to have windows, deep-set round windows looking over his garden and meadows beyond, sloping down to the river. This hobbit was a very well-to-do hobbit, and his name was Baggins. The Bagginses had lived in the neighbourhood of The Hill for time out of mind, and people considered them very respectable, not only because most of them were rich, but also because they never had any adventures or did anything unexpected: you could tell what a Baggins would say on any question without the bother of asking him. This is a story of how a Baggins had an adventure, found himself doing and saying things altogether unexpected. He may have lost the neighbours' respect, but he gained-well, you will see whether he gained anything in the end. The mother of our particular hobbit... what is a hobbit? I suppose hobbits need some description nowadays, since they have become rare and shy of the Big People, as they call us. They are (or were) a little people, about half our height, and smaller than the bearded Dwarves. Hobbits have no beards. There is little or no magic about them, except the ordinary everyday sort which helps them to disappear quietly and quickly when large stupid folk like you and me come blundering along, making a noise like elephants which they can hear a mile off. They are inclined to be at in the stomach; they dress in bright colours (chiefly green and yellow); wear no shoes, because their feet grow natural leathery soles and thick warm brown hair like the stuff on their heads (which is curly); have long clever brown fingers, good-natured faces, and laugh deep fruity laughs (especially after dinner, which they have twice a day when they can get it). Now you know enough to go on with. As I was saying, the mother of this hobbit - of Bilbo Baggins, that is - was the fabulous Belladonna Took, one of the three remarkable daughters of the Old Took, head of the hobbits who lived across The Water, the small river that ran at the foot of The Hill. It was often said (in other families) that long ago one of the Took ancestors must have taken a fairy wife. That was, of course, absurd, but certainly there was still something not entirely hobbit-like about them, - and once in a while members of the Took-clan would go and have adventures. They discreetly disappeared, and the family hushed it up; but the fact remained that the Tooks were not as respectable as the Bagginses, though they were undoubtedly richer. Not that Belladonna Took ever had any adventures after she became Mrs. Bungo Baggins. Bungo, that was Bilbo's father, built the most luxurious hobbit-hole for her (and partly with her money) that was to be found either under The Hill or over The Hill or across The Water, and there they remained to the end of their days. Still it is probable that Bilbo, her only son, although he looked and behaved exactly like a second edition of his solid and comfortable father, got something a bit queer in his makeup from the Took side, something that only waited for a chance to come out. The chance never arrived, until Bilbo Baggins was grown up, being about fifty years old or so, and living in the beautiful hobbit-hole built by his father, which I have just described for you, until he had in fact apparently settled down immovably. By some curious chance one morning long ago in the quiet of the world, when there was less noise and more green, and the hobbits were still numerous and prosperous, and Bilbo Baggins was standing at his door after breakfast smoking an enormous long wooden pipe that reached nearly down to his woolly toes (neatly brushed) - Gandalf came by. Gandalf! If you had heard only a quarter of what I have heard about him, and I have only heard very little of all there is to hear, you would be prepared for any sort I of remarkable tale. Tales and adventures sprouted up all over the place wherever he went, in the most extraordinary fashion. He had not been down that way under The Hill for ages and ages, not since his friend the Old Took died, in fact, and the hobbits had almost forgotten what he looked like. He had been away over The Hill and across The Water on business of his own since they were all small hobbit-boys and hobbit-girls. All that the unsuspecting Bilbo saw that morning was an old man with a staff. He had a tall pointed blue hat, a long grey cloak, a silver scarf over which a white beard hung down below his waist, and immense black boots. "Good morning!" said Bilbo, and he meant it. The sun was shining, and the grass was very green. But Gandalf looked at him from under long bushy eyebrows that stuck out further than the brim of his shady hat. "What do you mean?" be said. "Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is morning to be good on?" "All of them at once," said Bilbo. "And a very fine morning for a pipe of tobacco out of doors, into the bargain. If you have a pipe about you, sit down and have a fill of mine! There's no hurry, we have all the day before us!" Then Bilbo sat down on a seat by his door, crossed his legs, and blew out a beautiful grey ring of smoke that sailed up into the air without breaking and floated away over The Hill. "Very pretty!" said Gandalf. "But I have no time to blow smoke-rings this morning. I am looking for someone to share in an adventure that I am arranging, and it's very difficult to find anyone." I should think so - in these parts! We are plain quiet folk and have no use for adventures. Nasty disturbing uncomfortable things! Make you late for dinner! I can't think what anybody sees in them, said our Mr. Baggins, and stuck one thumb behind his braces, and blew out another even bigger smoke-ring. Then he took out his morning letters, and begin to read, pretending to take no more notice of the old man. He had decided that he was not quite his sort, and wanted him to go away. But the old man did not move. He stood leaning on his stick and gazing at the hobbit without saying anything, till Bilbo got quite uncomfortable and even a little cross. "Good morning!" he said at last. "We don't want any adventures here, thank you! You might try over The Hill or across The Water." By this he meant that the conversation was at an end. "What a lot of things you do use Good morning for!" said Gandalf. "Now you mean that you want to get rid of me, and that it won't be good till I move off." "Not at all, not at all, my dear sir! Let me see, I don't think I know your name?" "Yes, yes, my dear sir - and I do know your name, Mr. Bilbo Baggins. And you do know my name, though you don't remember that I belong to it. I am Gandalf, and Gandalf means me! To think that I should have lived to be good-morninged by Belladonna Took's son, as if I was selling buttons at the door!" "Gandalf, Gandalf! Good gracious me! Not the wandering wizard that gave Old Took a pair of magic diamond studs that fastened themselves and never came undone till ordered? Not the fellow who used to tell such wonderful tales at parties, about dragons and goblins and giants and the rescue of princesses and the unexpected luck of widows' sons? Not the man that used to make such particularly excellent fireworks! I remember those! Old Took used to have them on Midsummer's Eve. Splendid! They used to go up like great lilies and snapdragons and laburnums of fire and hang in the twilight all evening!" You will notice already that Mr. Baggins was not quite so prosy as he liked to believe, also that he was very fond of flowers. "Dear me!" she went on. "Not the Gandalf who was responsible for so many quiet lads and lasses going off into the Blue for mad adventures. Anything from climbing trees to visiting Elves - or sailing in ships, sailing to other shores! Bless me, life used to be quite inter - I mean, you used to upset things badly in these parts once upon a time. I beg your pardon, but I had no idea you were still in business." "Where else should I be?" said the wizard. "All the same I am pleased to find you remember something about me. You seem to remember my fireworks kindly, at any rate, land that is not without hope. Indeed for your old grand-father Took's sake, and for the sake of poor Belladonna, I will give you what you asked for." "I beg your pardon, I haven't asked for anything!" "Yes, you have! Twice now. My pardon. I give it you. In fact I will go so far as to send you on this adventure. Very amusing for me, very good for you and profitable too, very likely, if you ever get over it." "Sorry! I don't want any adventures, thank you. Not today. Good morning! But please come to tea - any time you like! Why not tomorrow? Come tomorrow! Good-bye!" With that the hobbit turned and scuttled inside his round green door, and shut it as quickly as he dared, not to seen rude. Wizards after all are wizards. "What on earth did I ask him to tea for!" he said to him-self, as he went to the pantry. He had only just had break fast, but he thought a cake or two and a drink of something would do him good after his fright. Gandalf in the meantime was still standing outside the door, and laughing long but quietly. After a while he stepped up, and with the spike of his staff scratched a queer sign on the hobbit's beautiful green front-door. Then he strode away, just about the time when Bilbo was finishing his second cake and beginning to think that he had escape adventures very well. The next day he had almost forgotten about Gandalf. He did not remember things very well, unless he put them down on his Engagement Tablet: like this: Gandalf 'a Wednesday. Yesterday he had been too flustered to do anything of the kind. Just before tea-time there came a tremendous ring on the front-door bell, and then he remembered! He rushed and put on the kettle, and put out another cup and saucer and an extra cake or two, and ran to the door. "I am so sorry to keep you waiting!" he was going to say, when he saw that it was not Gandalf at all. It was a dwarf with a blue beard tucked into a golden belt, and very bright eyes under his dark-green hood. As soon a the door was opened, he pushed inside, just as if he had been expected. He hung his hooded cloak on the nearest peg, and "Dwalin at your service!" he said with a low bow. "Bilbo Baggins at yours!" said the hobbit, too surprised to ask any questions for the moment. When the silence that followed had become uncomfortable, he added: "I am just about to take tea; pray come and have some with me." A little stiff perhaps, but he meant it kindly. And what would you do, if an uninvited dwarf came and hung his things up in your hall without a word of explanation? They had not been at table long, in fact they had hardly reached the third cake, when there came another even louder ring at the bell. "Excuse me!" said the hobbit, and off he went to the door. "So you have got here at last!" was what he was going to say to Gandalf this time. But it was not Gandalf. Instead there was a very old-looking dwarf on the step with a white beard and a scarlet hood; and he too hopped inside as soon as the door was open, just as if he had been invited. "I see they have begun to arrive already," he said when he caught sight of Dwalin's green hood hanging up. He hung his red one next to it, and "Balin at your service!" he said with his hand on his breast. "Thank you!" said Bilbo with a gasp. It was not the correct thing to say, but they have begun to arrive had flustered him badly. He liked visitors, but he liked to know them before they arrived, and he preferred to ask them himself. He had a horrible thought that the cakes might run short, and then he-as the host: he knew his duty and stuck to it however painful-he might have to go without. "Come along in, and have some tea!" he managed to say after taking a deep breath. "A little beer would suit me better, if it is all the same to you, my good sir," said Balin with the white beard. "But I don't mind some cake-seed-cake, if you have any." "Lots!" Bilbo found himself answering, to his own surprise; and he found himself scuttling off, too, to the cellar to fill a pint beer-mug, and to the pantry to fetch two beautiful round seed-cakes which he had baked that afternoon for his after-supper morsel. When he got back Balin and Dwalin were talking at the table like old friends (as a matter of fact they were brothers). Bilbo plumped down the beer and the cake in front of them, when loud came a ring at the bell again, and then another ring. "Gandalf for certain this time," he thought as he puffed along the passage. But it was not. It was two more dwarves, both with blue hoods, silver belts, and yellow beards; and each of them carried a bag of tools and a spade. In they hopped, as soon as the door began to open-Bilbo was hardly surprised at all. "What can I do for you, my dwarves?" he said. "Kili at your service!" said the one. "And Fili!" added the other; and they both swept off their blue hoods and bowed. "At yours and your family's!" replied Bilbo, remembering his manners this time. "Dwalin and Balin here already, I see," said Kili. "Let us join the throng!" "Throng!" thought Mr. Baggins. "I don't like the sound of that. I really must sit down for a minute and collect my wits, and have a drink." He had only just had a sip-in the corner, while the four dwarves sat around the table, and talked about mines and gold and troubles with the goblins, and the depredations of dragons, and lots of other things which he did not understand, and did not want to, for they sounded much too adventurous-when, ding-dong-a-ling-' dang, his bell rang again, as if some naughty little hobbit-boy was trying to pull the handle off. "Someone at the door!" he said, blinking. "Some four, I should say by the sound," said Fili. "Be-sides, we saw them coming along behind us in the distance." The poor little hobbit sat down in the hall and put his head in his hands, and wondered what had happened, and what was going to happen, and whether they would all stay to supper. Then the bell rang again louder than ever, and he had to run to the door. It was not four after all, it was FIVE. Another dwarf had come along while he was wondering in the hall. He had hardly turned the knob, be-x)re they were all inside, bowing and saying "at your service" one after another. Dori, Nori, Ori, Oin, and Gloin were their names; and very soon two purple hoods, a grey hood, a brown hood, and a white hood were hanging on the pegs, and off they marched with their broad hands stuck in their gold and silver belts to join the others. Already it had almost become a throng. Some called for ale, and some for porter, and one for coffee, and all of them for cakes; so the hobbit was kept very busy for a while. A big jug of coffee bad just been set in the hearth, the seed-cakes were gone, and the dwarves were starting on a round of buttered scones, when there came-a loud knock. Not a ring, but a hard rat-tat on the hobbit's beautiful green door. Somebody was banging with a stick! Bilbo rushed along the passage, very angry, and altogether bewildered and bewuthered-this was the most awkward Wednesday he ever remembered. He pulled open the door with a jerk, and they all fell in, one on top of the other. More dwarves, four more! And there was Gandalf behind, leaning on his staff and laughing. He had made quite a dent on the beautiful door; he had also, by the way, knocked out the secret mark that he had put there the morning before. "Carefully! Carefully!" he said. "It is not like you, Bilbo, to keep friends waiting on the mat, and then open the door like a pop-gun! Let me introduce Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, and especially Thorin!" "At your service!" said Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur standing in a row. Then they hung up two yellow hoods and a pale green one; and also a sky-blue one with a long silver tassel. This last belonged to Thorin, an enormously important dwarf, in fact no other than the great Thorin Oakenshield himself, who was not at all pleased at falling flat on Bilbo's mat with Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur on top of him. For one thing Bombur was immensely fat and heavy. Thorin indeed was very haughty, and said nothing about service; but poor Mr. Baggins said he was sorry so many times, that at last he grunted "pray don't mention it," and stopped frowning. "Now we are all here!" said Gandalf, looking at the row of thirteen hoods-the best detachable party hoods-and his own hat hanging on the pegs. "Quite a merry gathering! I hope there is something left for the late-comers to eat and drink! What's that? Tea! No thank you! A little red wine, I think, for me." "And for me," said Thorin. "And raspberry jam and apple-tart," said Bifur. "And mince-pies and cheese," said Bofur. "And pork-pie and salad," said Bombur. "And more cakes-and ale-and coffee, if you don't mind," called the other dwarves through the door. "Put on a few eggs, there's a good fellow!" Gandalf called after him, as the hobbit stumped off to the pantries. "And just bring out the cold chicken and pickles!" "Seems to know as much about the inside of my larders as I do myself!" thought Mr. Baggins, who was feeling positively flummoxed, and was beginning to wonder whether a most wretched adventure had not come right into his house. By the time he had got all the bottles and dishes and knives and forks and glasses and plates and spoons and things piled up on big trays, he was getting very hot, and red in the face, and annoyed. "Confusticate and bebother these dwarves!" he said aloud. "Why don't they come and lend a hand?" Lo and behold! there stood Balin and Dwalin at the door of the kitchen, and Fili and Kili behind them, and before he could say knife they had whisked the trays and a couple of small tables into the parlour and set out everything afresh. Gandalf sat at the head of the party with the thirteen, dwarves all round: and Bilbo sat on a stool at the fireside, nibbling at a biscuit (his appetite was quite taken away), and trying to look as if this was all perfectly ordinary and. not in the least an adventure. The dwarves ate and ate, and talked and talked, and time got on. At last they pushed their chairs back, and Bilbo made a move to collect the plates and glasses. "I suppose you will all stay to supper?" he said in his politest unpressing tones. "Of course!" said Thorin. "And after. We shan't get through the business till late, and we must have some music first. Now to clear up!" Thereupon the twelve dwarves-not Thorin, he was too important, and stayed talking to Gandalf-jumped to their feet and made tall piles of all the things. Off they went, not waiting for trays, balancing columns of plates, each with a bottle on the top, with one hand, while the hobbit ran after them almost squeaking with fright: "please be careful!" and "please, don't trouble! I can manage." But the dwarves only started to sing: "Chip the glasses and crack the plates! Blunt the knives and bend the forks! That's what Bilbo Baggins hates- Smash the bottles and burn the corks! Cut the cloth and tread on the fat! Pour the milk on the pantry floor! Leave the bones on the bedroom mat! Splash the wine on every door! Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl; Pound them up with a thumping pole; And when you've finished, if any are whole, Send them down the hall to roll! That's what Bilbo Baggins hates! So, carefully! carefully with the plates!" And of course they did none of these dreadful things, and everything was cleaned and put away safe as quick as lightning, while the hobbit was turning round and round in the middle of the kitchen trying to see what they were doing. Then they went back, and found Thorin with his feet on the fender smoking a pipe. He was blowing the most enormous smoke-rings, and wherever he told one to go, it went-up the chimney, or behind the clock on the man-telpiece, or under the table, or round and round the ceiling; but wherever it went it was not quick enough to escape Gandalf. Pop! he sent a smaller smoke-ring from his short clay-pipe straight through each one of Thorin's. The Gandalf's smoke-ring would go green and come back to hover over the wizard's head. He had quite a cloud of them about him already, and in the dim light it made him look strange and sorcerous. Bilbo stood still and watched-he loved smoke-rings-and then be blushed to think how proud he had been yesterday morning of the smoke-rings he had sent up the wind over The Hill. "Now for some music!" said Thorin. "Bring out the instruments!" Kili and Fili rushed for their bags and brought back little fiddles; Dori, Nori, and Ori brought out flutes from somewhere inside their coats; Bombur produced a drum from the hall; Bifur and Bofur went out too, and came back with clarinets that they had left among the walking-sticks Dwalin and Balin said: "Excuse me, I left mine in the porch!" "Just bring mine in with you," said Thorin. They came back with viols as big as themselves, and with Thorin's harp wrapped in a green cloth. It was a beautiful gold-en harp, and when Thorin struck it the music began all at once, so sudden and sweet that Bilbo forgot everything else, and was swept away into dark lands under strange moons, far over The Water and very far from his hobbit-hole under The Hill. The dark came into the room from the little window that opened in the side of The Hill; the firelight flickered-it was April-and still they played on, while the shadow of Gandalf's beard wagged against the wall. The dark filled all the room, and the fire died down, and the shadows were lost, and still they played on. And suddenly first one and then another began to sing as they played, deep-throated singing of the dwarves in the deep places of their ancient homes; and this is like a fragment of their song, if it can be like their song without their music. "Far over the misty mountains cold To dungeons deep and caverns old We must away ere break of day To seek the pale enchanted gold. The dwarves of yore made mighty spells, While hammers fell like ringing bells In places deep, where dark things sleep, In hollow halls beneath the fells. For ancient king and elvish lord There many a gloaming golden hoard They shaped and wrought, and light they caught To hide in gems on hilt of sword. On silver necklaces they strung The flowering stars, on crowns they hung The dragon-fire, in twisted wire They meshed the light of moon and sun. Far over the misty mountains cold To dungeons deep and caverns old We must away, ere break of day, To claim our long-forgotten gold. Goblets they carved there for themselves And harps of gold; where no man delves There lay they long, and many a song Was sung unheard by men or elves. The pines were roaring on the height, The winds were moaning in the night. The fire was red, it flaming spread; The trees like torches biased with light, The bells were ringing in the dale And men looked up with faces pale; The dragon's ire more fierce than fire Laid low their towers and houses frail. The mountain smoked beneath the moon; The dwarves, they heard the tramp of doom. They fled their hall to dying fall Beneath his feet, beneath the moon. Far over the misty mountains grim To dungeons deep and caverns dim We must away, ere break of day, To win our harps and gold from him!" As they sang the hobbit felt the love of beautiful things made by hands and by cunning and by magic moving through him, a fierce and jealous love, the desire of the hearts of dwarves. Then something Tookish woke up inside him, and he wished to go and see the great mountains, and hear the pine-trees and the waterfalls, and explore the caves, and wear a sword instead of a walking-stick. He looked out of the window. The stars were out in a dark sky above the trees. He thought of the jewels of the dwarves shining in dark caverns. Suddenly in the wood beyond The Water a flame leapt up - probably somebody lighting a wood-fire-and he thought of plundering dragons settling on his quiet Hill and kindling it all to flames. He shuddered; and very quickly he was plain Mr. Baggins of Bag-End, Under-Hill, again. He got up trembling. He had less than half a mind to fetch the lamp, and more than half a mind to pretend to, and go and hide behind the beer barrels in the cellar, and not come out again until all the dwarves had gone away. Suddenly he found that the music and the singing had stopped, and they were all looking at him with eyes shining in the dark. "Where are you going?" said Thorin, in a tone that seemed to show that he guessed both halves of the hobbit's mind. "What about a little light?" said Bilbo apologetically. "We like the dark," said the dwarves. "Dark for dark business! There are many hours before dawn." "Of course!" said Bilbo, and sat down in a hurry. He missed the stool and sat in the fender, knocking over the poker and shovel with a crash. "Hush!" said Gandalf. "Let Thorin speak!" And this is bow Thorin began. "Gandalf, dwarves and Mr. Baggins! We are not together in the house of our friend and fellow conspirator, this most excellent and audacious hobbit-may the hair on his toes never fall out! all praise to his wine and ale!-" He paused for breath and for a polite remark from the hob-bit, but the compliments were quite lost on-poor Bilbo Baggins, who was wagging his mouth in protest at being called audacious and worst of all fellow conspirator, though no noise came out, he was so flummoxed. So Thorin went on: "We are met to discuss our plans, our ways, means, policy and devices. We shall soon before the break of day start on our long journey, a journey from which some of us, or perhaps all of us (except our friend and counsellor, the ingenious wizard Gandalf) may never return. It is a solemn moment. Our object is, I take it, well known to us all. To the estimable Mr. Baggins, and perhaps to one or two of the younger dwarves (I think I should be right in naming Kili and Fili, for instance), the exact situation at the moment may require a little brief explanation-" This was Thorin's style. He was an important dwarf. If he had been allowed, he would probably have gone on like this until he was out of breath, without telling any one there 'anything that was not known already. But he was rudely interrupted. Poor Bilbo couldn't bear it any longer. At may never return he began to feel a shriek coming up inside, and very soon it burst out like the whistle of an engine coming out of a tunnel. All the dwarves sprang Bp knocking over the table. Gandalf struck a blue light on the end of his magic staff, and in its firework glare the poor little hobbit could be seen kneeling on the hearth-rug, shaking like a jelly that was melting. Then he fell flat on the floor, and kept on calling out "struck by lightning, struck by lightning!" over and over again; and that was all they could get out of him for a long time. So they took him and laid him out of the way on the drawing-room sofa with a drink at his elbow, and they went back to their dark business. "Excitable little fellow," said Gandalf, as they sat down again. "Gets funny queer fits, but he is one of the best, one of the best-as fierce as a dragon in a pinch." If you have ever seen a dragon in a pinch, you will realise that this was only poetical exaggeration applied to any hobbit, even to Old Took's great-granduncle Bullroarer, who was so huge (for a hobbit) that he could ride a horse. He charged the ranks of the goblins of Mount Gram in the Battle of the Green Fields, and knocked their king Gol-firnbul's head clean off with a wooden club. It sailed a hundred yards through the air and went down a rabbit hole, and in this way the battle was won and the game of Golf invented at the same moment. In the meanwhile, however, Bullroarer's gentler descendant was reviving in the drawing-room. After a while and a drink he crept nervously to the door of the parlour. This is what he heard, Gloin speaking: "Humph!" (or some snort more or less like that). "Will he do, do you think? It is all very well for Gandalf to talk about this hobbit being fierce, but one shriek like that in a moment of excitement would be enough to wake the dragon and all his relatives, and kill the lot of us. I think it sounded more like fright than excitement! In fact, if it bad not been for the sign on the door, I should have been sure we had come to the wrong house. As soon as I clapped eyes on the little fellow bobbing and puffing on the mat, I had my doubts. He looks more like a grocer-than a burglar!" Then Mr. Baggins turned the handle and went in. The Took side had won. He suddenly felt he would go without bed and breakfast to be thought fierce. As for little fellow bobbing on the mat it almost made him really fierce. Many a time afterwards the Baggins part regretted what he did now, and he said to himself: "Bilbo, you were a fool; you walked right in and put your foot in it." "Pardon me," he said, "if I have overheard words that you were saying. I don't pretend to understand what you are talking about, or your reference to burglars, but I think I am right in believing" (this is what he called being on his dignity) "that you think I am no good. I will show you. I have no signs on my door-it was painted a week ago-, and I am quite sure you have come to the wrong house. As soon as I saw your funny faces on the door-step, I had my doubts. But treat it as the right one. Tell me what you want done, and I will try it, if I have to walk from here to the East of East and fight the wild Were-worms in the Last Desert. I bad a great-great-great-granduncle once, Bullroarer Took, and -" "Yes, yes, but that was long ago," said Gloin. "I was talking about you. And I assure you there is a mark on this door-the usual one in the trade, or used to be. Burglar wants a good job, plenty of Excitement and reasonable Reward, that's how it is usually read. You ^an say Expert Treasure-hunter instead of Burglar if you like. Some of them do. It's all the same to us. Gandalf told us that there was a man of the sort in these parts looking for a Job at once, and that he had arranged for a meeting here this Wednesday tea-time." "Of course there is a mark," said Gandalf. "I put it there myself. For very good reasons. You asked me to find the fourteenth man for your expedition, and I chose Mr. Baggins. Just let any one say I chose the wrong man or the wrong house, and you can stop at thirteen and have all the bad luck you like, or go back to digging coal." He scowled so angrily at Gloin that the dwarf huddled back in his chair; and when Bilbo tried to open his mouth to ask a question, he turned and frowned at him and stuck oat his bushy eyebrows, till Bilbo shut his mouth tight with a snap. "That's right," said Gandalf. "Let's have no more argument. I have chosen Mr. Baggins and that ought to !6te enough for all of you. If I say he is a Burglar, a Burglar he is, or will be when the time comes. There is a lot more in him than you guess, and a deal more than he has any idea of himself. You may (possibly) all live to thank me yet. Now Bilbo, my boy, fetch the lamp, and let's have little light on this!" On the table in the light of a big lamp with a red shad he spread a piece of parchment rather like a map. "This was made by Thror, your grandfather, Thorin, he said in answer to the dwarves' excited questions. "It is a plan of the Mountain." "I don't see that this will help us much," said Thorin disappointedly after a glance. "I remember the Mountain well enough and the lands about it. And I know where Mirkwood is, and the Withered Heath where the great dragons bred." "There is a dragon marked in red on the Mountain, said Balin, "but it will be easy enough to find him without that, if ever we arrive there." "There is one point that you haven't noticed," said the wizard, "and that is the secret entrance. You see that rune on the West side, and the hand pointing to it from the other runes? That marks a hidden passage to the Lower Halls. "It may have been secret once," said Thorin, "but how do we know that it is secret any longer? Old Smaug had lived there long enough now to find out anything there is to know about those caves." "He may-but he can't have used it for years and years. "Why?" "Because it is too small. 'Five feet high the door and three may walk abreast' say the runes, but Smaug could not creep into a hole that size, not even when he was a young dragon, certainly not after devouring so many of the dwarves and men of Dale." "It seems a great big hole to me," squeaked Bilbo (who had no experience of dragons and only of hobbit-holes) He was getting excited and interested again, so that he forgot to keep his mouth shut. He loved maps, and in his hall there hung a large one of the Country Round with all his favourite walks marked on it in red ink. "How could such a large door be kept secret from everybody outside, apart from the dragon?" he asked. He was only a little hobbit you must remember. "In lots of ways," said Gandalf. "But in what way this one has been hidden we don't know without going to see. From what it says on the map I should guess there is a closed door which has been made to look exactly like the side of the Mountain. That is the usual dwarves' method - I think that is right, isn't it?" "Quite right," said Thorin. "Also," went on Gandalf, "I forgot to mention that with the map went a key, a small and curious key. Here it is!" he said, and handed to Thorin a key with a long barrel and intricate wards, made of silver. "Keep it safe!" "Indeed I will," said Thorin, and he fastened it upon a fine chain that hung about his neck and under his jacket. "Now things begin to look more hopeful. This news alters them much for-the better. So far we have had no clear idea what to do. We thought of going East, as quiet and careful as we could, as far as the Long Lake. After that the trouble would begin." "A long time before that, if I know anything about the loads East," interrupted Gandalf. "We might go from there up along the River Running," went on Thorin taking no notice, "and so to the ruins of Dale-the old town in the valley there, under the shadow of the Mountain. But we none of us liked the idea of the Front Gate. The river runs right out of it through the great cliff at the South of the Mountain, and out of it comes the dragon too-far too often, unless he has changed." "That would be no good," said the wizard, "not without a mighty Warrior, even a Hero. I tried to find one; but warriors are busy fighting one another in distant lands, and in this neighbourhood heroes are scarce, or simply lot to be found. Swords in these parts are mostly blunt, and axes are used for trees, and shields as cradles or dish-covers; and dragons are comfortably far-off (and therefore legendary). That is why I settled on burglary-especially when I remembered the existence of a Side-door. And here is our little Bilbo Baggins, the burglar, the chosen and selected burglar. So now let's get on and make some plans." "Very well then," said Thorin, "supposing the burglar-expert gives us some ideas or suggestions." He turned with mock-politeness to Bilbo. "First I should like to know a bit more about things," said he, feeling all confused and a bit shaky inside, but so far still lookishly determined to go on with things. "I mean about the gold and the dragon, and all that, and how it got there, and who it belongs to, and so on and further." "Bless me!" said Thorin, "haven't you got a map? and didn't you hear our song? and haven't we been talking about all this for hours?" "All the same, I should like it all plain and clear," said he obstinately, putting on his business manner (usually reserved for people who tried to borrow money off him), and doing his best to appear wise and prudent and professional and live up to Gandalf's recommendation. "Also I should like to know about risks, out-of-pocket expenses, time required and remuneration, and so forth"-by which he meant: "What am I going to get out of it? and am I going to come back alive?" "O very well," said Thorin. "Long ago in my grandfather Thror's time our family was driven out of the far North, and came back with all their wealth and their tools to this Mountain on the map. It had been discovered by my far ancestor, Thrain the Old, but now they mined and they tunnelled and they made huger halls and greater workshops -and in addition I believe they found a good deal of gold and a great many jewels too. Anyway they grew immensely rich and famous, and my grandfather was King under the Mountain again and treated with great reverence by the mortal men, who lived to the South, and were gradually spreading up the Running River as far as the valley overshadowed by the Mountain. They built the merry town of Dale there in those days. Kings used to send for our smiths, and reward even the least skilful most richly. Fathers would beg us to take their sons as apprentices, and pay us handsomely, especially in food-supplies, which we never bothered to grow or find for ourselves. Altogether those were good days for us, and the poorest of us had money to spend and to lend, and leisure to make beautiful things just for the. fun of it, not to speak of the most marvellous and magical toys, the like of which is not to be found in the world now-a-days. So my grandfather's halls became full of armour and jewels and carvings and cups, and the toy-market of Dale was the wonder of the North. "Undoubtedly that was what brought the dragon. Dragons steal gold and jewels, you know, from men and elves and dwarves, wherever they can find them; and they guard their plunder as long as they live (which is practically forever, unless they are killed), and never enjoy a brass ring of it. Indeed they hardly know a good bit of work from a bad, though they usually have a good notion of the current market value; and they can't make a thing for themselves, not even mend a little loose scale of their armour. There were lots of dragons in the North in those days, and gold was probably getting scarce up there, with the dwarves flying south or getting killed, and all the general waste and destruction that dragons make going from bad to worse. There was a most specially greedy, strong and wicked worm called Smaug. One day he flew up into the air and came south. The first we heard of it was a noise like a hurricane coming from the North, and the pine-trees on the Mountain creaking and cracking in the wind. Some of the dwarves who happened to be outside (I was one luckily -a fine adventurous lad in those days, always wandering about, and it saved my life that day)-well, from a good way off we saw the dragon settle on our mountain in a spout of flame. Then he came down the slopes and when he reached the woods they all went up in fire. By that time all the bells were ringing in Dale and the warriors were arming. The dwarves rushed out of their great gate; but there was the dragon waiting for them. None escaped that way. The river rushed up in steam and a fog fell on Dale, and in the fog the dragon came on them and destroyed most of the warriors-the usual unhappy story, it was only too common in those days. Then he went back and crept in through the Front Gate and routed out all the halls, and lanes, and tunnels, alleys, cellars, mansions and passages. After that there were no dwarves left alive inside, and he took all their wealth for himself. Probably, for that is the dragons' way, he has piled it all up in a great heap far inside, and sleeps on it for a bed. Later he used to crawl out of the great gate and come by night to Dale, and carry away people, especially maidens, to eat, until Dale was ruined, and all the people dead or gone. What goes on there now I don't know for certain, but I don't suppose anyone lives nearer to the Mountain than the far edge of the Long Lake now-a-days. "The few of us that were well outside sat and wept in hiding, and cursed Smaug; and there we were unexpectedly joined by my father and my grandfather with singed beards. They looked very grim but they said very little. When I asked how they had got away, they told me to hold my tongue, and said that one day in the proper time I should know. After that we went away, and we have had to earn our livings as best we could up and down the lands, often enough sinking as low as blacksmith-work or even coalmining. But we have never forgotten our stolen treasure. And even now, when I will allow we have a good bit laid by and are not so badly off"-here Thorin stroked the gold chain round his neck-"we still mean to get it back, and to bring our curses home to Smaug-if we can. "I have often wondered about my father's and my grandfather's escape. I see now they must have had a private Side-door which only they knew about. But apparently they made a map, and I should like to know how Gandalf got hold of it, and why it did not come down to me, the rightful heir." "I did not 'get hold of it,' I was given it," said the wizard. "Your grandfather Thror was killed, you remember, in the mines of Moria by Azog the Goblin -" "Curse his name, yes," said Thorin. "And Thrain your father went away on the twenty-first of April, a hundred years ago last Thursday, and has never been seen by you since-" "True, true," said Thorin. "Well, your father gave me this to give to you; and if I have chosen my own time and way of handing it over, you can hardly blame me, considering the trouble I had to find you. Your father could not remember his own name when he gave me the paper, and he never told me yours; so on the whole I think I ought to be praised and thanked. Here it is," said he handing the map to Thorin. "I don't understand," said Thorin, and Bilbo felt he would have liked to say the same. The explanation did not seem to explain. "Your grandfather," said the wizard slowly and grimly, "gave the map to his son for safety before he went to the mines of Moria. Your father went away to try his luck with the map after your grandfather was killed; and lots of adventures of a most unpleasant sort he had, but he never got near the Mountain. How he got there I don't know, but I found him a prisoner in the dungeons of the Necromancer." "Whatever were you doing there?" asked Thorin with a shudder, and all the dwarves shivered. "Never you mind. I was finding things out, as usual; and a nasty dangerous business it was. Even I, Gandalf, only just escaped. I tried to save your father, but it was too late. He was witless and wandering, and had forgotten almost everything except the map and the key." "We have long ago paid the goblins of Moria," said Thorin; "we must give a thought to the Necromancer." "Don't be absurd! He is an enemy quite beyond the powers of all the dwarves put together, if they could all be collected again from the four corners of the world. The one thing your father wished was for his son to read the map and use the key. The dragon and the Mountain are more than big enough tasks for you!" "Hear, hear!" said Bilbo, and accidentally said it aloud, "Hear what?" they all said turning suddenly towards him, and he was so flustered that he answered "Hear what I have got to say!" "What's that?" they asked. "Well, I should say that you ought to go East and have a look round. After all there is the Side-door, and dragons must sleep sometimes, I suppose. If you sit on the doorstep long enough, I daresay you will think of something. And well, don't you know, I think we have talked long enough for one night, if you see what I mean. What about bed, and an early start, and all that? I will give you a good breakfast before you go." "Before we go, I suppose you mean," said Thorin. "Aren't you the burglar? And isn't sitting on the door-step your job, not to speak of getting inside the door? But I agree about bed and breakfast. I like eggs with my ham, when starting on a journey: fried not poached, and mind you don't break 'em." After all the others had ordered their breakfasts without so much as a please (which annoyed Bilbo very much), they all got up. The hobbit had to find room for them all, and filled all his spare-rooms and made beds on chairs and sofas, before he got them all stowed and went to his own little bed very tired and not altogether happy. One thing he did make his mind up about was not to bother to get up very early and cook everybody else's wretched breakfast. The Tookishness was wearing off, and he was not now quite so sure that he was going on any journey in the morning. As he lay in bed he could hear Thorin still humming to himself in the best bedroom next to him: "Far over the misty mountains cold To dungeons deep and caverns old We must away, ere break of day, To find our long-forgotten gold." Bilbo went to sleep with that in his ears, and it gave him very uncomfortable dreams. It was long after the break of day, when he woke up.