Little Things

LITTLE THINGS: Foolish Heart

by Janet Elizabeth

My Dear Radgast,


I am writing to you with a dilemma and I know you will be discreet. I fear there is something
quite wrong with me. I have found myself with a foolish little crush on a creature that I have no
business with. His name is Peregrin Took and he's a hobbit, of which I'm sure you've heard.


They are a curiously marvelous race of people with rich customs and nothing more violent in
their backgrounds than killing a few wolves. These days, they mostly murder mushrooms and
copious, hobbit-sized pints of ale, and of course the delightful vice of pipeweed. And this little
hobbit is no different, though perhaps a bit younger than most. He is well off his majority and
even were I to ignore the customs of his people, he would still be a flibbertigibbet of a creature.

He is not a practical hobbit. Nor is very mature. He still laughs and frolics like a youth of ten
summers, though he can put as much ale away as any of the human or dwarfish race. He eats
constantly and inelegantly. He knows little outside his own head and he thinks we are on a great
adventure. But, he is sweet and fair to look upon. His curls are golden in the sunlight. His eyes
a bright and curious green. When he smiles or laughs it's as if the sun has come from behind a
bank of clouds andhas has the most curious spray of freckles across his nose. His form is small,
the smallest hobbit of the same age I have ever seen, almost delicate like an elven lass. I find
myself fascinated with his hands and neck. I have to fight myself at odd moments not to clasp
his hands in mine own and cover them with kisses. At night, I must be ever vigilant for fear that
I will lay down beside him, too close and bury my wooly face in his tender curls. I adore him
and yet I curse the day I ever set eyes upon him.


I first saw him when I was visiting old Bilbo Baggins and at that time he was but a mere child
toddling about. And then, in later years as I began my friendship with young Frodo, Pippin, as
his friends and relations call him, had begun to grow up. He was a mere tweenager the last I saw
him before now and he is a tweenager yet. His face still looks as if his mother washes it for him
and he rabbits about like he had ants in his pants. There are times when I want to turn him over
my knee and spank him soundly. Though the darker side of that thought is that both he and I
might enjoy that a bit too much.


So, as I sit here, writing this desperate letter to you in the dark beside our camp in Hollin, I can
see his small form curled beneath his blankets near his cousin Meriadoc. And yet, as I watch, he
stirs, as if he can sense me looking. He is rising and padding towards me. He is near -


My apologies, old friend. My precious youngster has asked me to walk him to a place of
privacy. He says he needs to relieve himself and I fear for my own mind. To know that he is
exposed as he has been so many times before, but never alone, never with me. I must set iron in
my soul to remain strong and not reach out to touch him. Oh my poor foolish heart. I must go.


Yours, Gandalf the Grey