Master Frodo Baggins lay on his back in the grass beside what his father would call a “perfectly serviceable” bench set in the shade of a tree. His linen shirt was stained green at the elbows where he had propped himself up, one of his braces had fallen from his shoulder, and he had worried a hole in the seam of his trousers just at the knee. It was not a very big hole, and as it was certain to go unnoticed until he made it bigger, it did not trouble him.
A book lay on his chest, the red leather covers carefully closed so as not to damage the spine, his place held by a leaf plucked from the obliging tree. It was a good book, filled with grand stories of fierce and tragic Elves, wicked Dragons, and brave Men, but he did not want to read just now. Just now, he had much rather be a bird winging across the bright sky, or a fox trotting through a field of purple clover while honeybees buzzed ’round, or a fish swimming deep in the sea, watching an Elven ship glide overhead.