Chapter one - The Hobbit.
In a hole in a ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozey 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.
The open log fire was crackling with warmth as it dimly lit up the room. Bilbo sat in his comfortable arm chair and put his feet up on the coushin stool. At last it was time for him to sit back and relax. He admired the ornaments on the heath that he and the Tookish side of the family had gathered over the years. His small chest of treasure sparkled in the dim light. The adventure was over, and Bilbo only had left to write about it.
The short hobbit, (who was now a lot stronger that when this all began) slowly rose from his chair to make a pot of tea. As he bustled about the kitchen he once more heard the sweet sound of his kettle whistling. Oh how he missed that sound. He took it off the stove and poured the steaming water into the antique china pot. He went back to the lounge and slid into his writing chair. He pondered for a while over how he should start his tale. He could hear only the ticking of the grandfather clock and the crackle and pop of the fire. His chair creaked as he shifted his position, dipped his feather quill into his black ink and began to write.
