Fog on the Barrow-Downs

           Thatnighttheyheardnonoises.Buteitherinhisdreamsoroutofthem,hecouldnottellwhich,Frodoheardasweetsingingrunninginhismind:asongthatseemedtocomelikeapalelightbehindagreyrain-curtain,andgrowingstrongertoturntheveilalltoglassandsilver,untilatlastitwasrolledback,andafargreencountryopenedbeforehimunderaswiftsunrise.

           Thevisionmeltedintowaking;andtherewasTomwhistlinglikeatree-fullofbirds;andthesunwasalreadyslantingdownthehillandthroughtheopenwindow.Outsideeverythingwasgreenandpalegold.

           Afterbreakfast,whichtheyagainatealone,theymadereadytosayfarewell,asnearlyheavyofheartaswaspossibleonsuchamorning:cool,bright,andcleanunderawashedautumnskyofthinblue.TheaircamefreshfromtheNorthwest.Theirquietponieswerealmostfrisky,sniffingandmovingrestlessly.Tomcameoutofthehouseandwavedhishatanddanceduponthedoorstep,biddingthehobbitstogetupandbeoffandgowithgoodspeed.

           Theyrodeoffalongapaththatwoundawayfrombehindthehouse,andwentslantinguptowardsthenorthendofthehill-browunderwhichitsheltered.Theyhadjustdismountedtoleadtheirponiesupthelaststeepslope,whensuddenlyFrodostopped.

           ‘Goldberry!’hecried.‘Myfairlady,cladallinsilvergreen!Wehaveneversaidfarewelltoher,norseenhersincetheevening!’Hewassodistressedthatheturnedback;butatthatmomentaclearcallcameripplingdown.