Turlo Droppot, master of the scrivener shop in Michel Delving, received the parcel Frodo handed him and carefully unwrapped it to examine the slender, leather-bound volume of poems and nursery stories within. "Yes, we can certainly make as many copies of this as you like, Mr. Baggins." Mr. Droppot spoke in a broad country accent, but he chose his words with particular care when speaking to well-educated gentlehobbits, such as his present customer. He was tall and more thin than most hobbits in their middle years, and nearsighted. There were permanent bluish-gray ink-stains on his fingers, and one or two fresher inkspots on his waistcoat. "It isn't your own work, is it, sir?" he asked as he held the open book close to his face. "This ink looks very old, and the handwriting's not like yours at all. Is it another of old Mr. Bilbo's books?"

"No," Frodo answered. "It was written by my mother, Primula Baggins. She used to read these poems to me when I was a child. I discovered this old book at Brandy Hall when I was visiting my family there last summer." Mr. Droppot bowed to Frodo's Brandybuck relations. "You must take good care of the original while it's in your possession. Will fifty copies be too many?"

Mr. Droppot's eyes went wide. "That's a lot of copies, Mr. Baggins."

"I have a lot of children I'd like to give them to. In addition to the Gamgee children, there are my nieces and nephews: Mrs. Whitfoot's children, the Burrows's younger children--I'm certain the older boys won't be interested in nursery rhymes--Eudo and Eudora Burbage, Fatty and Flora Bolgers' little girls, Pearl and Reg Took's four sons and Ferdi and Peri's daughter, my cousin Celie Brandybuck's children, my cousin Melly Took's little boy, Diamond and Isigo Pumble-Took's new baby, and some of my more distant connections in the Southfarthing."

Mr. Droppot's head bobbed down to show his respect as Frodo spoke each name, for the Shire's finest families were among them. He'd never seen any of these hobbits, except for Angelica Whitfoot and Milo Burrows, but Frodo's continued patronage of his shop made him feel closer to the highest social circles.

"The remainder," Frodo concluded, "I would like to put out to be sold to the Shire at large." The scrivener's shop had shelves at the front particularly for this purpose, along with writing paper, blank notebooks, inkpots, and bundles of writing quills. Frodo had already sold copies of Bilbo's poems translated from the Elvish, as well as one or two short accounts of his cases. "I hope it won't be too arduous a job for your scribes, Mr. Droppot."

"It won't be hard on us at all, Mr. Baggins! I daresay my scribes'll like copying out a bit of children's poetry for a change. They always like working on whatever you bring in. What we mostly do is write out Mayor Whitfoot's proclamations when he's got something for the whole Shire to know about. That's a hundred copies or more! Now that's boring work. Once we put Mrs. Baggins's poems on our shelves, the folk here in Michel Delving will be happy to buy it. Though I hear some say, Mr. Baggins," Mr. Droppot tentatively suggested, "that they wish you'd write more about your investigating. Tales about Elves and things that happened long ago are very interesting, to be sure, but hobbits like reading about the Shire, and they like hearing about mysteries getting solved. You might tell them how you caught a murderer like that awful Mr. Stillwaters, or the Strangler near Hobbiton, or the one we've been hearing so much about lately, the Bog-monster. You'd sell a great many copies of a story like that! Folk all over the Shire are interested."

"I'll consider it," Frodo answered. While Mr. Droppot had deliberately chosen investigations that didn't involve members of the Took or Brandybuck families, he couldn't know that these three cases were just as personally painful for Frodo.

"I think we can do you proud on this job, Mr. Baggins." The scribe returned his attention to the business at hand. "Same size as the original, in a nice calfskin or kid cover? Perhaps you'd like to write a bit about Mrs. Baggins and how she read these to you, to go up in the front? That'd be nice for your readers. And will you be wanting pictures to go with your mother's poems?"

"Why... yes, please," Frodo agreed. "Mother drew her own illustrations. Can they be copied?"

"Certainly! Ink drawings or colored in?"

"The originals are ink, but I think I'd prefer colors. They'll look more cheerful. Is color very expensive?"

"Well, sir, paint always costs more than plain black ink, but a large run of copies with color pictures won't cost much more'n a small one. Mr. Prattley has to mix up the paints in the same pots either way. Mr. Prattley's our best artist. I'll introduce you, and you can talk with him about the pictures to decide what suits best." Carefully holding the book of poems between both hands, Mr. Droppot invited Frodo to accompany him into the scribes' workroom at the back of the shop to make this introduction and discuss other details necessary to begin the work.

Frodo had been in the scribes' workroom before. It could be a busy place when all the scribes were working at once, as they might be for one of the Mayor's proclamations. Today, there were only three people seated at the slanted desks set beneath large windows for the best light. One was a tubby, middle-aged hobbit who smiled as he wrote, and smiled more broadly when he looked up from his work and saw Frodo. Another was an older grey-curled hobbit who leaned close over the table to peer at his work. Frodo remembered these two from his previous visits; they had made copies of Bilbo's poems and his true account of the tragic death of Lady Aredhel. Like their employer, both had spots of ink on their shirt cuffs and stains on their fingers--problems Frodo often encountered himself during long writing sessions. The third scribe was a young lad whom Frodo hadn't seen before. The youth seemed less occupied with the task on the desk before him than the older scribes; he wasn't writing, but sat dabbling his quill in the inkpot on his table while he gazed up out of the window at the bright blue spring sky.

In a nook at the back of the room stood a fourth hobbit, another middle-aged male. The stains on his shirt-front and fingers were more colorful than the writing hobbits', for he was working with a mortar and pestle, grinding some greenish substance into powder. This, Frodo guessed, must be Mr. Prattley. Mr. Droppot introduced the two, then left them to discuss illustrations while he told his scribes about the upcoming work. All three were soon smiling at the announcement.

While Frodo sat with Mr. Prattley, a young woman entered the workroom from the binding room beyond. She was Mr. Droppot's niece Jewel, who had come into his care when she was a little girl. She lived with her uncle in a smial behind the shop and ran errands for him, such as delivering completed orders. Frodo thought that she was about to embark on a delivery, for she carried a willow-bark basket containing a number of flat, square, parcels wrapped in paper and bound in twine. As she went past, her uncle took her by the arm and spoke to her in a low but unmistakably scolding tone.

Mr. Prattley glanced up from the preliminary sketches he was copying from the original book of poems to find that he no longer had Frodo's full attention. "Ah, now, you mustn't mind our family quarrels, Mr. Baggins," the artist murmured. "He means well for the lass, but of course a girl has her own mind about such matters."

"What matters?" Frodo wondered. He'd observed on previous visits that Mr. Droppot was very proud of his niece and somewhat protective of her.

"The lads," Mr. Prattley explained. "The master's picked out one he likes for her, a good lad whose father runs the furrier's shop down the way. But Miss Jewel won't have none of him. Master Droppot thinks there's another lad she meets in the town when she's out and about." Jewel had gone out on her errands through the front of the shop by this time and Mr. Droppot was turning to them to see how they were getting on. Prattley, feeling that he'd already gossiped too much, resumed his sketching and said no more.

Once Frodo had approved several of Mr. Prattley's sketches to be reproduced in ink and watercolor paint, he borrowed one of the writing desks to work on a short preface about Primula Baggins, the whimsical poems she had composed for her son's amusement, and his wish to share them with the children of the Shire. While he was writing, Jewel returned, her now-empty basket carelessly hung on one elbow as she hastened past the row of desks and went straight into the binding room. When Frodo had finished, he accompanied Mr. Droppot into the binding room. He and the master binder, a sturdy hobbit named Hutch, were already well acquainted and Mr. Hutch decided what was needed for this new order as soon as it was described.

"A children's book? You'll want something cut small, for little hands, but sturdy. Kid's no good. Beg your pardon if you said otherwise, Master Droppot, but it's so. Kid is fitting for ladies' poetry-books like your mum's here, Mr. Baggins, but little uns handle a book more rough'n ladies do. And kidskin's white as snow. It'll show dirt. Little uns have dirty hands, even when they're reading. It's a good vellum you want, sir, soft and a sort o' yellowy creamy color. Romy!" Mr. Hutch called to his apprentice, who was standing at the cutting table behind the door. "Bring over some of the calf sides for Mr. Baggins to look at."

Romy, a blushing lad in his early thirties, looked startled and seized several large pieces of calfskin from the deep shelves behind him. With both hands full, he rushed forward to present these samples to Frodo to examine.

"We'll start to work on your books as soon as the paper is cut to size and the scribes in today finish the writing they're doing now," Mr. Droppot informed Frodo after the calfskin had been approved for the book covers. "I've sent for the other scribes and they'll begin tomorrow. Mr. Hutch'll start his binding once the writing's done and the pictures are put in place. We can have the first copies done for you before the week is out. My Jewel will bring them round to you if you're going to be in Michel Delving that long. Are you staying at the Whitfoots?"

"No, I'm at the White Chestnut inn," answered Frodo. Sam had come with him to Michel Delving to bring Elanor and little Frodo on a long-promised visit to the Whitfoots. The twins had been left at the Old Place under Peony's care. "I expect to be there until the end of the week. Miss Jewel can deliver the first copies to me, but I'll come back here to the shop again before I leave the town in any case and take whatever further copies you have finished."

"Very good, Mr. Baggins! Here, what's this?" As they headed toward the binding-room door, Mr. Droppot stopped to pick up a small piece of paper on the floor near his toes. As he stood straight again, he turned the paper over to read the writing on one side. "Oh. It's another one of these!"

"One of what?" Frodo asked of out politeness more than genuine curiosity, but his curiosity was sparked by Mr. Droppot's reply.

"One of these bits of peculiar writing I sometimes find lying about the shop. I don't know who writes them, but it's a waste of ink and paper and if it's a joke, 'tisn't a funny one."

"What do you mean, 'peculiar' writing?" asked Frodo. "Does it look like it might be a code?" He'd dealt with coded messages in another case several months ago.

"No, sir." Mr. Droppot handed Frodo the piece of paper to read it for himself. "You see, it's in the Common Tongue plain enough, only it doesn't make any sense!"

Frodo read:

"Many years luck overcomes vicious eagles.
Forget little yellow worms in the hill.
Many eagles! Many, all rosy red, yawning.
My eagles!"

And below these lines of nonsense, three more words were written in bold block letters:

"Yellow every sunset!"

"If you're right, Frodo, and it's a code, what're they saying to each other?" Sam wondered later that evening when Frodo showed him this same strange message, plus two other examples Mr. Droppot had found in his shop recently. There had been others, but the master scribe hadn't bothered to keep them.

"I don't know yet," Frodo answered.

They were in their room at the White Chestnut Inn at the heart of Michel Delving. After leaving the scrivener's shop, Frodo had joined his friend for dinner at Lad and Angelica's smial at the northern end of town. They walked back together in the cool spring twilight after Sam had tucked his children in and promised to join them at breakfast. For Elanor and her little brother, sleeping over at their best friends' home was a more exciting prospect than staying at the inn with their Father. Frodo, of course, felt differently about that.

He'd forgotten about the peculiar notes by the time he and Sam left the Whitfoots. Arm in arm on the peaceful, lonely lane between curving chalk downs, they had little thought for anything but each other and their destination. The past year had been a painful and difficult one for both of them, but Sam had shown him in many little ways that he was over the worst. He would never forget Rosie, but he was ready to forgive and go on to make a new life for himself and his family--a family which Frodo was an important part of. Once they were in their room, how could Frodo think of anything but the arms around him and kisses covering his face? It was almost like the old days, when they'd spent many happy nights in inns around the Shire.

Frodo only remembered the odd messages when he rose from the bed to wash up and picked up his jacket, which he'd left on the floor when he'd hastily undressed half an hour earlier. The three slips of paper fell from his pocket. When Sam had asked what they were, Frodo told him about his visit to the scrivener shop.

He sat at the foot of the bed with his dressing gown thrown over his shoulders and his bare limbs emerging pale in the flickering light from the single candle on the nightstand while Sam lay warm beneath the blankets with the notes spread on the pillow at his elbow. "I haven't had a chance to study them yet," said Frodo. "You remember how long it took me to figure out the meaning behind those holes in the weaving cards from the Spindlethrifts' loom."

"I remember you jumping out o' bed and not coming back 'til the middle of the night. You're not doing that again, not if I have any say in it." Sam reached out to tug on the hem of Frodo's dressing gown to try and draw him back. "Even if it's some sort o' code, I'll bet they aren't saying anything important like those cards at Spindlethrifts did."

"Why not?" Frodo came a little closer, but didn't get back under the covers.

"What secrets does a scripter got to give away? There's no mystery to their work. All it needs is a steady hand to write clear in straight lines. The rest is just cutting quills and making inks. Anybody who know how to read and write can do that."

"Writing all day does take a certain amount of patience," mused Frodo. "It's the sort of job I might consider taking up if I ever fell on hard times." He picked up the nearest piece of paper and turned to lie on his side so that the candle was behind him and its light fell upon the odd words:

"Dog and rat, locked in nighttime growls.
May eagles eat trees? My eagles!
Tell no one if ghosts haunt tonight.
Before yesterday, try haunting eagles--
or laughing dogs or any kindly troll.
Reach every elegant, insipid nightingale
growling at rusty dawn each night."

He picked up another note. This one read:

"Wander as the cows hunt: only under the frosty old rain.
Under no circumstances look eager!
Frostbitten udders soon sag. Poor old things!"

At least two people were writing these messages. Frodo could see that this second message was in a different handwriting from the first one and the first three lines of the one Mr. Droppot had found today. While the 'dog and rat' and 'eagles' scripts were written in a sloppy hand with a quill that frequently ran dry and spattered, the one about the cows was in a careful, blocky print, as if the writer were attempting to disguise his writing. If the writer was one of Droppot's scribes, then the master scribe was sure to recognize his usual hand. Handwriting was Mr. Droppot's business. The last line of the most recent message--"Yellow every sunset!"--was also in a blocky print, larger and bolder than the lines above it. Could it have been written by the same person who'd written the nonsense about cows? Was it an answer to the lines above? But what, then, was the question?

"It's almost like poetry, only it doesn't rhyme and makes less sense," Sam observed after Frodo had read all three absurd passages aloud. "There's lots o' dogs, cows, and rats in it--and lots and lots of eagles! How come they write so much about eagles?" While eagles had featured several times in the Baggins family history, these mighty and majestic birds were rarely seen in the skies above the Shire. Few hobbits had ever had the opportunity to see one up-close, as Sam and Frodo had.

"'Many eagles.' 'My eagles,'" Frodo quoted, and pondered these particular words. "Maybe it isn't the eagles themselves that are important. 'Eagle' is a word that begins with E, and there aren't very many of those in the Common Tongue. And yet E is a letter that appears in a lot of words... Sam!" Frodo sat upright and handed Sam the note that began 'Dog and rat'. "I think I've got it. Read this one out loud, please. Not all the words, but only the first letter in each word."

Sam squinted at the scrap of paper and read, "D, A, R, L-- It's 'darling!' It's a love letter! M, E, E, T--'Meet me.'"

"That's why there are so many eagles, Sam: They needed the E. They use the word 'me' so often in their message, I suppose it was easiest for them to use the same two words every time to signify it."

"'Darling, meet me tonight by the old oak tree in garden.'" Sam had puzzled out the whole message. "Now what's that one about the poor cows really saying?" he asked Frodo.

Frodo looked at the first letter of each word. "It's a warning: 'Watch out for Uncle... F, U, S...' He frowned; he could guess now who must have written this message, but the name following uncle was obviously not Turlo. "Oh, it's 'Fusspot'!" Frodo laughed. "Jewel Droppot has to be the author of this note. Her uncle would certainly know her normal handwriting. Her lover must be one of the scribes. Her uncle wouldn't approve--he wants her to marry someone else--and so they communicate with each other in this secret way right under his nose. When Miss Droppot has a parcel to deliver, the boy tucks his note inside. She takes it out to read once she's away from the scrivener's shop, writes her reply, and brings it back to him when she returns from her errands. It's quite clever of them."

Who was Miss Jewel's lover? The odd collection of words, as Sam had noted, had a sort of poetry to them; the boy Jewel loved possessed an imagination. Frodo first thought of the dreamy boy who sat gazing out of the window, but that young scribe's handwriting would be as familiar to Turlo Droppot as his niece's was. Besides, these two notes were not the work of a professional scribe, even disguised. A scribe would never run so short of ink. Then Frodo thought of how Jewel had passed through the workroom swinging her empty basket on her arm, of where she'd been going, and the spot where her uncle had discovered the dropped note today.

He read this note, which contained her lover's last message and her reply. "Mr. Droppot isn't going to lose any professional secrets, Sam, but he's about to lose something that's far more dear to him than his livelihood." Frodo sighed and tossed aside his dressing gown before he got out of bed.

"Where're you going?" Sam asked, watching while Frodo found and put on his clothes.

"To Mr. Droppot's. It isn't very late, and since he asked for my help in discovering the meaning of these notes, it's only fair that I tell him what's about to happen… if it hasn't already."

At that evening hour, the main streets of Michel Delving were lit only by lanterns hanging over the doors of the few shops still open, most of them taverns, but Frodo knew his way to the scrivener's shop even in the dark. Sam had dressed quickly to accompany him.

Mr. Droppot's shop had closed hours ago, but a flickering flame was visible in the darkness beyond. As they went around the shop to the smial on the hillside behind it, this light bobbed and danced and a voice called out, "Jewel! Is that you, lass?"

"No, Mr. Droppot," Frodo called back. "What's happened? Has she gone?"

The master scribe came toward them, brandishing his candle above his head. "Oh, it's you, Mr. Baggins. Yes, my Jewel's gone! I thought she'd gone home, but after I shut up shop, I came in to have my dinner and found nothing on the table but this note." He handed another piece of paper to Frodo over the garden fence, and lowered the candle to provide enough light to read by.

The note was written in a bold hand, the letters flowing easily from one to the next rather than standing separately in blocks. Frodo read aloud:

"Dear Uncle Turlo-

"I'll be miles away before you read this, and Romy too.
We're going to be wed as soon as we can find a magistrate.
I'm sorry I couldn't do as you wanted, but I never cared
a hair for Perico Coney even if he could wrap me in a
dozen fox fur cloaks. Romy is the one I love. We are
going to open our own scrivener's and binder's shop in
another part of the Shire. I'll write once we are settled
in our new home.

"Farewell, Jewel"

"It's just like you said," Sam murmured. Though the garden was dark, he looked around to find the old oak tree.

"She's gone!" Mr. Droppot cried. "Run off with that boy! You knew it was going to happen?"

"I'm sorry. I came back tonight especially to warn you," Frodo told him. "They've been writing those peculiar notes to each other for some time, making arrangements where to meet. That message you found today was the final one between them." He'd brought the note along and held it up for the master scribe to see.

Mr. Droppot peered at the writing. "But it's nonsense, Mr. Baggins!"

"It's a code they used. If you read the first letter of each word, it says, 'My love, fly with me. Marry me.' Romy wrote that. And at the bottom, Miss Jewel replies, 'Yes.' He must have written his part of it earlier in the day and put it in her the delivery basket. She gave him her answer when she went into the binding room, and he must've dropped it behind the door just before you and I went in. That's why he was so flustered and red in the face. The lad was probably frightened nearly out of his wits."

"As well he should be!" said Mr. Droppot. "If I'd had an inkling of what they were up to, I'd've put my foot down hard on this!"

"Are you going to go after them?" Sam asked.

"I would, if I knew where they went. They could be miles from Michel Delving by now in any direction. They could be married, if they found a magistrate." He sat down at the garden gate in despair. "Jewel's five-and-thirty and has a right to wed without my permission. I couldn't stop her if she's made up her mind, though I say that she's made as poor a choice as she could. She knows I only wanted what's best for her, and a lad learning how to cut leather for books isn't best."

Frodo was forming an opinion that there really wasn't anything wrong with Romy except for his lack of money and social position. Mr. Droppot was eager to have his niece marry well among the neighboring shopkeepers, and the girl had other ideas about what made a suitable husband.

Since there was nothing more to be done, he offered some consoling remarks to Mr. Droppot: Jewel would be fine. She would be able to look after herself, wherever she was, and was sure to send word in the near future. If the two were married, then the best thing Mr. Droppot could do was accept the situation and welcome his niece's husband into the family.

"I do feel sorry for Mr. Droppot," Frodo confided once he and Sam had seen the master scribe go into his home and they were walking back along the dark streets. "He does care for his niece and I can see that her running away like this grieves him. But all the same, I'm not disappointed that we were too late to stop her. Miss Jewel is a clever and capable girl. It wouldn't surprise me to learn that she was the one who invented this code. No matter what Droppot thinks of the boy she's chosen to marry, I expect that she'll do well with him. They'll have a great success once they open their own bookmakers' shop."

"You'll give 'em your business?" Sam joked.

"That wouldn't be fair to poor Mr. Droppot." Frodo chuckled. "After losing his niece, it would crush him if I brought my writing to her instead. But I wish them joy." They stopped at the edge of market square, which was crowded with tradeshobbits and their wares during the day, but empty and silent now. The open area seemed as broad as a country meadow. The only light was a lantern burning at the White Chestnut's front door on the far side. Frodo didn't know if there was anyone around to see, but he didn't care. He took Sam by the hand and gave him a kiss. "You know how sympathetic I am to young people in love. I want them to be happy."

With Sam's hand still in his, they crossed the square to return to the inn.