There was frost on the gate this morning — a thin white lace laid over the ironwork as neatly as icing on a seed-cake. I took hold of the latch and felt the cold go straight to the bone, as if the Shire itself had decided to tap my knuckles and say, “Mind your manners, Master Baggins.”
It is a queer thing: in fair weather, one hardly notices the little places where a door sticks, or a hinge complains. Yet when the air turns sharp, every small neglect makes itself known, and one learns again that comfort is not an accident — it is a series of modest attentions.
On the Road I learned to watch for bigger dangers than a stubborn latch — for wolves, and goblins, and worse — but the habit is the same. “It does not do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations…” and it does not do, either, to leave out the small bits of care that keep a home steady in Middle Earth.
Filed under: Middle Earth • Written at Bag End