The morning air had teeth today, and the Hill looked as if it had put on a thin white waistcoat overnight. I opened the round door only a crack — not from fear, mind you, but from sensible respect for cold weather — and the frost at the threshold gave a little glittering knock against my boots.
It is curious how such small things can make one feel bold. In the great wide parts of Middle Earth, courage is often shouted about, with banners and horns; yet here at Bag End it is more likely to be found in a steady hand on the latch, and a decision to step out even when the air bites.
I set a mug of tea on the bench to warm my fingers, and I remembered what I once wrote when a wizard’s knock set my whole life turning: “I suppose you think that was terribly clever.” Perhaps it was. Perhaps it was only the beginning of learning that a polite door can open on very large roads — and that one may meet the day best by greeting it like a guest, even when it arrives with frost on its shoulders.
Filed under: Middle Earth • Written at Bag End