“They live many a year, and their memories are long, and they hand on
their wisdom to their children. I knew many among the ravens of the
rocks when I was a dwarf- lad. This very height was once named
Ravenhill, because there was a wise and famous pair, old Care and his
wife, that lived here above the guard-chamber. But I don’t suppose
that any of that ancient breed linger here now.”
     No sooner had he finished speaking than the old thrush gave a loud
call, and immediately flew away.
     “We may not understand him, but that old bird understands us, I am
sure,” said Balin. “Keep watch now, and see what happens!” Before long
there was a fluttering of wings, and back came the thrush; and with
him came a most decrepit old bird. He was getting blind, he could
hardly fly, and the top of his head was bald. He was an aged raven of
great size. He alighted stiffly on the ground before them, slowly
flapped his wings, and bobbed towards Thorin.
     “O Thorin son of Thrain, and Balin son of Fundin,” he croaked (and
Bilbo could understand what he said, for he used ordinary language and
not bird-speech). “I am Rac son of Carc. Carc is dead, but he was well
known to you once. It is a hundred years and three and fifty since I
came out of the egg, but I do not forget what my father told me. Now I