went, in the most extraordinary fashion. He had not been down that way
under The Hill for ages and ages, not since his friend the Old Took
died, in fact, and the hobbits had almost forgotten what he looked
like. He had been away over The Hill and across The Water on business
of his own since they were all small hobbit-boys and hobbit-girls.
     All that the unsuspecting Bilbo saw that morning was an old man with a
staff. He had a tall pointed blue hat, a long grey cloak, a silver
scarf over which a white beard hung down below his waist, and immense
     “Good morning!” said Bilbo, and he meant it. The sun was shining, and
the grass was very green. But Gandalf looked at him from under long
bushy eyebrows that stuck out further than the brim of his shady hat.
“What do you mean?” be said. “Do you wish me a good morning, or mean
that it is a good morning whether I want not; or that you feel good
this morning; or that it is morning to be good on?”
     “All of them at once,” said Bilbo. “And a very fine morning for a pipe
of tobacco out of doors, into the
     and have a fill of mine! There’s no hurry, we have all the day before
us!” Then Bilbo sat down on a seat by his door, crossed his legs, and
blew out a beautiful grey ring of smoke that sailed up into the air
without breaking and floated away over The Hill.