He told them tales of bees and flowers, the ways of trees, and the strange creatures of the Forest, about the evil things and the good things, things friendly and things unfriendly, cruel things and kind things, and secrets hidden under brambles.

Still round the corner there may wait A new road or a secret gate And though I oft have passed them by A day will come at last when I Shall take the hidden paths that run West of the Moon, East of the Sun.

With hope or without hope we will follow the trail of our enemies. And woe to them, if we prove the swifter!

Far, far below the deepest delvings of the dwarves, the world is gnawed by nameless things.

I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread.

What has roots as nobody sees, Is taller than trees Up, up it goes, And yet never grows? A mountain.

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?” he said. “Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?