She dreams of Golden Hope

Requiem for my native Shores

„And soon thy music, sad death-bell, Shall lift its notes once more, And mix my requiem with the wind that sweeps my native shore." The Bell- Ralph Waldo Emerson

It had snuck up on them. The winter. The hobbits in the Shire had not awoken one morning and had been met with a rapid temperature decline. The fields had not turned from healthy, lively green to dreary, pure white in one night. The winter had snuck up on the Shire like a stealthy fiend, a mischievious cad. Temperatures had been gradually dropping, the ground had turned progressively colder, the sky had darkened and become ashen grey slowly. The winter had snuck up on them slowly, it had not taken them by surprise. Yet nothing could have prepared them for the devastation this season would cause them. Autumn and the harvest season had not been plentiful for the hobbits, with the soil being arid and fallow. The markets had turned barren and the limited ware, that had sprung from the normally so fruitful fields in the Shire, had been vastly overpriced, so much so that none could have afforded it and the precious aliment had wilted and fouled on the wooden stands.

When the first white crystals of snow had fallen from the thick, seemingly impenetrable clouds, the hobbit children had excitedly exited their homes and, with cheer and animation, had proceeded to celebrate this natural phenomena. The hobbit children had looked upon the fragile crystals with their shining eyes of cornflower blue or deep, muddy brown and they had stuck out their warm tongues, which would turn cold once the flocks had landed upon them, as if the snow would nourish them, would fill their aching bellies, a result of the lack of nourishment they had suffered due to their bad luck in the autumn season. They stuck out their tongues and tried to catch the flocks with such infantile, cheerful anticipation, as if the snowflakes did not just consist of water and harsh cold. As if perhaps these innocent-seeming bodies of white, which fell relentlessly from the sky like frigid rain, were not the culprits for the hunger they had suffered and would not bring them even more misery. This suspicion never entered the minds of the hobbits in the Shire and instead this snake-hearted fiend hid with a lovely visage was received with jubilation and elation, not only by the young and yet-simple minds of the infants, but also by the elder, adult hobbits, who had become infected seeing their younglings' joy and required something, anything to take their mind of the worry over food. The Tooks received the snow with their usual daring and adventurous spirits and immediately proceeded to run out of their hobbit holes, joining the dancing and cheering children in the wide streets of Hobbiton. The Sackville-Bagginses, with their usual conservative reticence simply continued sipping their afternoon tea and from the comfort of their warm homes, in front of the roaring fire in the hearthsid, watched the falling crystals settle upon the green grass and the light- brown earth with polite fascination.

Out of Bag End, a petite and red-haired young woman would come sprinting out of the hobbit hole and would greet the falling snow with an elation that even rivalled the young children's one. You would see her spinning around in front of the White picketfence in Bag End, with her head tipped back and raised toward the sky and her eyes screwed shut in innocent delight. She would seem untouched by the cold and the harsh wind that blew and whirled the flakes, perturbing their straight downward descent. She would seem utterly, blissfully oblivious to the cold, not showing any outward sign of discomfort caused by the weather, not shivering eventhough she was only clad in a thin, beige dress with only a thin, transparent silken shawl to cover and protect her exposed creamy white shoulders and her long, slender neck. The snowflakes would settle themselves upon her long, red locks and, as if heated by the heat of her hair's colour, they would soon melt, only allowing the untouched white to mingle and contrast with the vibrant red for a few, insufficiently short seconds. Soon a chubby and comfortable looking, young hobbit lad would also exit the green door the girl had emerged from and had in her undiluted excitement left open. The snow would also settle upon his golden-brown curls and his usually congenial face would be twisted with annoyed worry. He did not seem undeterred by the cold, he seemed fully aware of the heartless wind that kept blowing and blowing and swept over the Shire with its frigid nature, appearently intent on bringing with it cold bereavement. He would walk toward the girl, who was stood amidst the falling snowflakes and had her eyes closed and her delicate features softened, making her appear as if she was in a pleasant dream. He would walk up to her and would put a fatherly hand upon her shoulders, drawing her out of her self-induced trance. He would wake her and with a soft, but unrelenting voice he would urge her to return to their hobbit hole. To return to warmth. She would look at him and after a few seonds of undecisive hesitation she would acquiesce to his demands and follow him to their home. She entered through the circular door, green like the meadow's grass, which now only appeared white, almost like a corpse of its former self. Soon the lad closed the door behind him and separated them and the inside of their home, their haven from the frigid outside, but not before looking up at the skies, the source of the currently much enjoyed flakes, his eyes tinged with suspicion and premonition.