[piosenniel]

ALL PLEASE NOTE:

The postal delivery man, Halfred Whitfoot, who is also the Shiriff for this section of the Shire, has just arrived at the Inn with letters for the staff and customers. He comes once a week or so, as the volume of mail demands, and the Inn is always his last stop. Loves the ale and Cook’s good food, as you can see from his substantial Hobbit figure.

I have mentioned a few names, but please, everyone who wishes to, feel free to come up and get a letter from Wilfrid, and share what someone might have written to you.
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It was slow this time of year. That is, as far as the postman was concerned. And to be honest, he was glad of it. The good Hobbits of the Shire were busy in their gardens and farming, too busy to be writing letters. It would pick up in the fall, when the harvest had been gotten in. The heavy season would be in the winter months, when writing a letter by the cozy fire, a warm drink at hand and a full pipe was a comfortable and pleasant way to pass a cold day.

In this season, the days were hot, and it mattered not how early he got up to ride his route, by late afternoon he was uncomfortable, drenched in sweat, his clothes chafing against his ample figure, and in a decidedly irritable state. Even his pony was dragging along this warm midsummer’s day, head down, hooves plodding slowly along the dusty road.

Halfred Whitfoot pulled the red handkerchief from his vest pocket and wiped the sweat from his florid face again. He pushed up the rim of his green cap and glanced at the sun.

‘Should be at the Inn in an hour or so, Dumpling,’ he said aloud to his pony. ‘There’ll be a trough of cool water for your thirst and a pint of summer’s ale for me.’

Dumpling, seeming to understand his rider’s words, picked up the pace a little. Halfred reached down into the worn leather mail pouch that hung from the saddle, pulling out his last fat fistful of letters. Lots of traffic through the Inn these days he thought to himself, seeing the exotic and fine papers the sealed letters were written on. He peered closely at the scripts on each, cyphering out the names of the people he was to deliver them to:

Morwyn, written in a bold hand

Waen, in a fine Elven script, a small drawing of a hawk perched vigilant on the shoulder of the ‘W’

Cygnus, on some dusty, rolled up parchment, tied with fine black cording.

Miss Gilly, a decidedly Hobbit hand had penned this name

Aman, a woman’s hand had written this one

There were many more, but his sweaty fingers were beginning to leave marks on them, and not wanting to smudge the inks, he put them carefully back in his satchel.

*+*+*+*+*+*+*

Dumpling picked up the pace to almost a trot as the scents of the Inn came in range. His ears twitched excitedly at thoughts of those apples the stableman kept in the basket by the door.

Halfred gave the reins to Derufin as he dismounted. He puffed up the stairs to the Inn door and went in to the cool interior of the Common Room, pausing for a few moments as his eyes adjusted to the darker interior.

Ah! There was Aman standing behind the bar, filling tankards from the great barrel.

‘I’ll take one of those, if you don’t mind Mistress Aman!’

She handed him a foaming pint, watching him with a smile as he gulped half of it at the first drink. ‘Top it off, if you please!’ he said in a satisfied voice. Taking a swipe at his upper lip, where the ale had left its mark, he turned round to face the customers in the room.

‘Mail call!’ he announced in a loud voice that carried over the conversations in progress, all the way to the farthest corner. ‘Now gather round, I’ve got a score of letters here.’

He pulled the first one from the stack and read off the name . . .

[ May 29, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]