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Alwin had to stand up to reach the pipe held by the little hand. It was a lovely piece, the bowl of rich brown briarwood, with a long curved blackthorn stem. The bowl was thick, the outside of it carved into the shape of an acorn, lustrous from the polishing it had undergone. ‘Very nice,’ he murmured, turning it round in his hands. ‘Lovely, really.’
Her brown eyes regarded him in a serious manner as he spoke. He shifted his stance beneath the tree, stepping back a pace to see her face more easily. Dipping her pipe into his pouch he filled the bowl loosely then tamped it down a bit. With a piece of straw he plucked from his cloak, he lit her pipe from his own.
He stretched up once again, holding the pipe aloft. Surprised by the sound of her voice, he nearly dropped it . . .
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If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world – J.R.R. Tolkien
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