[Memory of Trees]

May trudged along, dragging her feet along the path, and sending up clouds of red dust that clung to her dress and skin. She had refused to ride in the cart with the rest of her family. She was too angry by far. I'll never forgive them for this, she thought miserably. Never.

It had all started after the meeting. It was late evening when she arrived home, flushed and breathless from the long walk home from town. She managed to hold her tongue for what seemed like ages, and finally the trip had come up halfway through dinner.

Earlier that day she'd been utterly shocked and stunned to learn that her family would be leaving Bree. Shocked, but unbelievibly happy. For the first time in her life the prospect of a grand adventure lay before her, and she had never experienced anything like it. Maybe they'd even have a chance to get some land of their own so that they didn't always have to be begging at the Whitfoot's door for whatever scraps happened to fall off the table. Maybe there would be a change among the hobbits, a real change, so that the Chubbs and the other Harfoots could come out on a more equal footing with the Fallohide families who always tended to run things.

But the more she heard folk talk, both in her family and others out on the street, the more frustrated and angry she became. It seemed as if no one was really thinking about changing things. Her family was only following the old paths and not thinking about how to make things better so that they'd all have a real chance to follow their dreams. Families like the Whitfoots were still going to get everything they wanted and leave people like herself with the only choice of being servants or poor second cousins.

Sitting at dinner and hearing the Whitfoot name spoken in respectful tones for the thirty-second time that day, May had finally exploded, “Oh, I see. The Whitfoots.” Her jaw was white and trembling. “Of course! Why didn’t I see that before? None of you could possibly get by without your beloved Whitfoots, could you, now? Let’s just follow them, and see if we can be their slaves a little longer, right?”

There was a dead silence at the table and a few mumbled words on the part of her parents about it being nicer to keep the conversation cheerful at dinner.

“Don’t tell me to stop it!” She screamed, angry tears coursing down her face. “It’s not my fault if you want to serve some stuck-up little pigs all your life! Because, well, I don’t! You do whatever you want with your life, but don’t you dare tell me to stop! You’re all so stupid! Can’t you even see?” She was sobbing brokenly now. “This is our one chance, a chance to get out, away from the Whitfoots. A chance to maybe make something of ourselves, but what do you do? You try to keep things the way they’ve always been, us slaving away for them, us doing all the work, with never enough to eat, and I don’t want any part in it. I hate you for your stupidity! I hate you!” She fled the house.

Of course, May’s opinion had done little to change her parents’ minds. So here they were, one week later, with poor old Brandy loaded down with their scant belongings. She hadn’t spoken much to her family all week, except maybe Henry, but he was different. At least he cared about her.

May was surprised at how little tears she shed over their parting - after the initial shock, of course. She was mostly angry. Still, there was little to tie her down here; a few friends, perhaps, and leaving the house had been hard. May was dramatic, but not overly sentimental. And she was still too mad to hurt much.

Grandpa Fordo had told once told her that when you let your heart fill up with too much anger, there is no room for good things, like love, and hope. May wasn’t thinking of that now. Her head was filled with anger as well.

Brandy leaned over and nuzzled her ear with her soft nose. Smiling in spite of herself, May gently shoved the pony’s head away. “Stop that now,” she said in mock annoyance. “You’re tickling me, silly!” The old pony heaved a sigh, and May felt bad that she was having to carry so much. “I’m sorry, old girl,” she whispered into the pony’s fuzzy neck. “I don’t want to come either, you know. I guess we’ll just have to stick this out together!”

Breaking away from the animal, May began to hum quietly as she walked along. People think you have to be happy to sing, she thought. [I]And that’s not true at all. There are all types of music, for when you’re happy or when you are sad, when you’re angry or disappointed, there are songs for every kind of mood. And you always know that music will be there. It can never betray you.