You would do well to note Billy Bolger; an astute gossip-monger for the well-reputed settlement of Buckland! He's made it his business to capture the authentic voice of hobbit-kind in his writing! Below is a short 'article' he hastily sent out on a bit of parchment, passing it all around town to any who might read it (and there were many, let me tell you!). It contains accounts (of varying accuracy) of the day a most strange fellow came to town! Today, copies of this writing could be found in some of the tragically overlooked archives of Eriador, though discovery would likely involve diving into very obscure texts on easily forgotten folklore.
Old Movin’ Tree
By Billy Bolger
Well dear reader, we’re back at it again! Scandal! Scandal in Buckland! Sightings of that tall green fellow have been pouring in all week long, and then suddenly, he was here! Right at our door, humming and ‘hrooming’ with a dopey grin on his fisog. Let’s see what a few fellow Bucklanders had to say about that! As always, I shall write as they spoke, for authenticity is the backbone of great reporting!
“Old Movin’ Tree, we call ‘im” said Berty Bracegirdle at the scene. "First time 'e were seen, I fink he were comin' out dat elderly woodland! Folk say he got lost in them trees, went crackers. He’s -tall-, even by big folk standards - oooo', I'd put 'im at about 10ft? And he’s sproutin’ many leaves, too. N’ mushrooms…” At this point, I note my wide-eyed interviewee has a bit of wetness on the lip, so I offer to him my handkerchief, as is polite! But then I am quick to insist that he keep hold of it. I shan’t have it be said that I am unsanitary!
“We said, ‘oi! Ya ain’t comin’ in ‘ere!’” recalls Mary Whittlesby. “Twas the darndest thing, you know; ‘e just started laughing, he did! ‘Ho ho ho’ he said. ‘Worry not, my dears. Hooom. It’s only old me, a-comin’ here to say hello, and marvel at your woodland border!’ His voice were like a certain way o’thunder, I tells ya!” Mrs Whittlesby shivers, that spasm running right through her from the top of her head to the tips of her hairy toes!
“Them mushrooms on his head became a reaaaal problem, reaaaal fast. Did Berty mention them? Berty mentioned them, didn’t he?” said Tilly Tunnelly. “Stoked up reaaaal debate with those of us at the door. Some said, ‘let him in! He’s got mushrooms, and that’s well with us!’ Others said, ‘turn him around, and send him away! You can’t grow mushrooms upon thy head – I bet he stole ‘em!’ And just like that, we was reaaaaaal divided. Shoutin’, threats… t’almost came to blows…” Ms Tunnelly bows her head sadly, gulps, and falls to quiet. I can’t get anymore out of her.
Then, dear reader, I come to a certain legend of Buckland; Old Wetherby. He’s a retired bounder of great esteem as I am sure you know, always puffing away on his pipe by the Brandywine, a-rockin’ in his chair. He’s squinty-eyed these days, and suspicious of all, and had much to say.
There was silence from him, at first. He mulled my questions over. And then, finally, I heard that terrible voice through the pipesmoke.
“I dawn seen nuffin’ like heem in ma lifetime” said Mr Wetherby in his gruff, grizzly voice. “Old Movin’ Tree is a baaaad omen. Almost sparked a civil war ‘mongst us.” He puffs on his pipe here in another pause, the suspense causing the hair on my toes to stand on end. “Da division was enough for us to realise 'is game, ya see. As we all yelled at each other, Old Movin’ Tree jus’ stood there smilin’. No care. He was patient, like he were waitin’ fer us to have at each other, all ready wiv 'is front row seat. Sick boy. N’ all fer some mushrooms, like we ain’t gawt plenty o’those. Thank our biscuits we caught awn ter heem.” Wetherby’s seen a lot, as you know, dear reader. But this? This shook him, right to his withered core.
Sam Pennyrose has the esteemed honour of concluding this tale. I will leave you, dear reader, with his words, that should hopefully remind you how safe Buckland is. And, of course, how brave its defenders are.
“Oooo’ yeah. Took fifteen hobbits to fro him out” said Mr Pennyrose. “Five of us went for him once we realised his game, and we tackled him ‘round his legs. Cousin Toby cried, ‘For Buckland!’, and even -ascended- the no-good trespasser, hugging him about his flowery shoulders. Puuuuushed with all our might, we did. I tells ya, it really was like tacklin’ a tree at first, n’ not much happened. But then a babble of reinforcements came. We drove him out – it was slow goin’, but we got there. Few of us stepped on each other’s toes. But through it all, Old Movin’ Tree just laughed. Even thanked us for not usin' our clubs - suppose it seemed improper to whack 'im. Still, knew his place after that ruckus. Ain’t seen him since.”
