“Auntie Mari?”

A soft child’s voice whispered out of the darkness. Then she felt a tiny hand patting her arm under the covers. “Auntie Mari?”

“Ugh,” was all Marigold could manage to come out of her mouth. What unholy hour of the night was it? The child in question turned out to be little five-year-old Pippin. “What is it Pip?”

“Hammie’s wet the bed again.”

“Oh, sticklebacks,” she grumbled, climbing out of bed and trying to not wake her husband, Tom. This morning was starting out the same way the past two mornings had; a small child crying in the dark for her to do something unpleasant. Chase away the trolls lurking under the beds. Or strip the sheets because someone had wet themselves. Or calm down a nightmare. She was never going to have a good night’s sleep ever again, she was sure of it.

The whole lot of them kept whining for “Mommie”. That set little Daisy, who was only one and a half, into a crying fit. She was just starting potty training, and the disturbance of being uprooted from her familiar smial and being forced to share more crowded rooms with her older sisters had upset the youngster terribly. Potty training was forgotten in the uncertainty. So Marigold gritted her teeth, borrowed as many diapers from the neighbors as they could spare, and ended up elbow-deep in wash for at least three hours a day. How did Rose do it? How could her brother stand it?

Between the washing and the constant cooking, Marigold had little room for comforting the children. Nor did she have the temperament for running such a large household. Stars and moons above! Where was all the food going? Baking cookies. Mashing potatoes. Frying eggs. She was sure the hoard of hungry mouths and outstretched hands would never end. How many were there? There were supposed to be eight children, but sometimes she was certain there were more. Marigold suspected Merry was sneaking over little Meli Took every once in awhile. Another mouth to feed. Another set of grimy hands to wash. Another child under foot. Switches and broomsticks! How was she to ever keep an eye out for all this trouble?

“Auntie Mari? Goldie’s into the blackberries again.” Rose Gardner was supposed to be looking after her littlest sister, but here she was without her again. Didn’t these children EVER do what they were told? What sort of household did her brother run?

“Well, don’t just tell me about it, child. Go get her out of the brambles and bring her back.” Honestly. One would think the child had no brains. Acted more like a Bracegirdle than a Gamgee sometimes. ‘Gardener,’ Marigold mentally corrected herself. ‘Gardener is what Sam and Rose call their brood.’ Made a certain sense, considering Marigold didn’t think Rose actually knew who the father to all her children was. Couldn’t very well call the dark-haired, blue eyed Sammie a Gamgee, now could they? No. Baggins through and through. Even a Took could see that one! Pretty smart of Sam to call ‘em all ‘Gardener.’ That way no one child’s feelings would be hurt by having a different last name from their brothers and sisters. Even infant Sammie was called ‘Gardener.’

He was only 5 months old. Should have stayed with his mother to nurse. But no. Rose was too busy nursing that queer Frodo Baggins to even care for her own baby. It wasn’t bad enough that Marigold had to look after Sam’s seven children, but she had to look after that dark-haired Baggins bastard too. Sam sent over the two cows the household maintained for milk, and that also put a strain on the family. Now Tom had to get up each morning early and milk the cows. Bother the cows. That sister-in-law of hers was a cow. And a slut. Having more than one husband! And not even bothering to care about the gossip. So many children!

Marigold threw another load of dirty children’s’ clothes into the wash basin and continued her scrubbing. She could hear high-pitched laughter coming from the other side of the hill. Soon the laughter turned to song. Rose, Merry and Pippin were singing an ancient song about rosies and falling down. Marigold couldn’t help but smile. So innocent. So carefree. And they were hers. All hers. At least for the rest of the week.

Marigold looked down at the four youngest children scattered like wildflowers about her feet. Baby Sammie slept contentedly in his basket, wrapped up in a soft worn baby blanket and protected from the blaze of the sun. He had one tiny fist stuffed into his mouth and was gnawing on his knuckles, teething even in his sleep. His older brother, Hamfast, sat beside the basket. Hammie had found a ladybug in the blades of grass near his aunt’s feet, and was talking to the insect as if the little bug were his best friend. “Fly away home,” he lisped. Hammie had just begun talking in full sentences. Goldilocks straddled the garden bench, holding her little sister, Daisy, in front. Goldie considered Daisy to be her own personal rag doll. Goldie was playing peek-a-boo with little Daisy, who chirped and laughed and drooled in pleasure at her sister’s game. Marigold stopped washing for a moment to savor the beauty of the children, the day, and the love she suddenly felt.

Oh, Marigold actually did love the little brats. After all, they were her nieces and nephews. Except the last one. The baby asleep in the basket. Anyone with eyes could tell he wasn’t her brother’s child. A bastard fathered by that bizarre Frodo Baggins. And Sam didn’t even kick him out of the house! Not even when the whole Shire knew Sam was cuckolded. Imagine that. Good, old brother Sam acting as if it were the most natural thing in the world for his best friend to father a child by his own wife! Stars! To think his morals had sunk so low. Made her ashamed to be seen with the children. What would the neighbors think?

“Want some help, Marigold?” Candy Smallburrows wandered through the gates and immediately started rinsing the soapy clothes in the fresh water basin. The pregnant hobbitess from next door was Marigold’s best friend. This was her first pregnancy, and she could hardly keep her hands off the smallest children. “Sweetie-pie!” she cooed at Hamfast. “Come give me a hug, you cutie.” Little Hamfast closed his chubby little fist around the ladybug and ran over for his hug.

“Look what I got!” he excitedly said. He presented his treasure to the nice lady, carefully opening his hand for her to see. The ladybug took flight at the sudden return of its freedom. “Oh! Fly away home!”

Candy laughed. “Yes, fly away home. Wave bye-bye, Hammie.” She grabbed the basket of clean, wet clothes and took Hamfast by the hand. “Come on, my cupcake. Come help me hang laundry.” She handed the child a basket full of wooden clothes pegs.

“Me too!” Goldie cried, abandoning her little sister.

“Oh, Candy, thank you so much!” Marigold smiled. “I haven’t even started supper yet and it’s getting late.”

“Here,” Candy said, “let me finish the laundry and let you get inside. Looks like somebody could use a nap too.” She nodded at Daisy who had fallen asleep on her stomach sucking her thumb, legs sprawling over each side of the bench.

“I’ll take these two little ones inside,” Marigold said as she gathered the sleeping children in her arms. “Can you stay for supper?”

“No, thanks,” Candy called. “But I’ll come over later and help tuck them all into bed, if you like.”

‘You are a real gem among hobbits,” Marigold said as she went inside to start supper.

Supper was made. Tom and Frodo-lad came in from their day away from the smial. The other children were rounded up and cleaned. Supper was eaten. The children were again rounded up and cleaned. That’s what her life had turned into. And endless parade of children needing to either be feed or cleaned. No time for herself. No time for Tom. Wizards and wonders! When did Rose ever have time to get pregnant? Or the desire to? ‘If it was me, I’d be beating them off with a broomstick!’ Marigold thought to herself. ‘Must talk to Sam about that.’

The night closed down upon the crowded smial, and sleepy heads nodded as Mrs. Smallburrows and Mrs. Gamgee-Cotton tucked the little ones into various beds and couches. After a round of good-night stories, Candy Smallburrows said her own goodnights and exited home.

Tom was exhausted and was asleep almost as soon as the children. Marigold climbed into bed, muttering a silent prayer to the stars for a night’s sleep without interruption. But it was not to be.

A tiny soft hand patted hers in the darkness. Cripes! She had only just fallen asleep. “Oh… couldn’t it wait till morning, Pippin?” she groaned.

She regretted snapping at the youngster as soon as the words left her mouth and she realized he was crying softly. “Shush, darling. Come here. Let’s go sit in the big rocking chair.” She climbed out of bed and took the frightened child by the hand. Pippin was soon snuggled in her lap. She soothed his sobs while rocking back and forth. Back and forth. Hugging him tight. The sobs finally abated.

“Now tell Auntie what’s wrong.”

“I had a bad dream,” Pippin sniffed.

“And what was bad about the dream, sweetie?”

“Uncle Fro was dead.”

“Oh, there now. There now, little boy. Shush. Such nonsense. Your Uncle Frodo isn’t dead. Haven’t you heard the stories about him and your Dad? Nothing seems able to kill the great Frodo Baggins.”

“But he’s dying now,” Pippin said to the darkness. “That’s why Mom and Dad sent us away. So we won’t catch it and all die too.”

“Oh, little Pip,” Marigold’s voice caught in her throat at hearing Pippin’s understanding of the situation. “I don’t think your Uncle Frodo is dying. He’s sick. Mighty sick. And your mother and father and big sister Elanor are taking the very best care of him. But he needs quiet right now. That’s why you little ones were sent here to stay with Uncle Tom and me. So Uncle Frodo could have some quiet.”

“I know Uncle Fro is sick,” Pippin said. “He’s sick all the time. Mommie and Daddy say he’s sad or in one of his quiet moods, but I know he hurts.” Pippin started sniffling. “He…he hurts all the time, Auntie Mari. Uncle Fro can’t run and play outside with us like Mommie and Daddy can. He’s always cold. And…and I don’t want him to be sick. I want him all better.” He buried his face into her soft bosoms and cried. “I…I don’t wanna die like him,” he muttered between sobs.

Marigold’s rocking intensified in an unconscious effort to rock away all the child’s fears. She rubbed his back and shushed him until he finally had cried his tears to a standstill.

“Pippin,” Marigold calmly said, “you are a big boy now and I think you need to know the truth instead of making up things in your head which are not true.” She stopped rocking and held him slightly away from her so that she could see his tear-swollen eyes. “Look at me, Pippin Gardener. We’re all Gamgees, and Gamgees don’t lie. So I’m not going to tell you something which is not true. Do you understand me?”

He solemnly nodded, then settled back into the safety and comfort of her arms.

“Neither you nor I truly know what it is that makes your Uncle Frodo sick,” she quietly said. “But I don’t think it’s the type of sickness you can get from another person, like the mumps or the measles. You’ve had the measles, haven’t you?”

Pippin nodded and started to suck his thumb.

“So Uncle Frodo can’t pass along his sickness to you or to your mother or father or to any of your sisters or brothers. It’s something he brought back with him from the War down South.”

“Why doesn’t Daddy have the same sickness then? He went away with Uncle Fro, didn’t he?”

Marigold took up her rocking again. “Yes, your father went with Uncle Frodo away South. But your Uncle Frodo had to carry a magic ring. It was a very evil magic ring, and it must be the thing that hurt him. You see, Pippin, your Daddy didn’t have to carry the ring. Well, he did carry it a little bit. But only for one day. Not for months like Frodo did. So your Daddy won’t ever get the Ring sickness like Uncle Frodo. Now don’t worry your little head, Pippin, my love. Your Sam-Dad and Rose-Mom won’t get sick. Neither will Elanor or your or anyone else.”

“But I don’t want Uncle Fro sick either,” Pippin hiccupped a sob.

Marigold retrieved a handkerchief from her dressing gown pocket and made him blow his nose. “Pippin Gardener, your Uncle Frodo is a very brave and kind hobbit. If he is meant to get well, then he will. Why, I’ve known him for years and years and years. I know for a fact that he is better now than when your Da and he returned from the War. They are both much stronger and happier now that they are back home where they belong. Back in the Shire with their kinfolk. Uncle Frodo gets better and better each year.”

Pippin’s sniffles slowed and finally stopped.

“And you want to know why I think he gets better each year?” Marigold whispered to her nephew.

“Why?”

“Because each year there are more children in Bag End,” Marigold said. “And everyone knows that children are made from love. Every year there’s more children and more love to share. More fun to do. More things to learn for the first time. More children to teach. More new experiences and joys. So he can’t help but get better too. Now doesn’t that make sense to you?”

Pippin solemnly nodded. “We’re made up of love?”

“Yes, little duck,” Marigold smiled and rocked him in her arms.

“All children? Even the girls?” Pippin’s soft voice betrayed his sleepiness.

“Of course,” Marigold smiled, finger-combing his tousled golden-brown curls. “Why, even little boys are made of love.”

“Even Sammie?” Pippin whispered as his heavy eyes closed and he drifted off into sleep in his aunt’s arms.

Marigold continued her rocking. “Yes, little duck,” she sighed to the sleeping child. “Even Sammie.”