The Hobbit

supper as soon as possible just then, and would not stay. On they all went, leading their ponies,
till they were brought to a good path and so at last to the very brink of the river.It was flowing fast and noisily, as mountain-streams do of a summer evening, when sun has been all day on the snow far up
above. There was only a narrow bridge of stone without a parapet, as narrow as a pony could well walk on; and over that they
had to go, slow and careful, one by one, each leading his pony by the bridle. The elves had brought bright lanterns to the
shore, and they sang a merry song as the party went across.
    “Don’t dip your beard in the foam, father!” they cried to Thorin, who was bent almost on to his hands and knees. “It is long
enough without watering it.”
    “Mind Bilbo doesn’t eat all the cakes!” they called. “He is too fat to get through key-holes yet!”
    “Hush, hush! Good People! and good night!” said Gandalf, who came last. “Valleys have ears, and some elves have over merry
tongues. Good night!”
    And so at last they all came to the Last Homely House, and found its doors flung wide.
    Now it is a strange thing, but things that are good to have and days that are good to spend are soon told about, and not much
to listen to; while things that are uncomfortable, palpitating, and even gruesome, may make a good tale, and take a deal of
telling anyway. They stayed long in that good house, fourteen days at least, and they found it hard to leave. Bilbo would
gladly have stopped there for ever and ever—even supposing a wish would have taken him right back to his hobbit-hole without
trouble. Yet there is little to tell about their stay.
    The master of the house was an elf-friend—one of those people whose fathers came into the strange stories before the beginning
of History, the wars of the evil goblins and the elves and the first men in the North. In those days of our tale there were still some people who
had both elves and heroes of the North for ancestors, and Elrond the master of the house was their chief.
    He was as noble and as fair in face as an elf-lord, as strong as a warrior, as wise as a wizard, as venerable as a king of
dwarves, and as kind as summer. He comes into many tales, but his part in the story of Bilbo’s great adventure is only a small
one, though important, as you will see, if we ever get to the end of it. His house was perfect, whether you liked food, or
sleep, or work, or story-telling, or singing, or just sitting and thinking best, or a pleasant mixture of them all. Evil things
did not come into that valley.
    I wish I had time to tell you even a few of the tales or one or two of the songs that they heard in that house. All of them,
the ponies as well, grew refreshed and strong in a few days there. Their clothes were mended as well as their bruises, their
tempers and their hopes. Their bags were filled with food and provisions light to carry but strong to bring them over the
mountain passes. Their plans were improved with the best advice. So the time came to midsummer eve, and they were to go on
again with the early sun on midsummer morning.
    Elrond knew all about runes of every kind. That day he looked at the swords they had brought from the trolls’ lair, and he
said: “These are not troll-make. They are old swords, very old swords of the High Elves of the West, my kin. They were made
in Gondolin for the Goblin-wars. They must have come from a dragon’s hoard or goblin plunder, for dragons and goblins destroyed that city many ages ago. This, Thorin, the runes
name Orcrist, the Goblin-cleaver in the ancient tongue of Gondolin; it was a famous blade. This, Gandalf, was Glamdring, Foe-hammer
that the king of Gondolin once wore. Keep them well!”
    “Whence did the trolls get them, I wonder?” said Thorin looking at his sword with new interest.
    “I could not say,” said Elrond, “but one may guess that your trolls had plundered other plunderers, or come on the remnants
of old robberies in some hold in the mountains. I have heard that there are still forgotten treasures of old to be found in
the deserted caverns of the mines of Moria, since the dwarf and goblin war.”
    Thorin pondered these words. “I will keep this sword in honour,” he said. “May it soon cleave goblins once again!”
    “A wish that is likely to be granted soon enough in the mountains!” said Elrond. “But show me now your map!”
    He took it and gazed long at it,