The Wood-elves generally conceive of their woods as their world, and the rare sight of stars shining through the branches of the trees is their great delight, for it is always dark in shadowy Mirkwood. Game animals are still plentiful in the northern part, and so the elves are comfortable and well provisioned with meat and skins. As they do not keep herds of animals, nor are they skilled at raising crops, having no cleared land fit for this purpose, the Wood-elves have abundant leisure time, which they spend in feasting, singing, dancing, and playing games. During their feasts, the cooks take a distinguished role, doing their utmost to skillfully prepare the meat and fowls, meal and spices for the host, and wine is drunk by the barrelful: the stronger, the better.
Time is not measured the same way to the elven-folk, and though they spend hours lingering under trees, to them it seems a very short while that the moon rides across the sky. Feasting and song occupy the hours of the night, and this continued revel is only broken by the daytime, and, very rarely, by the occasional wanderer who strays too close. So they sing and dance the whole night away, and do not cease their revelries till the day is just about to dawn. If anyone were to ask them why the good warm sun was not celebrated, they would shake their heads at the questioner, and say that it is because no one needs to do it. Wood-elves are glad for the Sun, but it does not illuminate their home, and as it hides the starlight, they do not love it, and therefore do not sing to it.
But as the seeds of superstition, which often grow up to a prodigious height, have been frequently sown and cherished by a few incidents involving a group of hapless, hungry dwarves and one hobbit, it is proper to mention that travelers should guard against the danger of interrupting elves during their merrymaking, especially when the days grow shorter, for this is the time of the grape-harvest and High Merriment, and everyone knows that Wood-elves are more dangerous and less wise than their kindred who went to the West.
Parnard drank and jested and sang, but no voices joined his. A few of the elves frowned disapprovingly at him, and Nirhen glowered at him with more than her usual annoyance. It was good to be there, under the tall trees, dancing on the grass. Tomorrow they would have to continue their journey, but that was tomorrow! Looking over the ridge into the hollow of tiny houses below, their lights twinkling cheerily in the gloaming, Parnard sang out, “Mouse, mouse come out of your house!” and ignored the sour expressions of Erdalir and Nirhen. “Always must I be trapped with gloomy company,” he rightfully observed, and swung his wineskin around in a large arc, nearly hitting Aranglachel in the face. Unsure what to do, the warden held it in his hands until Parnard noticing asked him if he was going to continue cradling the wineskin, perhaps put it to bed?
“You want me to – drink it?” asked Aranglachel.
Parnard goggled at the warden. “Yes, I want you to drink it! You hold it from one end, and tip the other into your mouth. Would you like me to show you?”
“On duty?” gasped Aranglachel, but the Lord Ambassador insisting, he took an uncertain little sip.
“Pah!” snorted Parnard, and taking the wineskin back into his possession, helped himself to another long draught.
“Do you not think this is a good place for a well-deserved rest?” Parnard sang out again to his companions. Mighty dull company, these Noldor. Well! He would enjoy himself thoroughly on this fine starry evening, despite the lack of a drinking companion. A sound made him look up, just in time to see a small figure tumble out of the tree and fall into the middle of the circle of elves. It was a small hobbit maid in plain clothing, carrying a burlap sack. Not forgetting his manners, Parnard leapt up and introduced himself with a sweeping bow.
“I am Parnard,” he said, laughing. “Welcome to my house!” And half-falling, half-sitting down on the soft green grass again, he glowed upon her with the grandiose benevolence that only a very drunk elf can manage. The hobbit’s name was Amorey, and she was looking for mushrooms.
Murshrooms! thought Parnard. How delicious! though he would have preferred a roast joint served alongside the mushrooms. To his delight, Amorey gave him a piece of cheese to nibble, and talked of pie, and biscuits, and then began talking of shoes. He could not easily follow the conversation between the hobbit and his curious companions, but it did not matter much. Again and again he drank from his wineskin. It was finally suggested to the Lord Ambassador that he leave off from merry-making, and close his eyes to sleep.
“I am not ready to sleep yet! Sing something!” he cried out. And, not waiting any longer for Linguleth to take up her lute, he lifted his own treble,
Rubies in a dwarf’s beard,
Roses on a tree,
Hide their heads! Hide their heads!
Before we have to see.
Ha! Ha!
Parnard threw back his head in prolonged mirth. He was light of foot and strangely merry and took up a fey dancing. Strong measures were taken. Strong tea was brewed. Daintily he passed the cup before his face, breathing in the steam. Turning to where the hobbits stood watching – there were now two hobbits, but when the second hobbit joined the party, Parnard was not entirely sure. He made a friendly gesture, making a toast to his two ‘new friends,’ and drained the cup. He sat a moment, licking his lips. Then he frowned judicially. The stuff was too mild.
“Wine! More wine and music and singing!” he called out.
“No more wine, lord. The wine is lost.”
Lost! What a tragedy! It seemed that a cunning red fox absconded with it, though Parnard never heard of such a thing. Sleep out in the brush five hundred years, and it had never happened before: a fox that likes wine? The others were laughing. They are playing a jest on me, he realized, and rubbed his eyes sleepily. The voices of his companions were growing fainter.
As dawn stole into the glen, Parnard sprawled among the ashes of the overnight fire, stirred impatiently, shivering. His eyes opened astonishedly to the sky. Where was the roof? Where was his bed? A moment ago, there were two hobbits here – young, and warm, and singing, and now – everything was cold and grey.
“What a good time we were having!” he whispered. And now the revelry was over.
