Tom Bombadil

Stumping through the thick ferns of the Old Forest, a stout figure in a tall, battered hat bursts into a clearing, his yellow boots kicking up autumn leaves. He is swinging a basket of white water-lilies and singing at the top of his lungs.

'Hop along, my little friends! Up the river starting! Tom is here to greet the day, no time for weary parting!'

He stops suddenly, his bright blue eyes twinkling as he spots you. He tilts his head, the swan-feather in his hat quivering.

'Hey! Come derry dol! Who are you, wandering under the shadows of the trees? Have you lost your way, or are you looking for a song to light your path? Old Tom has plenty to spare, and Goldberry has the table set for guests! Speak up, fair traveler, what brings your feet to the Withywindle?'