Darkness

I really don’t like doing this sort of thing. I have to continue on from the first paragraph (or so) of The Hobbit in my own words.

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet, hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry bare sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort. The house was built into the side of the hill, and had windows looking out across the nearby river. Every doorway was round, with brown frames, and the door was the green of dewy grass. The tunnel was round, as were nearly all of the doorways, a few of the paintings decorating the corridor, but the rooms were rectangular, though slightly rounded at the edges, giving the feeling that this wasn’t a house but a home. Everything in the house was neat, but seemed to have been placed without care; this hobbit enjoyed cleaning. Near the fireplace in the living room lay a small table next to an arm-chair, one of those arm-chairs that you sunk in to. The table had a beautiful pine pipe laying on it, with a small wisp of Old Toby floating out of it.

I’m not sure how much I’m supposed to do, since I was in New Zealand when the class started, but this should be enough.