I hate weeds.
Pulling angrily at a tenacious stalk, Sam grumbled to the grass.
Now fishin’, he thought, shaking a fat worm from the clotted roots, that’d be the way to spend this here sunny afternoon. Not weedin’…
“Sam? Is something wrong?” Frodo’s soft voice was at once amused and disturbed. “You seem to be pulling up Cousin Bilbo’s marigolds.”
Shamefaced, the lad glared mutely at the victim in his hands.
“Weeding could wait. Why don’t you join the other lads…?”
“Cain’t, Mister Frodo,” Sam answered morosely. “I be getting’ too old for playin’ all day. I got re..responstabilities now.”