The Thain of the Shire leaned down to accept a kiss from one of his great nieces. “Here, Uncle Pippin—I made it myself!”
“Did you really?” he asked, carefully undoing the wrinkled bow and smudged wrappings, then more wrappings besides.
It was a bowl, inexpertly crafted and rather lopsided. “Oh!” he murmured, admiringly. “I shall keep a coil of string in it for when I need it!”
And he felt the ghost of his beloved great aunt, a Hobbitess now long dead, press a kiss to his cheek. “Did anyone teach you how to coil clay?” he asked.