Books! Frodo stood close to the shelves and inhaled the intoxicating scent of leather and old glue, crackling paper and parchment and ink. How rich this room was in terms of information, waiting patiently to be mined by a young Hobbit intent on adding to his personal store of knowledge.
He ran his finger down the spine of a volume bound in calfskin, embossed with a silver ship with a star shining from the mast. “Tales from Beleriand,” he read as he translated the Tengwar script. And it was there for him to read at his leisure! He felt blest!