It had been two weeks since Odo had revealed to me the family secret of the Proudfeet. Surprising even myself, I had managed to keep it quiet, even though it pained me and what I really wanted to do was tell everyone that I wasn�t as deficient a Hobbit as they assumed. Still, I held my tongue, continuing to endure the looks and whispers. I often wonder if Hobbits of the Shire don�t get tired of gossip. It would seem to me that everything would be known in an hour the way they go on and on and they would run out of things to talk about. But we have a habit of speaking of the same things over and over and I suppose that is what they do with me. There is always something to say about Pady.
Night was falling when it happened and I did the worst thing I ever could have done. Odo had insisted we work as long as we could in the fields. He, along with my older cousins, had spent the whole day bent over, pulling weeds and planting seeds for the fall season. It was tiring, but still I enjoyed it. Very few Hobbits hate to work with their hands; it is our joy to be enamored with the earth. I never think much when I work, I just let my mind rest as the sun warms my head and my muscles relax with the effort I exert. By the end of the day, we were all exhausted and maybe I can use that as an excuse for what followed.
We were loading our bags of weeds into the carts we had brought with us, when Botho suggested we tell stories to ease the clean up. Odo thought it was a good idea and let Botho begin. I have heard enough of his stories and I do not like them, but Odo seems to think them humorous. �Tweens, tweens,� he always mutters when Botho finishes his tales. This one started as all the others, with the recitation of a family line and then the identification of which Proudfoot he was going to talk about. Never mind what their true stories are, Botho just makes something up about them that sounds exciting. Most of the time, I simply ignore his stories and let my mind wander off as he speaks on and on. However, this one pricked my ears and the whole of my attention was immediately focused on my older cousin. He had just finished going back through the family tree when he said,
�And the Hobbit I shall tell you about today has no name. For when I looked in the records his name had accidentally been burnt out of our books and so I must tell you the story of the unknown Hobbit.�
I knew at once that �burnt out� was the name of a Proudfoot of Lanco. My Uncle�s head jerked up from the sack in which he had been digging to find a tool. His face was contorted in a look of anxiety and he moved his gaze to me, shaking his head sharply, another command to be silent. I thought he need not have done that. I had already promised myself I would keep the family secret. But as it turned out, his fears were only too justified.
As Botho went on in his story, a tale of insipid characters and badly used puns, I thought how absurd it was. How could he tell a tale about someone he knew nothing about? The unknown Hobbit, indeed. If the unknown Hobbit had heard Botho�s story, he would have wept over his own terrible fate to be cast in Botho�s �wit.� Finally the story ended and my torture was over. It was then that Botho uttered words that would have been best kept to himself.
�So, what did you think of my excellent story, oh dull-witted ones?�
It was not the name calling that incited me (all tweens do that), it was the opening of the door for an opinion. He had never asked for one before and now that he did it was as if the way had been cleared for me to be as mean to Botho as he had been to me all my years. I should not have done it, but I could not help it and words tumbled out of my mouth.
�Ridiculous. How could you expect to tell a tale about someone you don�t know? I bet they had far more of an adventure than you make out and were worth way much more than you know. To think that you can stand there and tell a story with such smugness when really you are completely ignorant is beyond me. I wish you would never tell the stories again. They always end stupidly and they aren�t worth telling.�
The minute my rant was over, I knew it had been a complete mistake. And yet, the frustrated emotions that had been welling up within me for two weeks as I kept my secret came pouring out all the more after Botho�s next comment. Angrily he glared and me and said,
�What would you know about it anyway, Pady? You have no family history at all and can�t even begin to think of telling a story about them. I bet they were the dullest Hobbits that lived and they�d rather have drowned you than taken care of you.�
That did it. Odo tried to prevent what happened next, but it was no use. He had just opened his mouth to reprimand Botho when my tongue was loosed once more.
�Don�t even dare to insult my family! From what I have heard they had more spirit than you will ever have. At least they did not sit around telling mindless stories. They had the courage to fight back when the time came. I don�t care if they burned all of the Proudfeet�s land! I do have family and I am not without history! Didn�t you ever consider your father might have a family secret? Well, he does and it�s worth hearing. The Lanco Proudfeet should never be forgotten!�
And with that, I stormed away from the fields and marched all the way to the house alone, leaving my cousins and Uncle gaping behind me. I had usually been a very reserved Hobbit and I suppose I shocked them with such a tirade. I just could not take it any more. I had a family. I have a family.