Here's a rhyming folklore piece spun from your images -- tinker, quasihobbit, shire, and all:…read moreThe Tinker's Bargain
In Wiltshire, where the green hills fold
And old stone circles keep the cold,
There lived a tinker, bent and small,
Who owed a debt to no one at all --
Save one: a cord, both thin and strong,
That bound his soul the whole life long.
He was not man, nor elf, nor kin,
A quasihobbit, round of chin,
With pockets full of odds and ends,
And parasitic, borrowed friends.
He walked the lanes with squinting eye,
As if the world were passing by
Too fast to catch, too small to hold --
He measured wonders bought and sold
By one strange gauge, both sharp and slim:
Not gold, not gain, but what fed him.
He'd peer at towers, tall and bright,
At bitty cities lit at night,
And mutter low, "What's here for me?
What crumb, what coin, what bit, what fee?"
For every marvel, every prize,
He'd squint it down to tinker-size --
A city's worth of hope and pride
Reduced to just -- a bit -- inside.
The old folk warned the children thus:
"Don't trade your wonder off for us,
Don't let the tinker weigh your worth
By what he'll strip and carry forth.
For he who measures all he sees
By what he'll gain and what he'll seize
Will find, when all the coin's helped spent,
He's pawned the soul on which it went."
So mind the cords that bind you tight,
And keep some wonder for the night --
For bitty pieces of the pie
Won't fill a heart, however sly.
The shire keeps its old-world rule:
Take too little, you're the fool.
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