Ronald ruel tolkien. the hobbit

Chapter I. An Unexpected Party

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet
hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare,
sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a
hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.
It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a
shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened on to a
tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without smoke,
with panelled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished
chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats — the hobbit was fond
of visitors. The tunnel wound on and on, going fairly but not quite straight
into the side of the hill — The Hill, as all the people for many miles round
called it — and many little round doors opened out of it, first on one side
and then on another. No going upstairs for the hobbit: bedrooms, bathrooms,
cellars, pantries (lots of these), wardrobes (he had whole rooms devoted to
clothes), kitchens, dining-rooms, all were on the same floor, and indeed on
the same passage. The best rooms were all on the left-hand side (going in),
for these were the only ones to have windows, deep-set round windows looking
over his garden and meadows beyond, sloping down to the river.
This hobbit was a very well-to-do hobbit, and his name was Baggins. The
Bagginses had lived in the neighbourhood of The Hill for time out of mind,
and people considered them very respectable, not only because most of them
were rich, but also because they never had any adventures or did anything
unexpected: you could tell what a Baggins would say on any question without
the bother of asking him. This is a story of how a Baggins had an adventure,
found himself doing and saying things altogether unexpected. He may have
lost the neighbours' respect, but he gained-well, you will see whether he
gained anything in the end.
The mother of our particular hobbit … what is a hobbit? I suppose
hobbits need some description nowadays, since they have become rare and shy
of the Big People, as they call us. They are (or were) a little people,
about half our height, and smaller than the bearded Dwarves. Hobbits have no
beards. There is little or no magic about them, except the ordinary everyday
sort which helps them to disappear quietly and quickly when large stupid
folk like you and me come blundering along, making a noise like elephants
which they can hear a mile off. They are inclined to be at in the stomach;
they dress in bright colours (chiefly green and yellow); wear no shoes,
because their feet grow natural leathery soles and thick warm brown hair
like the stuff on their heads (which is curly); have long clever brown
fingers, good-natured faces, and laugh deep fruity laughs (especially after
dinner, which they have twice a day when they can get it). Now you know
enough to go on with. As I was saying, the mother of this hobbit — of Bilbo
Baggins, that is — was the fabulous Belladonna Took, one of the three
remarkable daughters of the Old Took, head of the hobbits who lived across
The Water, the small river that ran at the foot of The Hill. It was often
said (in other families) that long ago one of the Took ancestors must have
taken a fairy wife. That was, of course, absurd, but certainly there was
still something not entirely hobbit-like about them, — and once in a while