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As the day dragged on, Jamwine found himself quite fatigued. A Hamfiddle without their breakfast is about as cranky of a Hobbit as you’ll see, and now it was pushing well past lunchtime. A swarm of dun flies began buzzing about his head, and as he trudged on, the swarm seemed to thicken in the air. Flies usually meant a frog pond was nearby.
“Maybe I am nearing Frogmorton”, Jamwine huffed.
While busily swatting flies, our adventurer failed to notice a gnarled root that jut from the dirt, causing him to plummet hard to the ground. From his untied satchel a wax paper parcel rolled out and away, down the path.
“Scone!” Jamwine shouted, only now remembering he had packed away a bit of tart and a leftover scone whilst leaving the pub. Quickly, he slid down the path, rolling into the edge of a wildflower meadow. Out of the high brush, it was now obvious that the day was coming to a close. Jamwine sat on a stump, savoring his small morsel of a meal. It was time to set up camp.
Jamwine stuffed a bit of leafy powder into his empty pipe. A large plume of grey smoke erupted in a crackle. As his eyes wandered on across the wildflowers, he began to call to mind the field near his home as a child.