Soon days passed, with Frodo and Sam involved in their lessons. Sam came up every day just before first breakfast to prepare the meal for them both, once Frodo found out what an excellent cook Sam was. There was nothing like waking up to the delicious smell of bacon in the air, thought Frodo, as he listened to the sound of Sam whistling or singing in the kitchen. The first days were a wonderful treat for them both. The two of them just sat and talked - probably the most relaxing breakfasts Sam had ever been treated to. And at each meal, Frodo introduced Sam to the intricacies of proper Shire table manners - at least the kind of table manners used at the more formal occasions in Buckland and Tuckborough. It seemed more than a bit foolish to Sam, having all of these different knives and forks and spoons for different things, when you didn't really need but one of each, but with Frodo's help he soon got the hang of it.
But the speech lessons were another matter. Sam's loose, relaxed way of speaking was constantly at odds with the careful, measured speech that Frodo insisted was the "proper" way of speaking. To Sam's way of thinking, it was like wearing a prickly, itchy wool jacket - but on his tongue, not his back. It was just that uncomfortable. And, the worst thing was that the harder Frodo pushed, the more Sam had trouble with it, and vice versa. It was as if Frodo took it as a personal affront that Sam wasn't able to pick up on the right way to speak.
It eventually got to the point where breakfasts between them grew to be silent affairs, as Sam often felt too nervous to speak for fear of being corrected - although sometimes he forgot and broke the silence, as he did this morning. He and Frodo had hardly said a word from the time Sam had entered the door. Yesterday's speech lessons had not gone well - like the day before, and the day before that - and each was feeling the tension that still hung in the quiet of the room. The sounds of Sam whisking the eggs and frying up the bacon stood out in the uneasy peace, along with the clinking of silverware and teacups on saucers. At last Sam couldn't stand it anymore and he spoke without thinking.
"'ere you go, Sir," Sam said quietly, placing a plate of eggs and bacon in front of Frodo.
"'Here' you go, Sam, 'here' you go - you're dropping your H's again," Frodo said immediately, without thinking.
"Yes, sir," Sam replied, wincing, walking slowly back into the kitchen with his head down, putting the tray down, and leaning heavily upon the sink. "Mr. Frodo? I - I have a job to do for me Gaffer this morning, if you don't mind - it won't take but an hour or so." Sam grimaced in anticipation of the answer he was sure would come, and he was not disappointed.
""My" Gaffer, Sam - we've gone over this a hundred times, "my " Gaf-father - oh, Shire, now you've got me doing it!, " came the voice from the front room, with a sigh. "come back when you're done, then."
"Aye- Yes, sir," Sam said and quickly left through the kitchen door. Hands thrust into his pockets, he walked down to the lane that ran along Bag End towards his home. Truth was, he didn't have a job to do for his Gaffer after all; he just needed to be outside, to breathe the fresh air, and to get away by himself sometimes, as bad as it made him feel to lie like that to Mr. Frodo. When that happened, he often found himself at the fence along the lane leading from Bag End to his house, where he would stand looking over the Party Field, staring off with a sad face until his breathing slowed down and he could face Mr. Frodo and the speech lessons again. Strange, he thought as he stood there. Not so long ago he was looking forward spending the winter in Frodo's company. Now... well, as his Gaffer would say, it's the job not started that takes longest to finish. After a time, Sam sighed, turned from the fence, and trudged back up the hill to Bag End - and Mr. Frodo.
After each of these tense breakfasts, the rest of the day would pass slowly, tediously, in one speech drill after another, with barely enough time for second breakfast, elevenses, luncheon, tea, and dinner. At times, Sam would stay and work with Frodo until the wee hours, drinking cup after cup of tea, voice going hoarse with the effort of training his mouth to shape the crystal clear ringing syllables that proper Shire Talk required.
Frodo sprawled in his favorite chair, hand shading his eyes, face appearing pained as he listened to the repetitive sound of Sam perfoming his vocal drills by the fire, late at night in Bag End. An empty wineglass and a bottle of red wine sat on the table next to him.
"In 'obbiton, 'ermione 'ardbottle makes 'oneypies that are 'ardly 'appenstance." Sam's voice was hoarse with effort as he repeated the nonsense verse over and over, the lit candle before him barely flickering.
"Try again, Sam," Frodo sighed, "Say the H's. Just like when you laugh: "ha!" - pronounce the H's. In Hobbiton, Hermione Hardbottle makes honeypies that are hardly happenstance."
"Don't feel much like laughin' right now, Mr. Frodo," Sam muttered, "an' I could do with one of them honeypies as well."
Frodo grimaced. "Sam, please - again. In Hobbiton, Hermione Hardbottle makes honeypies that are hardly happenstance. Try!"
"In 'obbiton, 'ermione 'ardbottle makes 'oneypies that are 'ardly 'appenstance," Sam repeated slowly, sighing. "It just ain't no use, Sir! I can't get it into this thick 'ead of mine - nor say it with this thick tongue. Please, Sir - can't we stop and try again tomorrow?"
Frodo rubbed his eyes. "I suppose you're right, Sam. But you've got to try harder; we've been at this for a solid week, and... well, we just don't seem to be getting anywhere. Not with your H's, not with your A's. " Frodo let his hand fall to the chair of the arm. "Don't you want to make this work, Sam? Surely this can't be harder than working hours on end in a garden. You have to concentrate, Sam - concentrate!"
Sam stared into the fire, away from Frodo. His jaw was working, clenched hard, as his face reddened.
Frodo got up tiredly, without looking at Sam, picking up the glass and bottle to put them away, and moving towards the kitchen. "Go ahead, Sam. Go home."
Sam got up quickly, hands clenched at his sides
"Aye- Yes, sir," Sam said and quickly left through the door and closed it behind him. As soon as he was out, he leaned against the door and gave a great sigh of relief. He was beginning to think he couldn't take it anymore - the strain between the two of them, thee constant nagging regarding his speech, without a moment of respite. In fact, he was immensely relieved to go. He was afraid that if he stayed at Bag End one more minute, he was sure he'd say something he shouldn't. It had gotten to the point where he dreaded the walks to Bag End every morning. Never had that happened before, in all the years he had worked for him. All of Frodo's insistence on the proper way to do this and proper way to say that - he never seemed to be satisfied. Sam tried hard enough - why couldn't Frodo just let him be?
Sam frowned. He thought perhaps he knew - and his brow darkened at the thought, despite himself. After all, Mr. Frodo was a gentlehobbit; what could he possibly expect of his gardener? Attempting to talk like a gentleman - ha! Could it be that this was all just a game? Could it? Ha! What a laugh Mr. Frodo must be having at his expense. Sam's color started to rise as he walked the path to his Gaffers', and he turned to lean on the fence facing the Party Tree, hands digging into the wood, knuckles white. A laugh at his expense - that must be it. Sam's eyes shone with a rare flash of anger at the thought. How dare he? Sam was a talented gardener and proud of it; didn't matter that he wasn't born into one of the "better" families - how dare Frodo think that way - how dare he!!!
Sam:
Just you wait, Frodo Baggins, just you wait!
You'll be sorry, but your tears'll be to late!
You'll be broke, and I'll have money;
Will I help you? Don't be funny!
Just you wait, Frodo Baggins, just you wait!
One day I'll be famous! I'll be proper and prim;
All the folk in the town will bow to me instead of him!
One evening the mayor will say:
"Oh, Samwise, old thing,
I want all of the Shire your praises to sing.
Next week on the twentieth of May
I proclaim Samwise Gamgee Day!
All the people will celebrate the glory of you
And whatever you wish and want I gladly will do."
"Thanks a lot, mayor" says I, in a manner well-bred;
But all I want is Frodo Baggins 'ead!"
"Done," says the mayor with a stroke.
"Guard, run and bring in the bloke!"
Then they'll march you, Frodo Baggins to the wall;
And the mayor will tell me: "Samwise, sound the call."
As you're kicked out of the Shire,
I'll shout: "Throw him in the mire!"
Oh ho ho, Frodo Baggins,
Down you'll go, Frodo Baggins!
Just - you - wait!
Sam stood looking off in the distance, jaw set, chest heaving, as the last of his words reverberated into the air. All was suddenly silent, and a change came over his face as he came to himself again and became aware of his surroundings - the crisp air, the glow of the windows from the holes beyond the Party Field - and, turning around, the warm glow from the windows of Bag End. Sam's face fell, saddened and ashamed. Mr. Frodo wasn't doing all of this for his own sake, after all. He was doing it for Sam's. And as aggravating as his teaching methods might be at times, Sam told himself that it was only because he must be a very difficult student to teach. After all, Frodo must expect something of him - or he wouldn't keep trying now, would he? In fact, anybody else would have given up long ago. Well, better that he let all the steam out here, where nobody could hear, than back there at Bag End! But, garn - he still missed the old ease between them - and he wondered if it would ever come back.
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