In the whimsical and ever-changing world of Middle-earth, there are tales that stretch far and wide, some as epic and awe-inspiring as the march of Ents; others, well, slightly less dignified but equally enchanting in their own peculiar way. Among such curiosities of folklore is the strange tale of Frodo Baggins and his rather unconventional method of fishing in The Shire, a story that emerged one balmy evening as hobbits gathered to dine and drink. One fine evening, in the heart of the rolling green of The Shire, Frodo Baggins, ring-bearer, and hero of Middle-earth, faced a far less formidable but no less pressing challenge: his grumbling tummy. Knowing that Samwise was busy tending to his burgeoning garden, Frodo took it upon himself to secure his supper in a daringly naturalistic manner. With a mischief rivaled only by that of his Uncle Bilbo in his younger days, Frodo cloaked himself in the invincibility of sheer hobbit confidence. He slipped out of his cozy hobbit-hole and into the meadow, shedding the familiar comfort of his waistcoat and breeches, until not a single thread obscured the rustic splendor of his noble Shire-born physique. The evening sun paid homage to Frodo as it cast a golden glow upon his body, a testament to the many arduous travels that had sculpted his form to that of a well-toned, albeit modest-sized adventurer. His derriere in particular, pert and inexplicably unweathered, seemed to reflect the very light of Earendil, making the Sackville-Bagginses next door cluck their tongues in unseemly envy. With naught but a smile and a handwoven wicker basket, Frodo approached the tranquil pond, his bare toes squishing into the soft, welcoming mud at its edge. Moss and cattails stood as silent witnesses to the unusual sight. In went Frodo, the cool waters rising to kiss his ankles, his knees, and then embracing his waist with the liquid tenderness held only by still backwaters. Closing his eyes and drawing in a deep breath, Frodo relished the privacy of nature's bosom, away from the prying eyes of Lobelia and her ilk. The air was thick with the scent of wildflowers, and somewhere, a lark serenaded the closing day. The pond, still as glass, awaited Frodo's uncanny technique of piscatorial procurement. And then, with the gravity of an Ent deciding on just the right turn of phrase, Frodo unleashed what could only be described as the rousing horn of Helm Hammerhand--but not from his lips. A rippling bass note hummed out from his most natural of hobbit-hollows, gently manipulating the serene world beneath the water's calm mirror. The creatures of the pond had heard many things: the babble of brooks, the whisper of the willow's branches, even the high-pitched jubilation of Merry and Pippin after a particularly fruitful ale tasting. But they had not, in all their generations, experienced the sonic bloom Frodo gifted them that dusky eve. Mere moments elapsed--though to any outside observer, the time may have seemed as substantial as the span between Second and Third Breakfasts in importance--before the pond yielded its bounty. One by one, a parade of perplexed fish bobbed to the surface, stunned into submission by Frodo's unexpected aquatic aria. With a humble, triumphant grin, Frodo, naturalist and now self-taught fish-whisperer, plucked the bewildered swimmers from the water and nestled them into his basket--a feast delivered by way of hobbit-gastric miracle, the likes of which Rivendell's finest ballads could scarcely comprehend. The fish, floating lazily within their wicker confines, were more content than any fish had right to be, having been part of a tale certain to swim through the annals of hobbit legend. In moments, Frodo retreated from the depths, his basket laden with the fruits of his triumph, his heart full, and his dinner secured. Clothed once again in more conventional garb, he left the pond and the stars above to puzzle over the ribaldry of the day, while The Shire dreamed on, oblivious to the epicurean adventure that had taken place beneath its very nose. The promise of a pan-fried supper did more than just titillate his tastebuds; it secured Frodo Baggins a place in the whispered chuckles of hobbit gatherings for generations to come--at least until the next second breakfast.