Above is a photo of my grandfather reading the magazine he self-published ‘Bright Stories’. Royal Rosamond returned to the place of his birth to write about the Ozark Hill People who have been comapred to the Hobbits.

Poetry On Leaves (1946)

by

Royal Reuben Rosamond

“Poetry on Leaves

The spring sun was warm now, brightening as with happiness in the
open fields, the broad land resembling a crazy quilt because of the
wooded patches everywhere. Already the wild grapes were in bloom,
and if the sun continued smiling there would be, in every Hillman’s
cellar, many, many jars of grape juice for making jelly, and wine
for those who knew the trick of making it. Those pink-white blossoms
on the pale yellow bushes hard against warm hillside rocks were
huckleberries in bloom. The wild grapes and the huckleberries once
ripe, tangier here in Shannon County, Missouri, than most any other
place in the Ozarks.

I walked on, for I had yet a long way to go before nightfall. Now it
was but a mite after mid-day. After leaving the train at Winona, I
could have perhaps caught a ride to Eminence had I stayed with the
wagon road instead of footing it up the spur-track leading northward
to cross Jack’s Fork at the Hodge place where I left to journey up
Possum Trot toward Little Wonder Schoolhouse and Tucked Away Church
House, above which in the ride to the north, I lived – the place
where I was born and which I called home, where my parents had
settled in their youth and planned some day to die. The way was
long, the trail lonesome and ofttimes steep. As wild a region as
ever grew outdoors. No matter. I wanted to stretch my legs and let
the April breeze take the orders of a Saint Louis foundry away from
me.

I went home on a visit once a year – had already worked five years
up there, long enough to forget how to talk (or write) hillbilly
talk, it seemed like. Still, I didn’t mind being called a hillbilly.
Life in the Ozarks had a tang. I liked everything about them, from
the blooming of the redbud and dogwood in springtime to pumpkin pies
and possum and coon hunting and listening to fox hounds in the fall.
I was born and bred here. This wilderness was in my blood. I felt as
much a part of it as does a back log to a fireplace. I was twenty
six years old now, and when I become fifty, I intend to retire, and
go sit on pappy’s rocker there on the front porch and rock and smoke
and think until I die.

Here on the side of Grapevine Mountain, high above the glistening of
Jack’s Fork below, for days and weeks and years back into the dim
past she had lived in splendid isolation, the silence, save for the
passing Hillman on the road below her cabin, as vast as the greenery
of the heaving land-billows rising higher and ever higher toward the
summit of the far ridge leaning against the blue heaven on the west,
below which was the great spring from which the stream Jack’s Fork
nursed and found perpetual substance. A skinny, faded creature in
her late forties, seemingly as antiquated as the furniture in the
two small rooms in her rustic cabin, yet she possessed the amazing
gift of cheerfulness. Even though her income was very meager, yet
she contrived to spread a spirit of near-opulence and comforting
friendliness about herself which was as convincing as was Mr.
Russell’s plush appearing abundance. In summer she mothered her
pansy beds, naming the little faces, as she called them, after the
little girls she taught in winter, the boys unslighted by living as
vegetables in her garden, the more refractory being a gooseberry
busy or wild plum tree.”

Fredegar was one of the small group of Hobbits who knew that Frodo had the Ring. ‘Fatty’ was a descendant of Hildibrand Took (T.A. 2849–2934), one of the many sons of the Old Took. He was the son of Odovacar Bolger and Rosamunda Took, part of the Bolger family.
When Frodo Baggins, Sam, Merry and Pippin set out to take the Ring to Rivendell, Fredegar stayed behind in Frodo’s house at Crickhollow in an attempt to keep up appearances and delay news of their departure, as well as give any message to Gandalf should he turn up. He was frightened half out of his wits by the arrival of the Nazgûl but escaped unharmed (although he failed to communicate with Gandalf). Fredegar could have gone with Frodo and his companions into the Old Forest, but was terrified of the stories about it and too in love with the Shire to leave it, even for Frodo. Though Merry tried to persuade him that the Old Forest would be nothing compared to meeting the Ringwraiths, Fatty was adamant, so the other Hobbits went into the forest with only the knowledge of Merry to aid them.