The elderly Hobbitess sighed as she watched her great nephew carefully pouring slip into a mould for a figure of a china shepherdess. This time he’d managed to do so with a minimum of spillage—a distinct achievement, considering how much liquid clay she’d had to clean up in recent weeks.
His parents hoped the time their Pippin spent with her would help mould his ability to appreciate and create beautiful things, but she had her doubts. He was impatient, and she suspected his gifts would lie in recognizing those whose spirits were beautiful rather than in creating art.