Before long the wood came to a sudden end. Wide grass-lands stretched before them. They now saw that they had, in fact, turned too much to the south. Away over the flats they could glimpse the low hill of Bucklebury across the River, but it was now to their left. Creeping cautiously out from the edge of the trees, they set off across the open as quickly as they could.

At first they felt afraid, away from the shelter of the wood. Far back behind them stood the high place where they had breakfasted. The sun escaping from the breaking clouds, as it sank towards the hills they had left, was now shining brightly again. The land became steadily more tame and well-ordered. Soon they came into well-tended fields and meadows: there were hedges and gates and dikes for drainage. Everything seemed quiet and peaceful, just an ordinary corner of the Shire.

They passed along the edge of a huge turnip-field, and came to a stout gate. Beyond it a rutted lane ran between low well-laid hedges toward a distant clump of trees. Gerbera stopped. "I know these fields and this gate!" she said. "This is old Farmer Greenbottle's land. That's his farm away there in the trees."

"One trouble after another!" said Columbine, looking nearly as much alarmed as if Gerbera had declared the lane was the slot leading to a dragon's den. The others looked at her in surprise. "What's wrong with old Greenbottle?" asked Gerbera. "He's a good friend to all the Oldbucks. Of course he's a terror to trespassers, and keeps ferocious dogs--but after all, folk down here are near the border and have to be more on their guard."

"I know," said Columbine. "But all the same," she added with a shame-faced laugh. "I am terrified of him and his dogs."