The Hobbithouse

Deep in the Pinetum, drawn half back into the hillside, is a round green door, with two ivy-curtained windows like a pair of sleepy eyes, and a living turf roof with grass and a daisy or two growing on top of it. Inside it is dim, and dry, and earth-smelling, and full of old copybooks whose names have faded almost to nothing. Girls were here long before you, and left their names, and the names have gone. It is out of bounds. It is the best place in the world. And it is the headquarters of a certain Society.