As I walked through the frozen forest to my house I could fell the gust of cold air under my jacket, and I could feel the snow crunch beneath the soles of my shoes. It was bright out and the birds where chirping there usual songs it was just another day in Alaska.
I sat outside under the roof of my once dry patio. I was drinking tea and watching the humming birds buzz around my flowers. Then the sky got darker and the wind began to pick up, the rain began to fall and the humming of the humming birds was replaced with the pitter patter of the rain drops on my roof.
In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort. It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened on to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with panelled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coatsthe hobbit was fond of visitors.