The day dawned crisp and clear, but what confused young Peregrin Took was the lack of birdsong. Rolling out of bed, but still holding his blankets tight around himself, he pulled open his curtains and gasped in delight. Instead of the usual frosted topped grass there lay sheets of pure white snow, layered from hill to hill, the sky so pale that the horizon merged. Squealing with delight, the young hobbit flung on his clothes, crumpled from a night on the floor, and rushed outside.
He grasped fistfulls of the snow, tossing it high in the air. Starting with a small snowball, he rolled it carefully in a twisted path until it reached almost as high as him, then he made a smaller ball and balance it with great care on top of the other. He quickly hunted around for some stones and twigs and for a finishing touch wound his long scarf about its 'neck'. Pippin took several steps back to admire his handiwork - it stood resplendent - the early morning sun casting a faint glow around its back - a proper Snow-Hobbit.
He ran back inside to wake his mother, she would want to see what must be the first Snow-Hobbit of the year. "Look, look, Ma!" he cried as he flung back the curtains, "I've made a proper wee Snobbit!"