file4.txt

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 a 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 coats- the hobbit was fond of visitors. 

The tunnel wound on and on – going fairly but not quite straight into the side of the hill – The Hill, as all the
people for many miles around called it – and many little round doors opened out of it, first on one
side and then on another. No going upstairs for the hobbit: bedrooms, bathrooms, cellars, pantries
(lots of these), wardrobes (he had whole rooms devoted to clothes), kitchens, dining-rooms, all
were on the same floor, and indeed on the same passage. The best rooms were all on the lefthand side (going in), for these were the only ones to have windows, deep-set round windows
looking over his garden, and meadows beyond, sloping down to the river.