Lost Creek Hollow milk bottle

They grew, but hardly not in the exponential way they would in the days and weeks to come. And he marvelled over them all the same, eyes aglow in warmth that did not always visibly turn up on the scarred stoicism that rested. Often when he had been able to steal a free moment, Mordecai found he was content for once to let the world pass him by to watch over the trio of babes. But those moments were far and few in between, with all that came in the day to day. Borders to be maintained, wayfarers to greet and fend off inevitably queries and debate internally their suitability; he tired of it quickly and was more than comforted in the fact that there had been others so willing to step up and pull more of their weight.

Movement drew his attention — rather, the sound of such — and Mordecai was long turning his head to gander a look before he knew what it was. He shifted and rose, drawing his large frame to wind tightly and carefully in the almost bottle-necked part of the den to better watch. Where he had anticipated a fair amount of movement there was not, and he had only settled back to the warm patch of earth in time to hear a particular noise that stated contentedness. It prompted a snort of amusement from him, followed by him reaching out to nudge Pippin purely for a reaction.