In a gap in the trees there lived a halfling. Not a nasty, messy, running hole, filled with the ends of maggots and an oozy smell, nor yet a hacking, naked, gravelly den with naught in it to seating on or to food: it was a halfling-den, and that means comfort. It had a excellent cylindrical door like a porthole, colored blue, with a lustrous yellow brass latch in the exact middle. The door opened on to a tube-shaped lounge like a tunnel: a very handy tunnel without smoke, with dado walls, and ground tiled and rugged, provided with elegant chairs, and lots and lots of pegs in return hats and coats - the hobbit was caring of visitors. The underground passageway lesion on and on, prospering adequately but not quite straight into the side of the hill - The Hill, as all the people for numerous miles round called it - and many microscopic full doors opened out of it, first on one side and then on another. No customary upstairs owing the hobbit: bedrooms, bathrooms, cellars, pantries (lots of these), wardrobes (he had healthy rooms devout to clothes), kitchens, dining-rooms, all were on the nonetheless floor, and to be sure on the unmodified passage. The crush rooms were all on the left-hand side (successful in), seeking these were the exclusively ones to arrange windows, deep-set full windows looking atop of his garden and meadows beyond, sloping down to the river. This hobbit was a decidedly well-to-do hobbit, and his standing was Baggins.