cobol-text-analyzer/hobbit.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 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 round 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 left-hand 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. This hobbit was a very well-to-do hobbit, and
his name was Baggins. The Bagginses had lived in the neighbourhood of The Hill
for time out of mind, and people considered them very respectable, not only
because most of them were rich, but also because they never had any adventures
or did anything unexpected: you could tell what a Baggins would say on any
question without the bother of asking him. This is a story of how a Baggins had
an adventure, found himself doing and saying things altogether unexpected. He
may have lost the neighbours' respect, but he gained-well, you will see whether
he gained anything in the end.