 Poor Mr. Baggins had never had much practice in climbing trees, but they hoisted him up into the lowest branches of an enormous oak that grew right out into the path, and up he had to go as best he could. He pushed his way through the tangled twigs with many a slap in the eye. He was greened and grime'd from the old bark of the greater boughs. More than once he slipped and caught himself just in time. And at last, after a dreadful struggle in a difficult place, where there seemed to be no convenient branches at all, he got near the top, all the time he was wondering whether there were spiders in the tree, and how he was going to get down again, except by falling. In the end he poked his head above the roof of leaves, and then he found spiders all right, but they were only small ones of ordinary size, and they were after the butterflies. Bilbo's eyes were nearly blinded by the light. He could hear the dwarves shouting up at him from far below, but he could not answer, only hold on and blink. The sun was shining brilliantly, and it was a long while before he could bear it. When he could, he saw all round him a sea of dark green ruffled here and there by the breeze, and there were everywhere hundreds of butterflies. I expect they were a kind of purple emperor, a butterfly that loves the tops of oak woods, but these were not purple at all. They were a dark, dark velvety black without any markings to be seen. He looked at the black emperors for a long time, and enjoyed the feel of the breeze in his hair and on his face, but at length the cries of the dwarves, who were now simply stamping with impatience down below, reminded him of his real business. It was no good. Gaze as much as he might.