Gold in a leather bag, swinging on a tree, money after honey in its time. Ills of a scurvy crew cured by the sea, reason in its season but no rhyme.

Gold in a leather bag, swinging on a tree, money after honey in its time. Ills of a scurvy crew cured by the sea, reason in its season but no rhyme.

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Riddle of the Day

Mar 28, 2026

Not born, but from a Mother's body drawn. I hang until half of me is gone. I sleep in a cave until I grow old. Then valued for my hardened gold.

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