A tiny bead, like fragile glass, strung along a cord of grass.
Big as a biscuit, deep as a cup, but even a river can’t fill it up. What is it?
What an fill a room but takes up no space?
Golden treasure I contain, Guarded by hundreds and thousands. Stored in a labyrinth where no man walks, Yet men come often to seize my gold. By smoke I am overcome and robbed, then left to build my treasure anew
Two little holes in the side of a hill. Just as you come to the cherry-red mill.
Why are foot injuries so serious?