It may be on the house But it is not free.

A thin slice of a tree, The bricks of a wasp's home. But of what use is it to me? Well, I can use it to write a tome.

I fly up high with my little eye. For the sky, I am quite the reacher. But I can cause you to let out a sigh when I'm done by a boring teacher.

I’m the fragile cradle of life, smooth and round. My golden heart is often sought, in kitchens where I'm scrambled, poached, or boiled.

If you love me, avoid bottles and gifts of fire.