Where rows stand tall, in neat, green array, sweet treasures grow, come what may.

A mind's labyrinth of interlocking paths, where the seeker finds delight in the dance of pieces and the art of fitting them whole.

I guard what’s precious, day and night, a silent watcher, small and tight. I open only when you know the secret that will make me go.

You dip, then write with what I provide, though I sit still and hold ink inside.

What has a head, a tail, is brown, and has no legs?