"Death is a great price to pay for a red rose," cried the Nightingale, "and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?"
impression of an old peasant playing a balalaika applied with short brass nails to the lid. It is a box that somehow came to Hokumburg from Russia before the Revolution. It is too small to be useful and too old and lovely to be got rid of, so we keep odd scraps that catch our fancy in it. Things we believe at the time that we may want to return to later. But we seldom do. Who has the time?
This morning we stumbled upon an hour we had somehow misplaced this past spring.
Nice. I'm spending that hour perusing the Goombah.
Bob, Gumm Creek
It's the things that are too small to be useful and too old and lovely to be got rid of that are worth preserving.
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