Lucky—even more so having arrived with both intact of emerald hat and satchel galuchat—had found his way to bridge’s end with kettle’s cache ready to be hid, but, then, he pondered, “If, regarding the gold, self continue’s to hold, then I will turn lonely as old. However, if that gold were sold, no return would be equally bold. And, if gold were freely rolled, room rained and bowed would be left in the cold.” So, peering into his pot with a perplexed pout, Lucky finally accepted a date with fate by going the other route: he chose to place neither value nor concern on items laid about, rather cherishing only those entities able to—lifefully, upliftingly, luckily—sprout. ; )