Through forests green, or mountains grand, an unpaved journey across the land, for walkers, I’m a helping hand.

You see me float, atop the foam, not sink, as you think I should. What am I?

I bring my house along for the ride, but speed is something I can’t provide. I’ll get there. . . just not today, at my own pace, I make my way.

Three moles are tunneling single-file underneath a bakery. The first mole, the one in front, says I SMELL SUGAR. The second mole, the one in the middle, says WELL, I SMELL CIMMAMON. The third mole, the one at the rear, says THAT'S FUNNY, ALL I SMELL IS...

I grow in fields both low and wide, a humble green you step beside. Count my leaves, most show but three, but find one more and fortune’s free.