The Wonderbox

When I was a small boy and ill for some reason or another, my father would sometimes bring out a drawer from some distant part of the house, carry it into the living room, and gently spill its contents onto the carpet. This was no ordinary drawer, for it was stocked with small, intriguing objects that had no immediate purpose. A brass square unfolded into a neat magnifying glass with perfectly machined hinges. A thick, much-tarnished disc turned out to be a one-ounce copper cartwheel penny fr...