Compost is always a matter of sorrow, the gardener
said, shaking his head over the undigested melon peels which
the worms refused to devour. The wrong temperature, the wrong
humidity, and it turns into a mess of fermentation that bears
no wine, no matter how much one may whine about it. Gardening
is an art, after all, as much as it is an exercise in mud, and
really millipedes are not 'bugs' but the most ancient form of
crustacean, an older form than anything else we are likely to
encounter. There is a moral in this story somewhere, but, alas,
you will not find it.