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I am taken from a mine, and shut up in a wooden case, from which I am never released, and yet I am used by almost every person. What am I?
Tall as the trees, breathes a black, smoky breeze, First a "chin" from a child, then a singular "knee" Made of red, made of yellow, and sometimes of brown, You'll see many of me on a drive through your town.
Right now, I am an odd number. However, if you take away one letter I will be even. What am I?
Tiny and swift, I flit through the air, Unseen by most, yet I'm always there. From kitchen to garden, I silently roam, With translucent wings, I make my home.
They’re the cheers and roars of the crowd, The parts of the words you say loud, The anchors of the great oaks, The ties to your ancestral folks. Some may call them the way home, But others, the connectors of teeth to bone. What are they?
I am bound, yet meant to be opened. Full of leaves, but not a tree. Yet the tree is part of me.
I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I have no body, but I come alive with wind. What am I?
You measure my life in hours and I serve you by expiring. I’m quick when I’m thin and slow when I’m fat. The wind is my enemy
I have cities, but no houses. I have mountains, but no trees. I have water, but no fish. What am I?
I am not alive, but I grow; I don't have lungs, but I need air; I don't have a mouth, but water kills me. What am I?
I have keys but no locks. I have space but no room. You can enter but can't go outside. What am I?
Alive without breath, As cold as death, Clad in mail never clinking, Never thirsty, ever drinking
I am taken from a mine, and shut up in a wooden case, from which I am never released, and yet I am used by almost every person. What am I?