I’m the part of the bird that’s not in the sky. I can swim in the ocean and yet remain dry. What am I?
A shadow.

I am mother and father, but never birth or nurse. I’m rarely still, but I never wander. What am I?
A tree.

I went into the woods and got it. I sat down to seek it. I brought it home with me because I couldn’t find it. What is it?
A splinter.

I am weightless, but you can see me. Put me in a bucket, and I’ll make it lighter. What am I?
A hole.

No sooner spoken than broken. What is it?
Silence.
A secret.

A certain crime is punishable if attempted but not punishable if committed. What is it?
Suicide.
Coup d’etat.

You use a knife to slice my head and weep beside me when I am dead. What am I?
An onion.

I run over fields and woods all day. Under the bed at night I sit not alone. My tongue hangs out, up and to the rear, awaiting to be filled in the morning. What am I?
A shoe.

Throw it off the highest building, and I’ll not break. But put me in the ocean, and I will. What am I?
A tissue.
A wave.

What can run but never walks, has a mouth but never talks, has a head but never weeps, has a bed but never sleeps?
A river.

I have holes in my top and bottom, my left and right, and in the middle. But I still hold water. What am I?
A sponge.

Give me food, and I will live; give me water, and I will die. What am I?
Fire.

The man who invented it doesn’t want it. The man who bought it doesn’t need it. The man who needs it doesn’t know it. What is it?
A coffin.

What can you catch but not throw?
A cold.

I can run but not walk. Wherever I go, thought follows close behind. What am I?
A nose.

What’s black and white and red all over?
An embarrassed skunk.
A zebra painted red.
A sunburned penguin.
A newspaper.

What goes around the world but stays in a corner?
A stamp.