Answer:
Dies half its life. Lives the rest. Dances without music. Breathes without breath.
A tiny bead, like fragile glass, strung along a cord of grass.
I have rivers without water. Forests without trees. Mountains without rocks. Towns without houses.
A home of wood in a wooded place, but built not by hand. High above the earthen ground, it holds its pale blue gems. What is it?
Take off my skin, I won't cry, but you will.
When is it bad luck to see a black cat?