I spend my life hiding below, while only my hair is left to show.

The more you take, the more you leave behind. What am I?

A couple, two of a kind, shoes, socks or scissors. A yellowish-green fruit with a big bottom. And the act of peeling that fruit with a knife.

What was the name of the Magician who lost his magic?

I send no letters to the trees, yet every bud appears. The birds return without a map, as though they’ve known for years.