I have four sturdy legs and hold drawers full of supplies, but I never wear clothes or move an inch. A student sits before me all day. What am I?

I am neither the past nor the future, yet on Christmas morning I sit brightly wrapped under the evergreen branches waiting to be torn open. What word am I?

I am sung in a dialect few fully speak, remembered mostly at midnight when old acquaintances are brought to mind. What am I?

I have four wheels and fly across the city every morning, but I never leave the pavement. What am I?

Plant me in spring soil to see tulips take shape, or screw me in overhead so dark rooms escape. What am I?

I am a painful squeeze given to anyone who forgets to wear green on St. Patrick's Day, but in the kitchen, I am merely the tiny amount of salt taken between thumb and finger. What am I?

What kind of musical note always feels a bit under the weather?