In journalism, I describe a timeless story that never goes out of date. In the dead of winter, I am the hardy conifer that refuses to drop its needles while all around me the forest goes bare. What compound word am I?

I fall silently from grey winter skies to carpet the sleeping earth in white. Take away my very first letter, and I name the exact instant you are reading this line. What am I?

I wear thirteen red and white stripes and fifty white stars, fluttering proudly above parades and summer bazaars. What am I?

I am bought by the yard, but I am worn by the foot. What am I?

I possess a core without a heart, skin without pores, and while I hang ripe from an autumn branch, I can also sit lovingly at the center of your eye. What am I?

I send home letters like A, B, C, D, and F, yet I carry no postage stamps. My arrival can bring grounded weekends or celebrations for the whole family. What am I?

If an Easter rabbit enjoyed a dram of peat-smoked whisky, you might hear my compound name, but schoolchildren draw my grid on asphalt with chalk to skip between numbered squares. What game am I?