Take away my first four letters and I turn into a heavy boulder; put them back and I become a three-petaled emblem of Irish heritage. What am I?

I am a frosty cylinder that stands up straight in a cone, but if you look at me too long under the bright light, I start to weep. What am I?

If an electric train is traveling south at 80 miles per hour and the wind is blowing fiercely from the north at 20 miles per hour, which way does the smoke blow?

I drink deep moisture beneath the spring flowerbed to hold a trunk upright, yet say my name on a road trip and I become the designated path marked out on your GPS. What am I?

What vegetable always beats everyone else at running races?

I scream encouragement from the bleachers during summer baseball, yet plugged into an outlet, I slice the stifling humidity to blow cool breezes through your room. What am I?

I am the past tense of standing up from your chair, but with crimson petals, fragrant perfume, and sharp thorns, I am handed over as a Valentine classic. What am I?