Gold in a leather bag, swinging on a tree, money after honey in its time. Ills of a scurvy crew cured by the sea, reason in its season but no rhyme.

Gold in a leather bag, swinging on a tree, money after honey in its time. Ills of a scurvy crew cured by the sea, reason in its season but no rhyme.

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Three little letters. A paradox to some. The worse that it is, the better it becomes.

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Thirty white horses on a red hill, First they champ, Then they stamp, Then they stand still.

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You are having a bad day if 12 peers deem you to be this

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The sharp slim blade, that cuts the wind.

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My first is nothing but a name; my second is more small; my whole is of so little fame it has no name at all.

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Riddle of the Day

May 14, 2026

What covers its face with its hands, speaks no language, yet most known what it's saying?

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