English 3 H test
Question 1 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)
(LC)
From The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain
There was a rustling of dresses, and the standing congregation sat down. The boy whose history this book relates did not enjoy the prayer, he only endured it—if he even did that much. He was restive all through it; he kept tally of the details of the prayer, unconsciously—for he was not listening, but he knew the ground of old, and the clergyman’s regular route over it—and when a little trifle of new matter was interlarded, his ear detected it and his whole nature resented it; he considered additions unfair, and scoundrelly. In the midst of the prayer a fly had lit on the back of the pew in front of him and tortured his spirit by calmly rubbing its hands together, embracing its head with its arms, and polishing it so vigorously that it seemed to almost part company with the body, and the slender thread of a neck was exposed to view; scraping its wings with its hind legs and smoothing them to its body as if they had been coat-tails; going through its whole toilet as tranquilly as if it knew it was perfectly safe. As indeed it was; for as sorely as Tom’s hands itched to grab for it they did not dare—he believed his soul would be instantly destroyed if he did such a thing while the prayer was going on. But with the closing sentence his hand began to curve and steal forward; and the instant the “Amen” was out the fly was a prisoner of war. His aunt detected the act and made him let it go.
The minister gave out his text and droned along monotonously through an argument that was so prosy that many a head by and by began to nod—and yet it was an argument that dealt in limitless fire and brimstone and thinned the predestined elect down to a company so small as to be hardly worth the saving. Tom counted the pages of the sermon; after church he always knew how many pages there had been, but he seldom knew anything else about the discourse. However, this time he was really interested for a little while. The minister made a grand and moving picture of the assembling together of the world’s hosts at the millennium when the lion and the lamb should lie down together and a little child should lead them. But the pathos, the lesson, the moral of the great spectacle were lost upon the boy; he only thought of the conspicuousness of the principal character before the on-looking nations; his face lit with the thought, and he said to himself that he wished he could be that child, if it was a tame lion.
Read these lines from the excerpt again:
He was restive all through it; he kept tally of the details of the prayer, unconsciously—for he was not listening, but he knew the ground of old, and the clergyman’s regular route over it—and when a little trifle of new matter was interlarded, his ear detected it and his whole nature resented it; he considered additions unfair, and scoundrelly.
Which word from the excerpt helps define the word trifle?
Route
Details
Ground
Tally
Question 2 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)
(MC)
Which of the following corrects the error in meaning and usage in the sentence below?
Your immune system has the ability to impediment the growth of bacteria in your body.
Change immune to immunity.
Change ability to able.
Change impediment to impede.
Change growth to grow.
Question 3 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)
(MC)
Which of the following corrects the error in meaning and usage in the sentence below?
We need to find an equity solution to this issue: one that benefits all parties equally.
Change equity to equitable.
Change solution to solute.
Change benefits to beneficial.
Change equally to equal.
Question 4 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)
(MC)
A very handsome young lady in the store offered me a pair of blue gloves. I did not want blue, but she said they would look very pretty on a hand like mine. The remark touched me tenderly. I glanced furtively at my hand, and somehow it did seem rather a comely member. I tried a glove on my left, and blushed a little. Manifestly the size was too small for me. But I felt gratified when she said:
“Oh, it is just right!” yet I knew it was no such thing.
I tugged at it diligently, but it was discouraging work. She said:
“Ah! I see you are accustomed to wearing kid gloves while some gentlemen are so awkward about putting them on.”
It was the last compliment I had expected. I only understand about putting on the buckskin article perfectly. I made another effort, and tore the glove from the base of the thumb into the palm of the hand, and tried to hide the tear. She kept up her compliments, and I kept up my determination to deserve them or die.
“Ah, you have had experience!” (Yes, a rip down the back of the hand) “They are just right for you—your hand is very small—if they tear, you need not pay for them.” (There was a rent across the middle.) “I can always tell when a gentleman understands putting on kid gloves. There is a grace about it that only comes with long patience.” (Meanwhile, my efforts caused the whole afterguard of the glove to “fetch away,” as the sailors say, and then the fabric parted across the knuckles, and nothing was left but a melancholy ruin.)
I was too much flattered to make an exposure and throw the merchandise on the angel’s hands. I was hot, vexed, confused, yet still happy, but I hated the other boys for taking such an absorbing interest in the proceedings. I wished they were in Jericho. I felt exquisitely mean when I said cheerfully:
“This one does very well; it fits elegantly. I like a glove that fits. No, never mind, ma’am, never mind; I’ll put the other on in the street. It is warm here.”
It was warm. It was the warmest place I ever was in. I paid the bill, and, as I passed out with a fascinating bow, I thought I detected a light in the woman’s eye that was gently ironical, and when I looked back from the street, and she was laughing to herself about something or other, I said to myself, with withering sarcasm: “Oh, certainly; you know how to put on kid gloves, don’t you?—a self-complacent heel, ready to be flattered out of your senses by every petticoat that chooses to take the trouble to do it!”
And I tried to remember why I had entered the store in the first place, and if I shouldn’t return on the morrow to complete my initial mission.
Read these lines from the excerpt again:
I was hot, vexed, confused, yet still happy, but I hated the other boys for taking such an absorbing interest in the proceedings. I wished they were in Jericho. I felt exquisitely mean when I said cheerfully:
“This one does very well; it fits elegantly. I like a glove that fits. No, never mind, ma’am, never mind; I’ll put the other on in the street. It is warm here.”
This excerpt from the story shows that the narrator
thinks the shop girl should help the other boys
is curious about the boys’ interest in what is going on
wants to stop the boys from having fun at his expense
feels angry about the boys purchasing gloves
Question 5 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)
(MC)
A very handsome young lady in the store offered me a pair of blue gloves. I did not want blue, but she said they would look very pretty on a hand like mine. The remark touched me tenderly. I glanced furtively at my hand, and somehow it did seem rather a comely member. I tried a glove on my left, and blushed a little. Manifestly the size was too small for me. But I felt gratified when she said:
“Oh, it is just right!” yet I knew it was no such thing.
I tugged at it diligently, but it was discouraging work. She said:
“Ah! I see you are accustomed to wearing kid gloves while some gentlemen are so awkward about putting them on.”
It was the last compliment I had expected. I only understand about putting on the buckskin article perfectly. I made another effort, and tore the glove from the base of the thumb into the palm of the hand, and tried to hide the tear. She kept up her compliments, and I kept up my determination to deserve them or die.
“Ah, you have had experience!” (Yes, a rip down the back of the hand) “They are just right for you—your hand is very small—if they tear, you need not pay for them.” (There was a rent across the middle.) “I can always tell when a gentleman understands putting on kid gloves. There is a grace about it that only comes with long patience.” (Meanwhile, my efforts caused the whole afterguard of the glove to “fetch away,” as the sailors say, and then the fabric parted across the knuckles, and nothing was left but a melancholy ruin.)
I was too much flattered to make an exposure and throw the merchandise on the angel’s hands. I was hot, vexed, confused, yet still happy, but I hated the other boys for taking such an absorbing interest in the proceedings. I wished they were in Jericho. I felt exquisitely mean when I said cheerfully:
“This one does very well; it fits elegantly. I like a glove that fits. No, never mind, ma’am, never mind; I’ll put the other on in the street. It is warm here.”
It was warm. It was the warmest place I ever was in. I paid the bill, and, as I passed out with a fascinating bow, I thought I detected a light in the woman’s eye that was gently ironical, and when I looked back from the street, and she was laughing to herself about something or other, I said to myself, with withering sarcasm: “Oh, certainly; you know how to put on kid gloves, don’t you?—a self-complacent heel, ready to be flattered out of your senses by every petticoat that chooses to take the trouble to do it!”
And I tried to remember why I had entered the store in the first place, and if I shouldn’t return on the morrow to complete my initial mission.
Read these lines from the excerpt again:
It was the last compliment I had expected. I only understand about putting on the buckskin article perfectly. I made another effort, and tore the glove from the base of the thumb into the palm of the hand, and tried to hide the tear. She kept up her compliments, and I kept up my determination to deserve them or die.
These lines from the story show that the shop girl is
embarrassed by the narrator
manipulating the narrator
helping the narrator with the gloves
making the narrator uncomfortable
Question 6 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)
(LC)
“The Old Swimmin’ Hole”
By James Whitcomb Riley
OH! the old swimmin’-hole! whare the crick so still and deep
Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,
And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below
Sounded like the laugh of something we onc’t ust to know
Before we could remember anything but the eyes
Of the angels lookin’ out as we left Paradise;
But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle,
And it’s hard to part ferever with the old swimmin’-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin’-hole! In the happy days of yore,
When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,
Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide
That gazed back at me so gay and glorified,
It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress
My shadder smilin’ up at me with sich tenderness.
But them days is past and gone, and old Time’s tuck his toll
From the old man come back to the old swimmin’-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin’-hole! In the long, lazy-days
When the humdrum of school made so many run-a-ways,
How plesant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,
Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane
You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole
They was lots o’fun on hands at the old swimmin’-hole.
But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll
Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin’-hole.
There the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall,
And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;
And it mottled the worter with amber and gold
Tel the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled;
And the snake-feeder’s four gauzy wings fluttered by
Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky,
Or a wounded apple-blossom in the breeze’s controle
As it cut acrost some orchurd to’rds the old swimmin’-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin’—hole! When I last saw the place,
The scene was all changed, like the change in my face;
The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot
Whare the old divin’-log lays sunk and fergot.
And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be—
But never again will theyr shade shelter me!
And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,
And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin’-hole.
Read this stanza again:
Oh! the old swimmin’-hole! In the happy days of yore,
When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,
Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide
That gazed back at me so gay and glorified,
It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress
My shadder smilin’ up at me with sich tenderness.
But them days is past and gone, and old Time’s tuck his toll
From the old man come back to the old swimmin’-hole.
The second stanza of the poem
describes the swimming hole
describes how the boy has changed
describes the speaker as a boy
describes how the swimming hole has changed
Question 7 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)
(LC)
From The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain
Then her conscience reproached her, and she yearned to say something kind and loving; but she judged that this would be construed into a confession that she had been in the wrong, and discipline forbade that. So she kept silence, and went about her affairs with a troubled heart. Tom sulked in a corner and exalted his woes. He knew that in her heart his aunt was on her knees to him, and he was morosely gratified by the consciousness of it. He would hang out no signals, he would take notice of none. He knew that a yearning glance fell upon him, now and then, through a film of tears, but he refused recognition of it. He pictured himself lying sick unto death and his aunt bending over him beseeching one little forgiving word, but he would turn his face to the wall, and die with that word unsaid. Ah, how would she feel then? And he pictured himself brought home from the river, dead, with his curls all wet, and his sore heart at rest. How she would throw herself upon him, and how her tears would fall like rain, and her lips pray God to give her back her boy and she would never, never abuse him any more! But he would lie there cold and white and make no sign—a poor little sufferer, whose griefs were at an end. He so worked upon his feelings with the pathos of these dreams, that he had to keep swallowing, he was so like to choke; and his eyes swam in a blur of water, which overflowed when he winked, and ran down and trickled from the end of his nose. And such a luxury to him was this petting of his sorrows, that he could not bear to have any worldly cheeriness or any grating delight intrude upon it; it was too sacred for such contact; and so, presently, when his cousin Mary danced in, all alive with the joy of seeing home again after an age-long visit of one week to the country, he got up and moved in clouds and darkness out at one door as she brought song and sunshine in at the other.
Read these lines from the excerpt again:
And such a luxury to him was this petting of his sorrows, that he could not bear to have any worldly cheeriness or any grating delight intrude upon it; it was too sacred for such contact; and so, presently, when his cousin Mary danced in, all alive with the joy of seeing home again after an age-long visit of one week to the country, he got up and moved in clouds and darkness out at one door as she brought song and sunshine in at the other.
These lines from the excerpt explicitly or directly state that
Tom wants Mary to make his aunt feel bad for punishing him
Mary’s good mood will make Tom even more gloomy and upset
Mary’s good mood will make Tom’s aunt forget why she’s upset
Tom does not want Mary’s mood to make him feel better
Question 8 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)
(LC)
From The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain
Then her conscience reproached her, and she yearned to say something kind and loving; but she judged that this would be construed into a confession that she had been in the wrong, and discipline forbade that. So she kept silence, and went about her affairs with a troubled heart. Tom sulked in a corner and exalted his woes. He knew that in her heart his aunt was on her knees to him, and he was morosely gratified by the consciousness of it. He would hang out no signals, he would take notice of none. He knew that a yearning glance fell upon him, now and then, through a film of tears, but he refused recognition of it. He pictured himself lying sick unto death and his aunt bending over him beseeching one little forgiving word, but he would turn his face to the wall, and die with that word unsaid. Ah, how would she feel then? And he pictured himself brought home from the river, dead, with his curls all wet, and his sore heart at rest. How she would throw herself upon him, and how her tears would fall like rain, and her lips pray God to give her back her boy and she would never, never abuse him any more! But he would lie there cold and white and make no sign—a poor little sufferer, whose griefs were at an end. He so worked upon his feelings with the pathos of these dreams, that he had to keep swallowing, he was so like to choke; and his eyes swam in a blur of water, which overflowed when he winked, and ran down and trickled from the end of his nose. And such a luxury to him was this petting of his sorrows, that he could not bear to have any worldly cheeriness or any grating delight intrude upon it; it was too sacred for such contact; and so, presently, when his cousin Mary danced in, all alive with the joy of seeing home again after an age-long visit of one week to the country, he got up and moved in clouds and darkness out at one door as she brought song and sunshine in at the other.
Read these lines from the excerpt again:
How she would throw herself upon him, and how her tears would fall like rain, and her lips pray God to give her back her boy and she would never, never abuse him any more! But he would lie there cold and white and make no sign—a poor little sufferer, whose griefs were at an end.
These lines from the excerpt explicitly or directly state that Tom’s aunt has
mistreated him
rescued him
apologized to him
forgiven him
Question 9 (Fill-In-The-Blank Worth 6 points)
(MC)
From The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain
As he was passing by the house where Jeff Thatcher lived, he saw a new girl in the garden—a lovely little blue-eyed creature with yellow hair plaited into two long-tails, white summer frock and embroidered pan-talettes. The fresh-crowned hero fell without firing a shot. A certain Amy Lawrence vanished out of his heart and left not even a memory of herself behind. He had thought he loved her to distraction; he had regarded his passion as adoration; and behold it was only a poor little evanescent partiality. He had been months winning her; she had confessed hardly a week ago; he had been the happiest and the proudest boy in the world only seven short days, and here in one instant of time she had gone out of his heart like a casual stranger whose visit is done.
Identify three words that best describe Tom Sawyer as he is depicted in this excerpt.
Choose one answer from each group. Type the LETTER ONLY for each answer in the correct blank.
Type A, B, or C for Blank 1.
Preoccupied
Concerned
Impulsive
Type F, G, or H for Blank 2.
Horrified
Confused
Determined
Type I, J, or K for Blank 3.
Passionate
Considerate
Indecisive
Answer for Blank 1:
Answer for Blank 2:
Answer for Blank 3:
Question 10 (Fill-In-The-Blank Worth 6 points)
(LC)
From “The Tyranny of Things” by Elizabeth Morris
Once upon a time, when I was very tired, I chanced to go away to a little house by the sea. “It is empty,” they said, “but you can easily furnish it.” Empty! Yes, thank Heaven! Furnish it? Heaven forbid! Its floors were bare, its walls were bare, its tables there were only two in the house were bare. There was nothing in the closets but books; nothing in the bureau drawers but the smell of clean, fresh wood; nothing in the kitchen but an oil stove, and a few a very few dishes; nothing in the attic but rafters and sunshine, and a view of the sea. After I had been there an hour there descended upon me a great peace, a sense of freedom, of in finite leisure. In the twilight I sat before the flickering embers of the open fire, and looked out through the open door to the sea, and asked myself, “Why?” Then the answer came: I was emancipated from things. There was nothing in the house to demand care, to claim attention, to cumber my consciousness with its insistent, unchanging companionship. There was nothing but a shelter, and outside, the fields and marshes, the shore and the sea. These did not have to be taken down and put up and arranged and dusted and cared for. They were not things at all, they were powers, presences.
And so I rested. While the spell was still unbroken, I came away. For broken it would have been, I know, had I not fled first. Even in this refuge the enemy would have pursued me, found me out, encompassed me.
If we could but free ourselves once for all, how simple life might become! One of my friends, who, with six young children and only one servant, keeps a spotless house and a soul serene, told me once how she did it. “My dear, once a month I give away every single thing in the house that we do not imperatively need. It sounds wasteful, but I don’t believe it really is. Sometimes Jeremiah mourns over missing old clothes, or back numbers of the magazines, but I tell him if he doesn’t want to be mated to a gibbering maniac he will let me do as I like.”
The old monks knew all this very well. One wonders sometimes how they got their power; but go up to Fiesole, and sit a while in one of those little, bare, white-walled cells, and you will begin to understand. If there were any spiritual force in one, it would have to come out there.
I have not their courage, and I win no such freedom. I allow myself to be overwhelmed by the invading host of things, making fitful resistance, but without any real steadiness of purpose. Yet never do I wholly give up the struggle, and in my heart I cherish an ideal, remotely typified by that empty little house beside the sea.
Which words from the excerpt does Morris use to refer to things?
Choose one answer from each group. Type the LETTER ONLY for each answer in the correct blank.
Type B, C, or D for Blank 1.
Leisure
Powers
Insistent
Type E, F, or G for Blank 2.
Demand
Refuge
Magazines
Type H, I, or J for Blank 3.
Ourselves
Single
Enemy
Answer for Blank 1:
Answer for Blank 2:
Answer for Blank 3:
Question 11 (Fill-In-The-Blank Worth 6 points)
(LC)
“The Old Swimmin’ Hole”
By James Whitcomb Riley
OH! the old swimmin’–hole! whare the crick so still and deep
Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,
And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below
Sounded like the laugh of something we onc’t ust to know
Before we could remember anything but the eyes
Of the angels lookin’ out as we left Paradise;
But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle,
And it’s hard to part ferever with the old swimmin’–hole.
Oh! the old swimmin’–hole! In the happy days of yore,
When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,
Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide
That gazed back at me so gay and glorified,
It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress
My shadder smilin’ up at me with sich tenderness.
But them days is past and gone, and old Time’s tuck his toll
From the old man come back to the old swimmin’–hole.
Oh! the old swimmin’–hole! In the long, lazy-days
When the humdrum of school made so many run-a-ways,
How plesant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,
Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane
You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole
They was lots o’fun on hands at the old swimmin’–hole.
But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll
Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin’–hole.
There the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall,
And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;
And it mottled the worter with amber and gold
Tel the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled;
And the snake-feeder’s four gauzy wings fluttered by
Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky,
Or a wounded apple-blossom in the breeze’s controle
As it cut acrost some orchurd to’rds the old swimmin’–hole.
Oh! the old swimmin’—hole! When I last saw the place,
The scene was all changed, like the change in my face;
The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot
Whare the old divin’–log lays sunk and fergot.
And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be –
But never again will theyr shade shelter me!
And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,
And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin’–hole.
The speaker of this poem felt a strong positive connection with nature at the swimming hole. Which three of these lines from the poem best illustrate that idea?
Choose one answer from each group. Type the LETTER ONLY for each answer in the correct blank.
Type B, C, or D for Blank 1.
When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,
Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide
But never again will theyr shade shelter me!
And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,
But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll
Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin’–hole.
Type E, F, or G for Blank 2.
The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot
Whare the old divin’-log lays sunk and fergot.
But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle,
And it’s hard to part ferever with the old swimmin’–hole.
How plesant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,
Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane
Type H, I, or J for Blank 3.
And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;
And it mottled the worter with amber and gold
The scene was all changed, like the change in my face;
The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot
Whare the old divin’-log lays sunk and fergot.
And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be –
Answer for Blank 1:
Answer for Blank 2:
Answer for Blank 3:
Question 12 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)
(LC)
Which words most clearly suggest tragedy?
Bright, dim, hollow
Creeping, darkening, gray
Glowing, filling, shimmer
Lively, blush, light
Question 13 (Fill-In-The-Blank Worth 4 points)
(LC)
From “The Tyranny of Things” by Elizabeth Morris
Two fifteen-year-old girls stood eyeing one another on first acquaintance. Finally one little girl said, “Which do you like best, people or things?” The other little girl said, “Things.” They were friends at once.
I suppose we all go through a phase when we like things best; and not only like them, but want to possess them under our hand. The passion for accumulation is upon us. We make “collections,” we fill our rooms, our walls, our tables, our desks, with things, things, things.
Many people never pass out of this phase. They never see a flower without wanting to pick it and put it in a vase, they never enjoy a book without wanting to own it, nor a picture without wanting to hang it on their walls. They keep photographs of all their friends and kodak albums of all the places they visit, they save all their theater programmes and dinner cards, they bring home all their alpenstocks. Their houses are filled with an undigested mass of things, like the terminal moraine where a glacier dumps at length everything it has picked up during its progress through the lands.
But to some of us a day comes when we begin to grow weary of things. We realize that we do not possess them; they possess us. Our books are a burden to us, our pictures have destroyed every restful wall-space, our china is a care, our photographs drive us mad, our programmes and alpenstocks fill us with loathing. We feel stifled with the sense of things, and our problem becomes, not how much we can accumulate, but how much we can do without. We send our books to the village library, and our pictures to the college settlement. Such things as we cannot give away, and have not the courage to destroy, we stack in the garret, where they lie huddled in dim and dusty heaps, removed from our sight, to be sure, yet still faintly importunate.
Then, as we breathe more freely in the clear space that we have made for ourselves, we grow aware that we must not relax our vigilance, or we shall be once more overwhelmed.
For it is an age of things. As I walk through the shops at Christmas time and survey their contents, I find it a most depressing spectacle. All of us have too many things already, and here are more! And everybody is going to send some of them to everybody else! I sympathize with one of my friends, who, at the end of the Christmas festivities, said, “If I see another bit of tissue paper and red ribbon, I shall scream.”
It extends to all our doings. For every event there is a “souvenir.” We cannot go to luncheon and meet our friends but we must receive a token to carry away. Even our children cannot have a birthday party, and play games, and eat good things, and be happy. The host must receive gifts from every little guest, and provide in return some little remembrance for each to take home. Truly, on all sides we are beset, and we go lumbering along through life like a ship encrusted with barnacles, which can never cut the waves clean and sure and swift until she has been scraped bare again. And there seems little hope for us this side our last port.
And to think that there was a time when folk had not even that hope! When a man’s possessions were burned with him, so that he might, forsooth, have them all about him in the next world! Suffocating thought! To think one could not even then be clear of things, and make at least a fresh start! That must, indeed, have been in the childhood of the race.
Which of these two points does Morris make to illustrate how people feel when they are tied to things?
Choose one answer from each group. Type the LETTER ONLY for each answer in the correct blank.
Type A, B, C, or D for Blank 1.
They keep photographs of all their friends
Their houses are filled with an undigested mass of things
Our books are a burden to us
They never see a flower without wanting to pick it and put it in a vase
Type E, F, G, or H for Blank 2.
We are stifled by the sense of things
They must write down everything they hear
We like to paint pictures of our favorite scenes
It is important to keep a clean home
Answer for Blank 1:
Answer for Blank 2:
Question 14 (Fill-In-The-Blank Worth 6 points)
(LC)
Which three words from the list have a positive connotation? Type the LETTER ONLY for your answer choices in the answer blanks provided.
Type B, C, or D for Blank 1.
Scrawny
Skeletal
Slim
Type C, D, or E for Blank 2.
Hungry
Bony
Lean
Type F, G, or H for Blank 3.
Trim
Weak
Skinny
Answer for Blank 1:
Answer for Blank 2:
Answer for Blank 3:
Question 15 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)
(LC)
At what point in the writing process would it be best to do the bulk of the research on your topic?
After completing a first or second draft
After creating an outline or plan
Before completing your final draft
Before creating an outline or plan
Question 16 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)
(LC)
At which point in the writing process is it best to determine the voice and tone of your writing?
Prewriting
Publishing
Revising
Rewriting
Question 17 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)
(LC)
Which word from the sentence gives it a formal tone?
These issues will engage us for years to come and give us much to consider.
Engage
Years
Give
Come
Question 18 (Fill-In-The-Blank Worth 6 points)
(LC)
From “The Tyranny of Things” by Elizabeth Morris
Once upon a time, when I was very tired, I chanced to go away to a little house by the sea. “It is empty,” they said, “but you can easily furnish it.” Empty! Yes, thank Heaven! Furnish it? Heaven forbid! Its floors were bare, its walls were bare, its tables there were only two in the house were bare. There was nothing in the closets but books; nothing in the bureau drawers but the smell of clean, fresh wood; nothing in the kitchen but an oil stove, and a few a very few dishes; nothing in the attic but rafters and sunshine, and a view of the sea. After I had been there an hour there descended upon me a great peace, a sense of freedom, of in finite leisure. In the twilight I sat before the flickering embers of the open fire, and looked out through the open door to the sea, and asked myself, “Why?” Then the answer came: I was emancipated from things. There was nothing in the house to demand care, to claim attention, to cumber my consciousness with its insistent, unchanging companionship. There was nothing but a shelter, and outside, the fields and marshes, the shore and the sea. These did not have to be taken down and put up and arranged and dusted and cared for. They were not things at all, they were powers, presences.
And so I rested. While the spell was still unbroken, I came away. For broken it would have been, I know, had I not fled first. Even in this refuge the enemy would have pursued me, found me out, encompassed me.
If we could but free ourselves once for all, how simple life might become! One of my friends, who, with six young children and only one servant, keeps a spotless house and a soul serene, told me once how she did it. “My dear, once a month I give away every single thing in the house that we do not imperatively need. It sounds wasteful, but I don’t believe it really is. Sometimes Jeremiah mourns over missing old clothes, or back numbers of the magazines, but I tell him if he doesn’t want to be mated to a gibbering maniac he will let me do as I like.”
The old monks knew all this very well. One wonders sometimes how they got their power; but go up to Fiesole, and sit a while in one of those little, bare, white-walled cells, and you will begin to understand. If there were any spiritual force in one, it would have to come out there.
I have not their courage, and I win no such freedom. I allow myself to be overwhelmed by the invading host of things, making fitful resistance, but without any real steadiness of purpose. Yet never do I wholly give up the struggle, and in my heart I cherish an ideal, remotely typified by that empty little house beside the sea.
Which three of these central ideas are discussed in Morris’s essay?
Choose one answer from each group. Type the LETTER ONLY for each answer in the correct blank.
Type A, B, or C for Blank 1.
The burden of things
The need for things
The beauty of things
Type D, E, or F for Blank 2.
The value of things
The necessity of things
The absence of things
Type G, H, or I for Blank 3.
The fear of things
The demand of things
The names of things
Answer for Blank 1:
Answer for Blank 2:
Answer for Blank 3:
Question 19 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)
(MC)
Which word best completes the sentence below?
The candidate for the position must be very sensitive to the emotions of our clients who often have endured many hardships and just need a _________ listener.
Benign
Considerate
Humane
Sympathetic
Question 20 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)
(MC)
Which word best completes the sentence below?
The gymnast’s ________ body moved gracefully, masterfully across the balance beam, never missing a beat or her step.
Agile
Lengthy
Spry
Subtle
Question 21 (Fill-In-The-Blank Worth 4 points)
(LC)
From “The Tyranny of Things” by Elizabeth Morris
Two fifteen-year-old girls stood eyeing one another on first acquaintance. Finally one little girl said, “Which do you like best, people or things?” The other little girl said, “Things.” They were friends at once.
I suppose we all go through a phase when we like things best; and not only like them, but want to possess them under our hand. The passion for accumulation is upon us. We make “collections,” we fill our rooms, our walls, our tables, our desks, with things, things, things.
Many people never pass out of this phase. They never see a flower without wanting to pick it and put it in a vase, they never enjoy a book without wanting to own it, nor a picture without wanting to hang it on their walls. They keep photographs of all their friends and kodak albums of all the places they visit, they save all their theater programmes and dinner cards, they bring home all their alpenstocks. Their houses are filled with an undigested mass of things, like the terminal moraine where a glacier dumps at length everything it has picked up during its progress through the lands.
But to some of us a day comes when we begin to grow weary of things. We realize that we do not possess them; they possess us. Our books are a burden to us, our pictures have destroyed every restful wall-space, our china is a care, our photographs drive us mad, our programmes and alpenstocks fill us with loathing. We feel stifled with the sense of things, and our problem becomes, not how much we can accumulate, but how much we can do without. We send our books to the village library, and our pictures to the college settlement. Such things as we cannot give away, and have not the courage to destroy, we stack in the garret, where they lie huddled in dim and dusty heaps, removed from our sight, to be sure, yet still faintly importunate.
Then, as we breathe more freely in the clear space that we have made for ourselves, we grow aware that we must not relax our vigilance, or we shall be once more overwhelmed.
For it is an age of things. As I walk through the shops at Christmas time and survey their contents, I find it a most depressing spectacle. All of us have too many things already, and here are more! And everybody is going to send some of them to everybody else! I sympathize with one of my friends, who, at the end of the Christmas festivities, said, “If I see another bit of tissue paper and red ribbon, I shall scream.”
It extends to all our doings. For every event there is a “souvenir.” We cannot go to luncheon and meet our friends but we must receive a token to carry away. Even our children cannot have a birthday party, and play games, and eat good things, and be happy. The host must receive gifts from every little guest, and provide in return some little remembrance for each to take home. Truly, on all sides we are beset, and we go lumbering along through life like a ship encrusted with barnacles, which can never cut the waves clean and sure and swift until she has been scraped bare again. And there seems little hope for us this side our last port.
And to think that there was a time when folk had not even that hope! When a man’s possessions were burned with him, so that he might, forsooth, have them all about him in the next world! Suffocating thought! To think one could not even then be clear of things, and make at least a fresh start! That must, indeed, have been in the childhood of the race.
One central idea of Morris’s essay is that having too many things can be a burden to people. Which two of these details help illustrate that idea?
Choose one answer from each group. Type the LETTER ONLY for each answer in the correct blank.
Type A, B, C, or D for Blank 1.
I suppose we all go through a phase when we like things best; and not only like them, but want to possess them under our hand.
The host must receive gifts from every little guest, and provide in return some little remembrance for each to take home.
As I walk through the shops at Christmas time and survey their contents, I find it a most depressing spectacle.
Their houses are filled with an undigested mass of things, like the terminal moraine where a glacier dumps at length everything it has picked up during its progress through the lands.
Type E, F, G, or H for Blank 2.
They keep photographs of all their friends and kodak albums of all the places they visit, they save all their theater programmes and dinner cards, they bring home all their alpenstocks.
Truly, on all sides we are beset, and we go lumbering along through life like a ship encrusted with barnacles.
We cannot go to luncheon and meet our friends but we must receive a token to carry away.
When a man’s possessions were burned with him, so that he might, forsooth, have them all about him in the next world!
Answer for Blank 1:
Answer for Blank 2:
Question 22 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)
(MC)
Which word most accurately describes an artifact from the 12th century?
Aged
Ancient
Geriatric
Old
Question 23 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)
(MC)
Which word best describes a person who has worked very hard for a long time to learn a sport and is almost never defeated?
Conqueror
Master
Subjugator
Victor
Question 24 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)
(LC)
Which of the following lines most likely indicates a tragic resolution developing in the story?
Her favorite toy fell into the trash can…
The solider embraced his long lost brother…
His mother’s voice lulled him to sleep…
The ambulance arrived just in time…
Question 25 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)
(LC)
“The Old Swimmin’ Hole”
By James Whitcomb Riley
OH! the old swimmin’-hole! whare the crick so still and deep
Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,
And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below
Sounded like the laugh of something we onc’t ust to know
Before we could remember anything but the eyes
Of the angels lookin’ out as we left Paradise;
But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle,
And it’s hard to part ferever with the old swimmin’-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin’-hole! In the happy days of yore,
When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,
Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide
That gazed back at me so gay and glorified,
It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress
My shadder smilin’ up at me with sich tenderness.
But them days is past and gone, and old Time’s tuck his toll
From the old man come back to the old swimmin’-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin’-hole! In the long, lazy-days
When the humdrum of school made so many run-a-ways,
How plesant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,
Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane
You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole
They was lots o’fun on hands at the old swimmin’-hole.
But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll
Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin’-hole.
There the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall,
And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;
And it mottled the worter with amber and gold
Tel the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled;
And the snake-feeder’s four gauzy wings fluttered by
Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky,
Or a wounded apple-blossom in the breeze’s controle
As it cut acrost some orchurd to’rds the old swimmin’-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin’—hole! When I last saw the place,
The scene was all changed, like the change in my face;
The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot
Whare the old divin’-log lays sunk and fergot.
And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be—
But never again will theyr shade shelter me!
And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,
And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin’-hole.
The speaker of this poem
is happy that the swimming hole has changed
wants to forget his memories the swimming hole
wants to make new memories of the swimming hole
feels sad that the swimming hole has changed
Question 26 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)
(LC)
“The Old Swimmin’ Hole”
By James Whitcomb Riley
OH! the old swimmin’-hole! whare the crick so still and deep
Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,
And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below
Sounded like the laugh of something we onc’t ust to know
Before we could remember anything but the eyes
Of the angels lookin’ out as we left Paradise;
But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle,
And it’s hard to part ferever with the old swimmin’-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin’-hole! In the happy days of yore,
When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,
Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide
That gazed back at me so gay and glorified,
It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress
My shadder smilin’ up at me with sich tenderness.
But them days is past and gone, and old Time’s tuck his toll
From the old man come back to the old swimmin’-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin’-hole! In the long, lazy-days
When the humdrum of school made so many run-a-ways,
How plesant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,
Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane
You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole
They was lots o’fun on hands at the old swimmin’-hole.
But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll
Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin’-hole.
There the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall,
And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;
And it mottled the worter with amber and gold
Tel the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled;
And the snake-feeder’s four gauzy wings fluttered by
Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky,
Or a wounded apple-blossom in the breeze’s controle
As it cut acrost some orchurd to’rds the old swimmin’-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin’—hole! When I last saw the place,
The scene was all changed, like the change in my face;
The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot
Whare the old divin’-log lays sunk and fergot.
And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be—
But never again will theyr shade shelter me!
And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,
And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin’-hole.
Read these lines from the poem again:
And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,
And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin’–hole.
These lines from the poem illustrate that the speaker
wants to prevent his approaching death
has become sad, but finds comfort in old age
needs to visit the swimming hole again
has grown so sad that death would be a relief
Question 27 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)
(MC)
Read this sentence from the essay:
Beating himself with the scourge, and carving his own A in his flesh are manifestations of his sense of guilt.
Based on the context, what does the word manifestations mean?
Complete sadness or longing for change
External symptoms of illness or disease
Simple acts of forgiveness or penance
Visible expressions of something internal
Question 28 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)
(LC)
From “The Tyranny of Things” by Elizabeth Morris
Once upon a time, when I was very tired, I chanced to go away to a little house by the sea. “It is empty,” they said, “but you can easily furnish it.” Empty! Yes, thank Heaven! Furnish it? Heaven forbid! Its floors were bare, its walls were bare, its tables there were only two in the house were bare. There was nothing in the closets but books; nothing in the bureau drawers but the smell of clean, fresh wood; nothing in the kitchen but an oil stove, and a few a very few dishes; nothing in the attic but rafters and sunshine, and a view of the sea. After I had been there an hour there descended upon me a great peace, a sense of freedom, of in finite leisure. In the twilight I sat before the flickering embers of the open fire, and looked out through the open door to the sea, and asked myself, “Why?” Then the answer came: I was emancipated from things. There was nothing in the house to demand care, to claim attention, to cumber my consciousness with its insistent, unchanging companionship. There was nothing but a shelter, and outside, the fields and marshes, the shore and the sea. These did not have to be taken down and put up and arranged and dusted and cared for. They were not things at all, they were powers, presences.
And so I rested. While the spell was still unbroken, I came away. For broken it would have been, I know, had I not fled first. Even in this refuge the enemy would have pursued me, found me out, encompassed me.
If we could but free ourselves once for all, how simple life might become! One of my friends, who, with six young children and only one servant, keeps a spotless house and a soul serene, told me once how she did it. “My dear, once a month I give away every single thing in the house that we do not imperatively need. It sounds wasteful, but I don’t believe it really is. Sometimes Jeremiah mourns over missing old clothes, or back numbers of the magazines, but I tell him if he doesn’t want to be mated to a gibbering maniac he will let me do as I like.”
The old monks knew all this very well. One wonders sometimes how they got their power; but go up to Fiesole, and sit a while in one of those little, bare, white-walled cells, and you will begin to understand. If there were any spiritual force in one, it would have to come out there.
I have not their courage, and I win no such freedom. I allow myself to be overwhelmed by the invading host of things, making fitful resistance, but without any real steadiness of purpose. Yet never do I wholly give up the struggle, and in my heart I cherish an ideal, remotely typified by that empty little house beside the sea.
Morris’s description of the little house by the sea helps the reader
see what living without things looks like
understand why the house is empty
picture how things would look in the house
decide whether or not to visit the house
Question 29 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)
(LC)
From “The Tyranny of Things” by Elizabeth Morris
Once upon a time, when I was very tired, I chanced to go away to a little house by the sea. “It is empty,” they said, “but you can easily furnish it.” Empty! Yes, thank Heaven! Furnish it? Heaven forbid! Its floors were bare, its walls were bare, its tables there were only two in the house were bare. There was nothing in the closets but books; nothing in the bureau drawers but the smell of clean, fresh wood; nothing in the kitchen but an oil stove, and a few a very few dishes; nothing in the attic but rafters and sunshine, and a view of the sea. After I had been there an hour there descended upon me a great peace, a sense of freedom, of in finite leisure. In the twilight I sat before the flickering embers of the open fire, and looked out through the open door to the sea, and asked myself, “Why?” Then the answer came: I was emancipated from things. There was nothing in the house to demand care, to claim attention, to cumber my consciousness with its insistent, unchanging companionship. There was nothing but a shelter, and outside, the fields and marshes, the shore and the sea. These did not have to be taken down and put up and arranged and dusted and cared for. They were not things at all, they were powers, presences.
And so I rested. While the spell was still unbroken, I came away. For broken it would have been, I know, had I not fled first. Even in this refuge the enemy would have pursued me, found me out, encompassed me.
If we could but free ourselves once for all, how simple life might become! One of my friends, who, with six young children and only one servant, keeps a spotless house and a soul serene, told me once how she did it. “My dear, once a month I give away every single thing in the house that we do not imperatively need. It sounds wasteful, but I don’t believe it really is. Sometimes Jeremiah mourns over missing old clothes, or back numbers of the magazines, but I tell him if he doesn’t want to be mated to a gibbering maniac he will let me do as I like.”
The old monks knew all this very well. One wonders sometimes how they got their power; but go up to Fiesole, and sit a while in one of those little, bare, white-walled cells, and you will begin to understand. If there were any spiritual force in one, it would have to come out there.
I have not their courage, and I win no such freedom. I allow myself to be overwhelmed by the invading host of things, making fitful resistance, but without any real steadiness of purpose. Yet never do I wholly give up the struggle, and in my heart I cherish an ideal, remotely typified by that empty little house beside the sea.
