Project #72164 - Highschool English 3

<object:standard:lacc.rl.1112.5>"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 feels sad about the passage of time. Which three 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.

  1. Oh! the old swimmin'–hole! In the long, lazy-days
    When the humdrum of school made so many run-a-ways,
  2. You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole
    They was lots o'fun on hands at the old swimmin’–hole.
  3. And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be –
    But never again will theyr shade shelter me!


Type E, F, or G for Blank 2.

  1. How plesant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,
    Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane
  2. It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress
    My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness
  3. 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.


Type H, I, or J for Blank 3.

  1. But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll
    Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'–hole.
  2. And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;
    And it mottled the worter with amber and gold
  3. Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide
    That gazed back at me so gay and glorified,

 

 

Answer for Blank 1:

Answer for Blank 2:

Answer for Blank 3:

 


 

 

Question 2 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)

 

(MC)<object:standard:lacc.l.1112.4b>

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.

 


 

 

Question 3 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)

 

(MC)<object:standard:lacc.l.1112.4b>

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.

 


 

 

Question 4 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)

 

(LC)<object:standard:lacc.ri.1112.1>

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.

Based on her statements, the reader knows Morris’s friend feels serene because she

 


 

 

Question 5 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)

 

(LC)<object:standard:lacc.ri.1112.1>

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.

Based on her description, the reader knows Morris enjoyed her time in the house by the sea because

 


 

 

Question 6 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)

 

(LC)<object:standard:lacc.rl.1112.4>

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:

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.

Which word from the excerpt helps define pathos

 


 

 

Question 7 (Fill-In-The-Blank Worth 6 points)

 

(LC)<object:standard:lacc.ri.1112.1>

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 statements from the essay illustrate how Morris feels about things? 

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.

  1. Empty! Yes, thank Heaven
  2. It sounds wasteful, but I don’t believe it really is
  3. I have not their courage, and I win no such freedom.


Type D, E, or F for Blank 2.

  1. I cherish an ideal, remotely typified by that empty little house beside the sea.
  2. One wonders sometimes how they got their power
  3. Even in this refuge the enemy would have pursued me, found me out, encompassed me.


Type G, H, or I for Blank 3.

  1. While the spell was still unbroken, I came away.
  2. Yet never do I wholly give up the struggle.
  3. The old monks knew all this very well.

 

Answer for Blank 1:

Answer for Blank 2:

Answer for Blank 3:

 


 

 

Question 8 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)

 

(LC)<object:standard:lacc.rl.1112.1>

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 

 


 

 

Question 9 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)

 

(LC)<object:standard:lacc.rl.1112.1>

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:

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.


These lines from the excerpt explicitly or directly state that Tom is 

 


 

 

Question 10 (Fill-In-The-Blank Worth 4 points)

 

(LC)<object:standard:lacc.ri.1112.5>

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.

  1. They keep photographs of all their friends
  2. Their houses are filled with an undigested mass of things
  3. Our books are a burden to us
  4. 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.

  1. We are stifled by the sense of things
  2. They must write down everything they hear
  3. We like to paint pictures of our favorite scenes
  4. It is important to keep a clean home

 

 

Answer for Blank 1:

Answer for Blank 2:

 


 

 

Question 11 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)

 

(MC)<object:standard:lacc.l.1112.5b>

Which word best completes the sentence below?

My cat Buford's stalking of the cardinal had become almost ______ in the sense that more than just following his instincts; he really seemed to hate the bird.

 


 

 

Question 12 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)

 

(MC)<object:standard:lacc.l.1112.5b>

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.

 


 

 

Question 13 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)

 

(MC)<object:standard:lacc.l.1112.5b>

Which word best describes a belief that is so wrong that it is not in agreement with what is true?

 


 

 

Question 14 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)

 

(MC)<object:standard:lacc.l.1112.5b>

Which word most accurately describes an artifact from the 12th century?

 


 

 

Question 15 (Fill-In-The-Blank Worth 6 points)

 

(LC)<object:standard:lacc.rl.1112.4>

Identify the three words that provide an appropriate connotation of the word fire as it is used in this sentence: James was driven to achieve his goals by a fire within his heart.

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.

  1. Courage
  2. Heat
  3. Misleading


Type F, G, or H for Blank 2.

  1. Warmth
  2. Summer
  3. Strength


Type I, J, or K for Blank 3.

  1. Passion
  2. Burning
  3. Fright

 

 

Answer for Blank 1:

Answer for Blank 2:

Answer for Blank 3:

 


 

 

Question 16 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)

 

(LC)<object:standard:lacc.w.1112.4>

Which phrase from the sentence gives it a formal tone?

We have before us an opportunity to make a change that will help our children plan more completely for their retirement.

 


 

 

Question 17 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)

 

(LC)<object:standard:w.1112.5>

When writing a paper, what is the next step after writing a first draft?

 


 

 

Question 18 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)

 

(LC)<object:standard:w.1112.5>

At what point in the writing process would it be best to do the bulk of the research on your topic?

 


 

 

Question 19 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)

 

(LC)<object:standard:lacc.rl.1112.3>

Which of the following settings would best create the mood for a suspenseful story?

 


 

 

Question 20 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)

 

(MC)<object:standard:lacc.l.1112.4a>

Read this sentence from the essay:

Hester receives a constant stream of admonitions and moral guidance, but the guidance and nudgings Dimmesdale receives from Chillingsworth are far more sinister and evil.

Based on the context, what does the word admonitions mean?

 


 

 

Question 21 (Fill-In-The-Blank Worth 6 points)

 

(MC)<object:standard:lacc.rl.1112.1>

From The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain

Tom was a trifle disconcerted. The basin was refilled, and this time he stood over it a little while, gathering resolution; took in a big breath and began. When he entered the kitchen presently, with both eyes shut and groping for the towel with his hands, an honorable testimony of suds and water was dripping from his face. But when he emerged from the towel, he was not yet satisfactory, for the clean territory stopped short at his chin and his jaws, like a mask; below and beyond this line there was a dark expanse of unirrigated soil that spread downward in front and backward around his neck. Mary took him in hand, and when she was done with him he was a man and a brother, without distinction of color, and his saturated hair was neatly brushed, and its short curls wrought into a dainty and symmetrical general effect. [He privately smoothed out the curls, with labor and difficulty, and plastered his hair close down to his head; for he held curls to be effeminate, and his own filled his life with bitterness.] Then Mary got out a suit of his clothing that had been used only on Sundays during two years—they were simply called his "other clothes"—and so by that we know the size of his wardrobe. The girl "put him to rights" after he had dressed himself; she buttoned his neat roundabout up to his chin, turned his vast shirt collar down over his shoulders, brushed him off and crowned him with his speckled straw hat. He now looked exceedingly improved and uncomfortable. He was fully as uncomfortable as he looked; for there was a restraint about whole clothes and cleanliness that galled him. He hoped that Mary would forget his shoes, but the hope was blighted; she coated them thoroughly with tallow, as was the custom, and brought them out. He lost his temper and said he was always being made to do everything he didn't want to do.

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 B, C, or D for Blank 1.

  1. Desperate
  2. Excited
  3. Stubborn


Type F, G, or H for Blank 2.

  1. Jovial
  2. Academic
  3. Annoyed


Type I, J, or K for Blank 3.

  1. Thorough
  2. Distressed
  3. Cooperative

 

 

Answer for Blank 1:

Answer for Blank 2:

Answer for Blank 3:

 


 

 

Question 22 (Fill-In-The-Blank Worth 4 points)

 

(LC)<object:standard:lacc.ri.1112.6>

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 getting rid of things can be a relief for 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.

  1. 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.
  2. Truly, on all sides we are beset, and we go lumbering along through life like a ship encrusted with barnacles.
  3. Such things as we cannot give away, and have not the courage to destroy, we stack in the garret.
  4. 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.


Type E, F, G, or H for Blank 2.

  1. The host must receive gifts from every little guest, and provide in return some little remembrance for each to take home.
  2. We cannot go to luncheon and meet our friends but we must receive a token to carry away.
  3. And to think that there was a time when folk had not even that hope!
  4. 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.

 

 

Answer for Blank 1:

Answer for Blank 2:

 


 

 

Question 23 (Fill-In-The-Blank Worth 6 points)

 

(LC)<object:standard:lacc.ri.1112.2>

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 ideas mentioned in the essay inspire Morris to seek a life free from 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.

  1. Her friend
  2. Her books
  3. The attic


Type G, H, or I for Blank 2.

  1. The room
  2. Her courage
  3. The house


Type J, K, or L for Blank 3.

  1. The monks
  2. Her family
  3. The leaders

 

 

Answer for Blank 1:

Answer for Blank 2:

Answer for Blank 3:

 


 

 

Question 24 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)

 

(LC)<object:standard:lacc.rl.1112.5>

“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 

 


 

 

Question 25 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)

 

(LC)<object:standard:lacc.rl.1112.5>

“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

 


 

 

Question 26 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)

 

(LC)<object:standard:lacc.w.1112.4>

Which words most clearly suggest something fun?

 


 

 

Question 27 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)

 

(LC)<object:standard:lacc.rl.1112.5>

“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 poem is structured so that it

 


 

 

Question 28 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)

 

(MC)<object:standard:lacc.rl.1112.6>

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 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.

These lines from the story show that the narrator is 

 


 

 

Question 29 (Multiple Choice Worth 4 points)

 

(MC)<object:standard:lacc.rl.1112.6>

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 

 

Subject English
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