What is being demonstrated by the following example of indirect characterization in "Harrison Bergeron." "There were tears on Hazel's cheeks, but she'd forgotten for the moment what they were about."

She is jealous of George's intelligence.

She is upset with her place in society.

Reading Comprehension Directions Read the following selections. Then answer the questions that follow. Stones Aplenty Arutro Vivante There was, at the south end of the large, level front lawn of the college, a long low stone wall which the students playfully called "The end of the world," as if there were nothing or nothing worthwhile beyond it. A rough, uncultivated slope there was, with plenty of stones and outcroppings. It dropped steeply down toward a wood and the valley below. A few miles farther was a tall green mountain, and beyond it, on the left, a range of the faint-blue color of distance. One morning, toward the beginning of term, when I was teaching there, I saw a series of stone structures standing on the wall. They bore a vague resemblance to human figures—at least each had a head and what could be construed to be a neck, 10 a trunk, shoulders, and even limbs. The term "rough-hewn" could hardly fit them-none of the stones had been cut; they were intact, left as nature had made them. Yet they weren't put together in an artless or haphazard way. They defied easy definition. Statues, monuments, pilings? Whatever they were, they bespoke a practiced hand. Something primitive and at the same time astute about them each stone placed in such a way that made sense, well balanced, sturdy, not easily blown off. Also, I could see they had been carefully chosen, and certainly, below the wall, scattered on the slope, there was a vast assortment of stones. I asked a few students and teachers if they knew who might be their artificer, 20 but if they noticed them at all, they had paid little or no attention to them. At any rate, they didn't seem to know. And this, of course, added to their mystery in my mind. I praised them and asked others: "Who made those wonderful stone * structures on the 'end-of-the-world' wall?” But no one I approached knew, nor did my interest rouse theirs. Then, a few days later, a pleasant young student, a freshman, a boy, from a fiction class that I was teaching, came into my office. He didn't have anything special to discuss--no paper, story, poem or essay. He said he had just come in to talk. I asked him what other courses he was taking, and he shrugged his shoulders. 30 "I'm just looking around," he said, “I like to ride here and there on my motorbike. Do you want to see it? It's out there." He went to the window. “There by the wall." I got up and looked. "It's nice and light," I said. "It takes me over all kinds of terrain. I came to Vermont because of all the country roads here. So many of them, and each one prettier than the next or last. I have a detailed map of the whole state, and I ride from place to place. Often I stop, get off and walk along the streams, and I put one stone on another and another and another till I have a kind of statue, or not altogether a statue, a pile of stones, a shape. You may have seen what I did on the 'end-of-the-world' wall." 40 "Did you do those?” I said, though by this time I had little doubt he must be their maker. "I've been admiring them all these last few days, ever since I first saw them. And I've been asking about them, but no one was able to tell me. I think they are wonderful. I'ın sure glad to know who did them at last--that it is you." Again I went to see the stone structures and stood a while contemplating them. Then, a day or two later, to my dismay, I found that they'd gone. I asked a gardener about them. "Christine had them pulled down," he said. Christine was in charge of buildings and grounds Everyone here called everyone else, even the college president, by their first names. "Oh dear," I said. "I really liked them. It's a shame." “I liked them too," he said. "Why did they pull down your stones?" I asked the student the next time he came to my office. “I don't know." "Pulling them down was vandalism, at no risk, by the person in charge." "I don't care," he said. “They weren't built to last, and I have plenty more on the banks of streams." "And if a flood sweeps them away?" "I don't mind. I do them for the doing." 60 "You are a real artist," I said. He didn't even stay till the end of term. He rode away on his slight motorcycle and did not return. Since then, by streams and river banks, I've often paused and wondered about him and his work, hoping that envious hands and sweeping floods spared some of his shapes. And still I can almost hear him saying, “It doesn't matter." Considering the story "Stones Aplenty," which conclusion can you draw about the narrator's attitude toward the student?

The narrator admires the student's artistic talent.

The student's defiant attitude annoys the narrator.

The student's decision to quit school frustrates the narrator.

The narrator envies the student's love of nature.

Reading Comprehension Directions Read the following selections. Then answer the questions that follow. Stones Aplenty Arutro Vivante There was, at the south end of the large, level front lawn of the college, a long low stone wall which the students playfully called "The end of the world," as if there were nothing or nothing worthwhile beyond it. A rough, uncultivated slope there was, with plenty of stones and outcroppings. It dropped steeply down toward a wood and the valley below. A few miles farther was a tall green mountain, and beyond it, on the left, a range of the faint-blue color of distance. One morning, toward the beginning of term, when I was teaching there, I saw a series of stone structures standing on the wall. They bore a vague resemblance to human figures—at least each had a head and what could be construed to be a neck, 10 a trunk, shoulders, and even limbs. The term "rough-hewn" could hardly fit them-none of the stones had been cut; they were intact, left as nature had made them. Yet they weren't put together in an artless or haphazard way. They defied easy definition. Statues, monuments, pilings? Whatever they were, they bespoke a practiced hand. Something primitive and at the same time astute about them each stone placed in such a way that made sense, well balanced, sturdy, not easily blown off. Also, I could see they had been carefully chosen, and certainly, below the wall, scattered on the slope, there was a vast assortment of stones. I asked a few students and teachers if they knew who might be their artificer, 20 but if they noticed them at all, they had paid little or no attention to them. At any rate, they didn't seem to know. And this, of course, added to their mystery in my mind. I praised them and asked others: "Who made those wonderful stone * structures on the 'end-of-the-world' wall?” But no one I approached knew, nor did my interest rouse theirs. Then, a few days later, a pleasant young student, a freshman, a boy, from a fiction class that I was teaching, came into my office. He didn't have anything special to discuss--no paper, story, poem or essay. He said he had just come in to talk. I asked him what other courses he was taking, and he shrugged his shoulders. 30 "I'm just looking around," he said, “I like to ride here and there on my motorbike. Do you want to see it? It's out there." He went to the window. “There by the wall." I got up and looked. "It's nice and light," I said. "It takes me over all kinds of terrain. I came to Vermont because of all the country roads here. So many of them, and each one prettier than the next or last. I have a detailed map of the whole state, and I ride from place to place. Often I stop, get off and walk along the streams, and I put one stone on another and another and another till I have a kind of statue, or not altogether a statue, a pile of stones, a shape. You may have seen what I did on the 'end-of-the-world' wall." 40 "Did you do those?” I said, though by this time I had little doubt he must be their maker. "I've been admiring them all these last few days, ever since I first saw them. And I've been asking about them, but no one was able to tell me. I think they are wonderful. I'ın sure glad to know who did them at last--that it is you." Again I went to see the stone structures and stood a while contemplating them. Then, a day or two later, to my dismay, I found that they'd gone. I asked a gardener about them. "Christine had them pulled down," he said. Christine was in charge of buildings and grounds Everyone here called everyone else, even the college president, by their first names. "Oh dear," I said. "I really liked them. It's a shame." “I liked them too," he said. "Why did they pull down your stones?" I asked the student the next time he came to my office. “I don't know." "Pulling them down was vandalism, at no risk, by the person in charge." "I don't care," he said. “They weren't built to last, and I have plenty more on the banks of streams." "And if a flood sweeps them away?" "I don't mind. I do them for the doing." 60 "You are a real artist," I said. He didn't even stay till the end of term. He rode away on his slight motorcycle and did not return. Since then, by streams and river banks, I've often paused and wondered about him and his work, hoping that envious hands and sweeping floods spared some of his shapes. And still I can almost hear him saying, “It doesn't matter." In the story "Stones Aplenty," lines 34-39, you can infer that the student prefers:

being outside to studying indoors

painting landscapes to sculpting

driving a car to riding a motorbike

Reading Comprehension Directions Read the following selections. Then answer the questions that follow. Stones Aplenty Arutro Vivante There was, at the south end of the large, level front lawn of the college, a long low stone wall which the students playfully called "The end of the world," as if there were nothing or nothing worthwhile beyond it. A rough, uncultivated slope there was, with plenty of stones and outcroppings. It dropped steeply down toward a wood and the valley below. A few miles farther was a tall green mountain, and beyond it, on the left, a range of the faint-blue color of distance. One morning, toward the beginning of term, when I was teaching there, I saw a series of stone structures standing on the wall. They bore a vague resemblance to human figures—at least each had a head and what could be construed to be a neck, 10 a trunk, shoulders, and even limbs. The term "rough-hewn" could hardly fit them-none of the stones had been cut; they were intact, left as nature had made them. Yet they weren't put together in an artless or haphazard way. They defied easy definition. Statues, monuments, pilings? Whatever they were, they bespoke a practiced hand. Something primitive and at the same time astute about them each stone placed in such a way that made sense, well balanced, sturdy, not easily blown off. Also, I could see they had been carefully chosen, and certainly, below the wall, scattered on the slope, there was a vast assortment of stones. I asked a few students and teachers if they knew who might be their artificer, 20 but if they noticed them at all, they had paid little or no attention to them. At any rate, they didn't seem to know. And this, of course, added to their mystery in my mind. I praised them and asked others: "Who made those wonderful stone * structures on the 'end-of-the-world' wall?” But no one I approached knew, nor did my interest rouse theirs. Then, a few days later, a pleasant young student, a freshman, a boy, from a fiction class that I was teaching, came into my office. He didn't have anything special to discuss--no paper, story, poem or essay. He said he had just come in to talk. I asked him what other courses he was taking, and he shrugged his shoulders. 30 "I'm just looking around," he said, “I like to ride here and there on my motorbike. Do you want to see it? It's out there." He went to the window. “There by the wall." I got up and looked. "It's nice and light," I said. "It takes me over all kinds of terrain. I came to Vermont because of all the country roads here. So many of them, and each one prettier than the next or last. I have a detailed map of the whole state, and I ride from place to place. Often I stop, get off and walk along the streams, and I put one stone on another and another and another till I have a kind of statue, or not altogether a statue, a pile of stones, a shape. You may have seen what I did on the 'end-of-the-world' wall." 40 "Did you do those?” I said, though by this time I had little doubt he must be their maker. "I've been admiring them all these last few days, ever since I first saw them. And I've been asking about them, but no one was able to tell me. I think they are wonderful. I'ın sure glad to know who did them at last--that it is you." Again I went to see the stone structures and stood a while contemplating them. Then, a day or two later, to my dismay, I found that they'd gone. I asked a gardener about them. "Christine had them pulled down," he said. Christine was in charge of buildings and grounds Everyone here called everyone else, even the college president, by their first names. "Oh dear," I said. "I really liked them. It's a shame." “I liked them too," he said. "Why did they pull down your stones?" I asked the student the next time he came to my office. “I don't know." "Pulling them down was vandalism, at no risk, by the person in charge." "I don't care," he said. “They weren't built to last, and I have plenty more on the banks of streams." "And if a flood sweeps them away?" "I don't mind. I do them for the doing." 60 "You are a real artist," I said. He didn't even stay till the end of term. He rode away on his slight motorcycle and did not return. Since then, by streams and river banks, I've often paused and wondered about him and his work, hoping that envious hands and sweeping floods spared some of his shapes. And still I can almost hear him saying, “It doesn't matter." In the story "Stones Aplenty," you can infer from lines 52-54 that the student _________.

cares little that the statues have been taken down

wants to leave school before the end of the term

is responsible for removing the stone statues

feels closer to the narrator than to other professors

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek Annie Dillard Learning to stalk muskrats took me several years. I've always known there were muskrats in the creek. Sometimes when I drove late at night my headlights' beam on the water would catch the broad lines of ripples made by a swimming muskrat, a bow wave, converging across the water at the raised dark vee of its head. I would stop the car and get out: nothing. They eat corn and tomatoes from my neighbors' gardens, too, by night, so that my neighbors were always telling me that the creek was full of them. Around here, people call them “mushrats”; Thoreau called them "snusquashes." They are not of course rats at all (let alone squashes). They are more like diminutive beavers, 10 and like beavers, they exude a scented oil from musk glands under the base of the tail-hence the name. I had read in several respectable sources that muskrats are so wary they are almost impossible to observe, One expert who made a full-time study of large populations, mainly by examining “sign” and performing autopsies on corpses, said he often went for weeks at a time without seeing a single living muskrat. One hot evening three years ago, I was standing more or less in a bush. I was stock-still, looking deep into Tinker Creek from a spot on the bank opposite the house, watching a group of bluegills stare and hang motionless near the bottom of a deep, sunlit pool. I was focused for depth. I had long since lost myself, lost the 20 creek, the day, lost everything but still amber depth. All at once I couldn't see. And then I could: a young muskrat had appeared on top of the water, floating on its back. Its forelegs were folded languorously across its chest; the sun shone on its upturned belly. Its youthfulness and rodent grin, coupled with its ridiculous method of locomotion, which consisted of a lazy wag of the tail assisted by an occasional dabble of a webbed hind foot, made it an enchanting picture of decadence, dissipation, and summer sloth. I forgot all about the fish. But in my surprise at having the light come on so suddenly, and at having my consciousness returned to me all at once, bearing an inverted muskrat, I must have moved and betrayed myself. The kit-for I know now it was just a young 30 kit-righted itself so that only its head was visible above water, and swam downstream, away from me. I extricated myself from the bush and foolishly pursued it. It dove sleekly, reemerged, and glided for the opposite bank. I ran along the bankside brush, trying to keep it in sight. It kept casting an alarmed look over its shoulder at me. Once again it dove, under a floating mat of brush lodged in the bank, and disappeared. I never saw it again. (Nor have I ever, despite all the muskrats I have seen, again seen a muskrat floating on its back.) But I did not know muskrats then, I waited, panting, and watched the shadowed bank. Now I know that I cannot outwait a muskrat who knows I am there. The most I can do is get "there" quietly, while it is still in its hole, so that it never knows, and wait there 40 until it emerges. But then all I knew was that I wanted to see more muskrats. I began to look for them day and night. Sometimes I would see ripples suddenly start beating from the creek's side, but as I crouched to watch, the ripples would die. Now I know what this means, and have learned to stand perfectly still to make out the muskrat's small, pointed face hidden under overhanging bank vegetation, watching me. That summer I haunted the bridges, I walked up creeks and down, but no muskrats ever appeared. You must just have to be there, I thought. You must have to spend the rest of your life standing in bushes. It was a once-in-a-lifetime thing, and you've had your once. Then one night I saw another, and my life changed. After that I knew where 50 they were in numbers, and I knew when to look. It was late dusk; I was driving home from a visit with friends. Just on the off chance, I parked quietly by the creek, walked out on the narrow bridge over the shallows, and looked upstream. Someday, I had been telling myself for weeks, someday a muskrat is going to swim right through that channel in the cattails, and I am going to see it. That is precisely what happened. I looked up into the channel for a muskrat, and there it came, swimming right toward me. Knock; see; ask. It seemed to swim with a side-to-side, sculling motion of its vertically flattened tail. It looked bigger than the upside-down muskrat, and its face more reddish. In its mouth it clasped a twig of tulip tree. One thing amazed me: it swam right down the middle of the creek. I 60 thought it would-hide in the brush along the edge, instead it plied the waters as obviously as an aquaplane. I could just look and look. But I was standing on the bridge, not sitting, and it saw me. It changed its course, veered toward the bank, and disappeared behind an indentation in the rushy shoreline. I felt a rush of such pure energy I thought I would not need to breathe for days. That innocence of mine is mostly gone now, although I felt almost the same pure rush last night. I have seen many muskrats since I learned to look for them in that part of the creek. But still I seek them out in the cool of the evening, and still I hold my breath when rising ripples surge from under the creek's bank. The great 70 hurrah about wild animals is that they exist at all, and the greater hurrah is the actual moment of seeing them. Because they have a nice dignity, and prefer to have nothing to do with me, not even as the simple objects of my vision. They show me by their very wariness what a prize it is simply to open my eyes and behold. In the excerpt from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, what conclusion can you draw about the author from line 41?

She will go to great lengths to achieve her goals.

Stubbornness is her biggest character flaw.

The only joy she finds is in sighting muskrats.

She feels embarrassed by her strange obsession.

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek Annie Dillard Learning to stalk muskrats took me several years. I've always known there were muskrats in the creek. Sometimes when I drove late at night my headlights' beam on the water would catch the broad lines of ripples made by a swimming muskrat, a bow wave, converging across the water at the raised dark vee of its head. I would stop the car and get out: nothing. They eat corn and tomatoes from my neighbors' gardens, too, by night, so that my neighbors were always telling me that the creek was full of them. Around here, people call them “mushrats”; Thoreau called them "snusquashes." They are not of course rats at all (let alone squashes). They are more like diminutive beavers, 10 and like beavers, they exude a scented oil from musk glands under the base of the tail-hence the name. I had read in several respectable sources that muskrats are so wary they are almost impossible to observe, One expert who made a full-time study of large populations, mainly by examining “sign” and performing autopsies on corpses, said he often went for weeks at a time without seeing a single living muskrat. One hot evening three years ago, I was standing more or less in a bush. I was stock-still, looking deep into Tinker Creek from a spot on the bank opposite the house, watching a group of bluegills stare and hang motionless near the bottom of a deep, sunlit pool. I was focused for depth. I had long since lost myself, lost the 20 creek, the day, lost everything but still amber depth. All at once I couldn't see. And then I could: a young muskrat had appeared on top of the water, floating on its back. Its forelegs were folded languorously across its chest; the sun shone on its upturned belly. Its youthfulness and rodent grin, coupled with its ridiculous method of locomotion, which consisted of a lazy wag of the tail assisted by an occasional dabble of a webbed hind foot, made it an enchanting picture of decadence, dissipation, and summer sloth. I forgot all about the fish. But in my surprise at having the light come on so suddenly, and at having my consciousness returned to me all at once, bearing an inverted muskrat, I must have moved and betrayed myself. The kit-for I know now it was just a young 30 kit-righted itself so that only its head was visible above water, and swam downstream, away from me. I extricated myself from the bush and foolishly pursued it. It dove sleekly, reemerged, and glided for the opposite bank. I ran along the bankside brush, trying to keep it in sight. It kept casting an alarmed look over its shoulder at me. Once again it dove, under a floating mat of brush lodged in the bank, and disappeared. I never saw it again. (Nor have I ever, despite all the muskrats I have seen, again seen a muskrat floating on its back.) But I did not know muskrats then, I waited, panting, and watched the shadowed bank. Now I know that I cannot outwait a muskrat who knows I am there. The most I can do is get "there" quietly, while it is still in its hole, so that it never knows, and wait there 40 until it emerges. But then all I knew was that I wanted to see more muskrats. I began to look for them day and night. Sometimes I would see ripples suddenly start beating from the creek's side, but as I crouched to watch, the ripples would die. Now I know what this means, and have learned to stand perfectly still to make out the muskrat's small, pointed face hidden under overhanging bank vegetation, watching me. That summer I haunted the bridges, I walked up creeks and down, but no muskrats ever appeared. You must just have to be there, I thought. You must have to spend the rest of your life standing in bushes. It was a once-in-a-lifetime thing, and you've had your once. Then one night I saw another, and my life changed. After that I knew where 50 they were in numbers, and I knew when to look. It was late dusk; I was driving home from a visit with friends. Just on the off chance, I parked quietly by the creek, walked out on the narrow bridge over the shallows, and looked upstream. Someday, I had been telling myself for weeks, someday a muskrat is going to swim right through that channel in the cattails, and I am going to see it. That is precisely what happened. I looked up into the channel for a muskrat, and there it came, swimming right toward me. Knock; see; ask. It seemed to swim with a side-to-side, sculling motion of its vertically flattened tail. It looked bigger than the upside-down muskrat, and its face more reddish. In its mouth it clasped a twig of tulip tree. One thing amazed me: it swam right down the middle of the creek. I 60 thought it would-hide in the brush along the edge, instead it plied the waters as obviously as an aquaplane. I could just look and look. But I was standing on the bridge, not sitting, and it saw me. It changed its course, veered toward the bank, and disappeared behind an indentation in the rushy shoreline. I felt a rush of such pure energy I thought I would not need to breathe for days. That innocence of mine is mostly gone now, although I felt almost the same pure rush last night. I have seen many muskrats since I learned to look for them in that part of the creek. But still I seek them out in the cool of the evening, and still I hold my breath when rising ripples surge from under the creek's bank. The great 70 hurrah about wild animals is that they exist at all, and the greater hurrah is the actual moment of seeing them. Because they have a nice dignity, and prefer to have nothing to do with me, not even as the simple objects of my vision. They show me by their very wariness what a prize it is simply to open my eyes and behold. In the excerpt from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, which sentence best supports the writer's message?

"They show me with their very wariness what a prize it is to open my eyes and behold" (72-73).

"That summer I haunted the bridges, I walked up creeks and down, but no muskrats ever appeared" (45-46).

"After that I knew where they were in numbers, and I knew when to look" (49-50).

"That innocence of mine is mostly gone, although I felt almost the same pure rush last night" (66-67).

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek Annie Dillard Learning to stalk muskrats took me several years. I've always known there were muskrats in the creek. Sometimes when I drove late at night my headlights' beam on the water would catch the broad lines of ripples made by a swimming muskrat, a bow wave, converging across the water at the raised dark vee of its head. I would stop the car and get out: nothing. They eat corn and tomatoes from my neighbors' gardens, too, by night, so that my neighbors were always telling me that the creek was full of them. Around here, people call them “mushrats”; Thoreau called them "snusquashes." They are not of course rats at all (let alone squashes). They are more like diminutive beavers, 10 and like beavers, they exude a scented oil from musk glands under the base of the tail-hence the name. I had read in several respectable sources that muskrats are so wary they are almost impossible to observe, One expert who made a full-time study of large populations, mainly by examining “sign” and performing autopsies on corpses, said he often went for weeks at a time without seeing a single living muskrat. One hot evening three years ago, I was standing more or less in a bush. I was stock-still, looking deep into Tinker Creek from a spot on the bank opposite the house, watching a group of bluegills stare and hang motionless near the bottom of a deep, sunlit pool. I was focused for depth. I had long since lost myself, lost the 20 creek, the day, lost everything but still amber depth. All at once I couldn't see. And then I could: a young muskrat had appeared on top of the water, floating on its back. Its forelegs were folded languorously across its chest; the sun shone on its upturned belly. Its youthfulness and rodent grin, coupled with its ridiculous method of locomotion, which consisted of a lazy wag of the tail assisted by an occasional dabble of a webbed hind foot, made it an enchanting picture of decadence, dissipation, and summer sloth. I forgot all about the fish. But in my surprise at having the light come on so suddenly, and at having my consciousness returned to me all at once, bearing an inverted muskrat, I must have moved and betrayed myself. The kit-for I know now it was just a young 30 kit-righted itself so that only its head was visible above water, and swam downstream, away from me. I extricated myself from the bush and foolishly pursued it. It dove sleekly, reemerged, and glided for the opposite bank. I ran along the bankside brush, trying to keep it in sight. It kept casting an alarmed look over its shoulder at me. Once again it dove, under a floating mat of brush lodged in the bank, and disappeared. I never saw it again. (Nor have I ever, despite all the muskrats I have seen, again seen a muskrat floating on its back.) But I did not know muskrats then, I waited, panting, and watched the shadowed bank. Now I know that I cannot outwait a muskrat who knows I am there. The most I can do is get "there" quietly, while it is still in its hole, so that it never knows, and wait there 40 until it emerges. But then all I knew was that I wanted to see more muskrats. I began to look for them day and night. Sometimes I would see ripples suddenly start beating from the creek's side, but as I crouched to watch, the ripples would die. Now I know what this means, and have learned to stand perfectly still to make out the muskrat's small, pointed face hidden under overhanging bank vegetation, watching me. That summer I haunted the bridges, I walked up creeks and down, but no muskrats ever appeared. You must just have to be there, I thought. You must have to spend the rest of your life standing in bushes. It was a once-in-a-lifetime thing, and you've had your once. Then one night I saw another, and my life changed. After that I knew where 50 they were in numbers, and I knew when to look. It was late dusk; I was driving home from a visit with friends. Just on the off chance, I parked quietly by the creek, walked out on the narrow bridge over the shallows, and looked upstream. Someday, I had been telling myself for weeks, someday a muskrat is going to swim right through that channel in the cattails, and I am going to see it. That is precisely what happened. I looked up into the channel for a muskrat, and there it came, swimming right toward me. Knock; see; ask. It seemed to swim with a side-to-side, sculling motion of its vertically flattened tail. It looked bigger than the upside-down muskrat, and its face more reddish. In its mouth it clasped a twig of tulip tree. One thing amazed me: it swam right down the middle of the creek. I 60 thought it would-hide in the brush along the edge, instead it plied the waters as obviously as an aquaplane. I could just look and look. But I was standing on the bridge, not sitting, and it saw me. It changed its course, veered toward the bank, and disappeared behind an indentation in the rushy shoreline. I felt a rush of such pure energy I thought I would not need to breathe for days. That innocence of mine is mostly gone now, although I felt almost the same pure rush last night. I have seen many muskrats since I learned to look for them in that part of the creek. But still I seek them out in the cool of the evening, and still I hold my breath when rising ripples surge from under the creek's bank. The great 70 hurrah about wild animals is that they exist at all, and the greater hurrah is the actual moment of seeing them. Because they have a nice dignity, and prefer to have nothing to do with me, not even as the simple objects of my vision. They show me by their very wariness what a prize it is simply to open my eyes and behold. In the excerpt from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, which sentence best summarizes lines 27-32?

Although the muskrat swam away when it spotted the narrator, the narrator tried to follow it anyway.

When a muskrat noticed the narrator watching nearby, it swam to the riverbank and hid in a bush.

The narrator hid in a bush and waited for a muskrat to swim by, but the muskrat remained hidden.

The narrator was startled when a muskrat swam by on its back, unaware that it was being watched.

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek Annie Dillard Learning to stalk muskrats took me several years. I've always known there were muskrats in the creek. Sometimes when I drove late at night my headlights' beam on the water would catch the broad lines of ripples made by a swimming muskrat, a bow wave, converging across the water at the raised dark vee of its head. I would stop the car and get out: nothing. They eat corn and tomatoes from my neighbors' gardens, too, by night, so that my neighbors were always telling me that the creek was full of them. Around here, people call them “mushrats”; Thoreau called them "snusquashes." They are not of course rats at all (let alone squashes). They are more like diminutive beavers, 10 and like beavers, they exude a scented oil from musk glands under the base of the tail-hence the name. I had read in several respectable sources that muskrats are so wary they are almost impossible to observe, One expert who made a full-time study of large populations, mainly by examining “sign” and performing autopsies on corpses, said he often went for weeks at a time without seeing a single living muskrat. One hot evening three years ago, I was standing more or less in a bush. I was stock-still, looking deep into Tinker Creek from a spot on the bank opposite the house, watching a group of bluegills stare and hang motionless near the bottom of a deep, sunlit pool. I was focused for depth. I had long since lost myself, lost the 20 creek, the day, lost everything but still amber depth. All at once I couldn't see. And then I could: a young muskrat had appeared on top of the water, floating on its back. Its forelegs were folded languorously across its chest; the sun shone on its upturned belly. Its youthfulness and rodent grin, coupled with its ridiculous method of locomotion, which consisted of a lazy wag of the tail assisted by an occasional dabble of a webbed hind foot, made it an enchanting picture of decadence, dissipation, and summer sloth. I forgot all about the fish. But in my surprise at having the light come on so suddenly, and at having my consciousness returned to me all at once, bearing an inverted muskrat, I must have moved and betrayed myself. The kit-for I know now it was just a young 30 kit-righted itself so that only its head was visible above water, and swam downstream, away from me. I extricated myself from the bush and foolishly pursued it. It dove sleekly, reemerged, and glided for the opposite bank. I ran along the bankside brush, trying to keep it in sight. It kept casting an alarmed look over its shoulder at me. Once again it dove, under a floating mat of brush lodged in the bank, and disappeared. I never saw it again. (Nor have I ever, despite all the muskrats I have seen, again seen a muskrat floating on its back.) But I did not know muskrats then, I waited, panting, and watched the shadowed bank. Now I know that I cannot outwait a muskrat who knows I am there. The most I can do is get "there" quietly, while it is still in its hole, so that it never knows, and wait there 40 until it emerges. But then all I knew was that I wanted to see more muskrats. I began to look for them day and night. Sometimes I would see ripples suddenly start beating from the creek's side, but as I crouched to watch, the ripples would die. Now I know what this means, and have learned to stand perfectly still to make out the muskrat's small, pointed face hidden under overhanging bank vegetation, watching me. That summer I haunted the bridges, I walked up creeks and down, but no muskrats ever appeared. You must just have to be there, I thought. You must have to spend the rest of your life standing in bushes. It was a once-in-a-lifetime thing, and you've had your once. Then one night I saw another, and my life changed. After that I knew where 50 they were in numbers, and I knew when to look. It was late dusk; I was driving home from a visit with friends. Just on the off chance, I parked quietly by the creek, walked out on the narrow bridge over the shallows, and looked upstream. Someday, I had been telling myself for weeks, someday a muskrat is going to swim right through that channel in the cattails, and I am going to see it. That is precisely what happened. I looked up into the channel for a muskrat, and there it came, swimming right toward me. Knock; see; ask. It seemed to swim with a side-to-side, sculling motion of its vertically flattened tail. It looked bigger than the upside-down muskrat, and its face more reddish. In its mouth it clasped a twig of tulip tree. One thing amazed me: it swam right down the middle of the creek. I 60 thought it would-hide in the brush along the edge, instead it plied the waters as obviously as an aquaplane. I could just look and look. But I was standing on the bridge, not sitting, and it saw me. It changed its course, veered toward the bank, and disappeared behind an indentation in the rushy shoreline. I felt a rush of such pure energy I thought I would not need to breathe for days. That innocence of mine is mostly gone now, although I felt almost the same pure rush last night. I have seen many muskrats since I learned to look for them in that part of the creek. But still I seek them out in the cool of the evening, and still I hold my breath when rising ripples surge from under the creek's bank. The great 70 hurrah about wild animals is that they exist at all, and the greater hurrah is the actual moment of seeing them. Because they have a nice dignity, and prefer to have nothing to do with me, not even as the simple objects of my vision. They show me by their very wariness what a prize it is simply to open my eyes and behold. In the excerpt from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, from lines 5-11, you can infer that Dillard ____________?

has researched muskrats extensively

likes muskrats because of their scent

has a muskrat problem in her garden

believes muskrats have a false reputation

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek Annie Dillard Learning to stalk muskrats took me several years. I've always known there were muskrats in the creek. Sometimes when I drove late at night my headlights' beam on the water would catch the broad lines of ripples made by a swimming muskrat, a bow wave, converging across the water at the raised dark vee of its head. I would stop the car and get out: nothing. They eat corn and tomatoes from my neighbors' gardens, too, by night, so that my neighbors were always telling me that the creek was full of them. Around here, people call them “mushrats”; Thoreau called them "snusquashes." They are not of course rats at all (let alone squashes). They are more like diminutive beavers, 10 and like beavers, they exude a scented oil from musk glands under the base of the tail-hence the name. I had read in several respectable sources that muskrats are so wary they are almost impossible to observe, One expert who made a full-time study of large populations, mainly by examining “sign” and performing autopsies on corpses, said he often went for weeks at a time without seeing a single living muskrat. One hot evening three years ago, I was standing more or less in a bush. I was stock-still, looking deep into Tinker Creek from a spot on the bank opposite the house, watching a group of bluegills stare and hang motionless near the bottom of a deep, sunlit pool. I was focused for depth. I had long since lost myself, lost the 20 creek, the day, lost everything but still amber depth. All at once I couldn't see. And then I could: a young muskrat had appeared on top of the water, floating on its back. Its forelegs were folded languorously across its chest; the sun shone on its upturned belly. Its youthfulness and rodent grin, coupled with its ridiculous method of locomotion, which consisted of a lazy wag of the tail assisted by an occasional dabble of a webbed hind foot, made it an enchanting picture of decadence, dissipation, and summer sloth. I forgot all about the fish. But in my surprise at having the light come on so suddenly, and at having my consciousness returned to me all at once, bearing an inverted muskrat, I must have moved and betrayed myself. The kit-for I know now it was just a young 30 kit-righted itself so that only its head was visible above water, and swam downstream, away from me. I extricated myself from the bush and foolishly pursued it. It dove sleekly, reemerged, and glided for the opposite bank. I ran along the bankside brush, trying to keep it in sight. It kept casting an alarmed look over its shoulder at me. Once again it dove, under a floating mat of brush lodged in the bank, and disappeared. I never saw it again. (Nor have I ever, despite all the muskrats I have seen, again seen a muskrat floating on its back.) But I did not know muskrats then, I waited, panting, and watched the shadowed bank. Now I know that I cannot outwait a muskrat who knows I am there. The most I can do is get "there" quietly, while it is still in its hole, so that it never knows, and wait there 40 until it emerges. But then all I knew was that I wanted to see more muskrats. I began to look for them day and night. Sometimes I would see ripples suddenly start beating from the creek's side, but as I crouched to watch, the ripples would die. Now I know what this means, and have learned to stand perfectly still to make out the muskrat's small, pointed face hidden under overhanging bank vegetation, watching me. That summer I haunted the bridges, I walked up creeks and down, but no muskrats ever appeared. You must just have to be there, I thought. You must have to spend the rest of your life standing in bushes. It was a once-in-a-lifetime thing, and you've had your once. Then one night I saw another, and my life changed. After that I knew where 50 they were in numbers, and I knew when to look. It was late dusk; I was driving home from a visit with friends. Just on the off chance, I parked quietly by the creek, walked out on the narrow bridge over the shallows, and looked upstream. Someday, I had been telling myself for weeks, someday a muskrat is going to swim right through that channel in the cattails, and I am going to see it. That is precisely what happened. I looked up into the channel for a muskrat, and there it came, swimming right toward me. Knock; see; ask. It seemed to swim with a side-to-side, sculling motion of its vertically flattened tail. It looked bigger than the upside-down muskrat, and its face more reddish. In its mouth it clasped a twig of tulip tree. One thing amazed me: it swam right down the middle of the creek. I 60 thought it would-hide in the brush along the edge, instead it plied the waters as obviously as an aquaplane. I could just look and look. But I was standing on the bridge, not sitting, and it saw me. It changed its course, veered toward the bank, and disappeared behind an indentation in the rushy shoreline. I felt a rush of such pure energy I thought I would not need to breathe for days. That innocence of mine is mostly gone now, although I felt almost the same pure rush last night. I have seen many muskrats since I learned to look for them in that part of the creek. But still I seek them out in the cool of the evening, and still I hold my breath when rising ripples surge from under the creek's bank. The great 70 hurrah about wild animals is that they exist at all, and the greater hurrah is the actual moment of seeing them. Because they have a nice dignity, and prefer to have nothing to do with me, not even as the simple objects of my vision. They show me by their very wariness what a prize it is simply to open my eyes and behold. In the excerpt from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, which sentence best describes the writer's message?

It is a privilege to see a wild creature in its own environment.

An object is what it is regardless of the name that people give it.

The idea of experience is always more fulfilling than the experience itself.

Wild animals can be seen only by people who are at peace with the natural world.

What are the two main parts of a topic sentence?

concrete details and commentary

topic sentence and concrete detail

Which of the following is a good topic sentence for an argumentative essay?

Drinking too much may be dangerous for people in many ways.

Should a research paper have page numbers?

Yes, they should bo on the top right of each page.

Yes, they should be on the bottom right of each page.

No, they shouldn't be present at all.

Yes, they should bo on the top left of each page.

The following paragraph has been shuffled. Which sentence is a concluding sentence?

Finally, it is also a good idea to carry tire chains, a can of spray to unfreeze door locks, and a windshield scraper in you car when driving in winter weather.

Next, add antifreeze to your windshield washer fluid; otherwise, the fluid will freeze and possibly break the container.

First, put on snow tires if you plan to drive on snowy, icy roads very often.

Driving in winter, especially on snowy, icy roads, can be less troublesome if you take a few simple precautions.

Second, check the amount of antifreeze in your radiator and add more if necessary.

What spacing should you use when writing a research paper?

Single space your name, double space the rest

Use a combination of single and double spacing depending on you length requirement

In the conclusion paragraph, it is a good idea to do what?

Wrap up the essay in an orderly manner and induce the reader with some type of "a call to action."

Re-state the entire essay in a summary-like style

Present a brand-new, "slam-dunk" argument

Transitions are used to do what?

To smoothly take your reader from one idea, topic, or paragraph to another

To "hook" the reader's interest

To make the opposition's viewpoints look silly

To "hammer home" a point you are trying to make

Where should the title go in research paper formatting?

The title should be centered between the writer's information and the beginning of the first paragraph.

The title should be in a larger font at the top of the first page.

A dedicated title page should be included.

Research papers do not need titles.

The following paragraph has been shuffled. Which sentence is the topic sentence?

Driving in winter, especially on snowy, icy roads, can be less troublesome if you take a few simple precautions.

Second, check the amount of antifreeze in your radiator and add more if necessary.

Finally, it is also a good idea to carry tire chains, a can of spray to unfreeze door locks, and a windshield scraper in your car when driving in winter weather.

First, put on snow tires if you plan to drive on snowy, icy roads very often.

Next, add antifreeze to your windshield washer fluid; otherwise, the fluid will freeze and possibly break the container.

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