The structure of the Underground Railroad from Wikipedia

The escape network was not literally underground nor a railroad. It was figuratively "underground" in the sense of being an underground resistance. It was known as a "railroad" by way of the use of rail terminology in the code. The Underground Railroad consisted of meeting points, secret routes, transportation, and safe houses, and personal assistance provided by abolitionist sympathizers. Participants generally organized in small, independent groups; this helped to maintain secrecy because individuals knew some connecting "stations" along the route but knew few details of their immediate area. Escaped slaves would move north along the route from one way station to the next. "Conductors" on the railroad came from various backgrounds and included free-born blacks, white abolitionists, former slaves (either escaped or manumitted), and Native Americans. Church clergy and congregations often played a role, especially the Religious Society of Friends (Quakers), Congregationalists, Wesleyans, and Reformed Presbyterians as well as certain sects of mainstream denominations such as branches of the Methodist church and American Baptists. Without the presence and support of free black residents, there would have been almost no chance for fugitive slaves to pass into freedom unmolested.

You are writing an essay on the Underground Railroad and are using information from this source. Which sentence is an example of paraphrase and not plagiarism?

Which book would provide the MOST useful information specifically for teenagers who are considering running a marathon?

Christina worked diligently to make good grades in high school;______, she was offered several academic scholarships.

Which transition word or phrase BEST completes the sentence?

In order for a research source to be useful, its author(s) must have

(1) A few days before the big snowstorm, the local weather forecasters said that we would have a small snowfall. (2) The day before the storm, however, they changed their forecasts to say that the storm would be gigantic. (3) When I awoke on the day of the storm, Mom told me that school was cancelled. (4) I looked out the window and saw that everything was covered in a layer of snow. (5) So much snow had fallen that a huge mound of it blocked our front door! (6) My sister and I put on our winter coats, hats, and gloves and played outside all day long.

Which of these replacements for sentence 4 provides vivid word choice?

from The Count of Monte Cristo, by Alexandre Dumas

(Note: The character, Dantes, is a nineteen year old shipmate whose dying captain gave him a letter to deliver to Napoleon Bonaparte on the Mediterranean island of Elba. The novel is historical fiction.)

...Dantes had been taken to prison, and he had gone to all his friends, and the influential persons of the city; but the report was already in circulation that Dantes was arrested as a Bonapartist agent; and as the most *sanguine looked upon any attempt of Napoleon to remount the throne as impossible, he met with nothing but refusal, and had returned home in despair, declaring that the matter was serious and that nothing more could be done...

*Sanguine means optimistic or hopeful.

How does the author of The Count of Monte Cristo link his novel to real historical events?

As I finished my dance, the audience jumped to their feet and began to clap. “That was great, Marcie!” a freshman yelled. ”You’re amazing!” screamed another. My face beamed and I took a bow before I floated off the stage.

Which sentence provides the BEST conclusion to this narrative paragraph?

The Song of the Cardinal I

Gene Stratton-Porter

¹ The swamp resembles a big dining-table for the birds. Wild grape-vines clamber to the tops of the highest trees, spreading umbrella-wise over the branches, and their festooned floating trailers wave as silken fringe in the play of the wind. The birds loll in the shade, peel bark, gather dried curlers for nest material, and feast on the pungent fruit. They chatter in swarms over the wild-cherry trees, and overload their crops with red haws, wild plums, papaws, blackberries and mandrake. The alders around the edge draw flocks in search of berries, and the marsh grasses and weeds are weighted with seed hunters. The muck is alive with worms; and the whole swamp ablaze with flowers, whose colours and perfumes attract myriads of insects and butterflies.

² Wild creepers flaunt their red and gold from the treetops, and the bumblebees and humming-birds make common cause in rifling the honey-laden trumpets. The air around the wild-plum and redhaw trees is vibrant with the beating wings of millions of wild bees, and the bee-birds feast to gluttony. The fetid odours of the swamp draw insects in swarms, and fly-catchers tumble and twist in air in pursuit of them.

³ Every hollow tree homes its colony of bats. Snakes sun on the bushes. The water folk leave trails of shining ripples in their wake as they cross the lagoons. Turtles waddle clumsily from the logs. Frogs take graceful leaps from pool to pool. Everything native to that section of the country-underground, creeping, or a-wing--can be found in the Limberlost; but above all the birds. Dainty green warblers nest in its tree-tops, and red-eyed vireos choose a location below. It is the home of bell-birds, finches, and thrushes. There are flocks of blackbirds, grackles, and crows. Jays and catbirds quarrel constantly, and marsh-wrens keep up never-ending chatter. Orioles swing their pendent purses from the branches, and with the tanagers picnic on mulberries and insects. In the evening, night-hawks dart on silent wing; whippoorwills set up a plaintive cry that they continue far into the night; and owls revel in moonlight and rich hunting. At dawn, robins wake the echoes of each new day with the admonition, "Cheer up! Cheer up!" and a little later big black vultures go wheeling through cloudland or hang there, like frozen splashes, searching the Limberlost and the surrounding country for food. The boom of the bittern resounds all day, and above it the rasping scream of the blue heron, as he strikes terror to the hearts of frogdom; while the occasional cries of a lost loon, strayed from its flock in northern migration, fill the swamp with sounds of wailing.

⁴ Flashing through the tree-tops of the Limberlost there are birds whose colour is more brilliant than that of the gaudiest flower lifting its face to light and air. The lilies of the mire are not so white as the white herons that fish among them. The ripest spray of goldenrod is not so highly coloured as the burnished gold on the breast of the oriole that rocks on it. The jays are bluer than the calamus bed they wrangle above with throaty chatter. The finches are a finer purple than the ironwort. For every clump of foxfire flaming in the Limberlost, there is a cardinal glowing redder on a bush above it. These may not be more numerous than other birds, but their brilliant colouring and the fearless disposition make them seem so.

The word quarrel in the red highlighted sentence is MOST likely used to

The Song of the Cardinal I Gene Stratton-Porter

¹ The swamp resembles a big dining-table for the birds. Wild grape-vines clamber to the tops of the highest trees, spreading umbrella-wise over the branches, and their festooned floating trailers wave as silken fringe in the play of the wind. The birds loll in the shade, peel bark, gather dried curlers for nest material, and feast on the pungent fruit. They chatter in swarms over the wild-cherry trees, and overload their crops with red haws, wild plums, papaws, blackberries and mandrake. The alders around the edge draw flocks in search of berries, and the marsh grasses and weeds are weighted with seed hunters. The muck is alive with worms; and the whole swamp ablaze with flowers, whose colours and perfumes attract myriads of insects and butterflies.

² Wild creepers flaunt their red and gold from the treetops, and the bumblebees and humming-birds make common cause in rifling the honey-laden trumpets. The air around the wild-plum and redhaw trees is vibrant with the beating wings of millions of wild bees, and the bee-birds feast to gluttony. The fetid odours of the swamp draw insects in swarms, and fly-catchers tumble and twist in air in pursuit of them.

³ Every hollow tree homes its colony of bats. Snakes sun on the bushes. The water folk leave trails of shining ripples in their wake as they cross the lagoons. Turtles waddle clumsily from the logs. Frogs take graceful leaps from pool to pool. Everything native to that section of the country-underground, creeping, or a-wing--can be found in the Limberlost; but above all the birds. Dainty green warblers nest in its tree-tops, and red-eyed vireos choose a location below. It is the home of bell-birds, finches, and thrushes. There are flocks of blackbirds, grackles, and crows. Jays and catbirds quarrel constantly, and marsh-wrens keep up never-ending chatter. Orioles swing their pendent purses from the branches, and with the tanagers picnic on mulberries and insects. In the evening, night-hawks dart on silent wing; whippoorwills set up a plaintive cry that they continue far into the night; and owls revel in moonlight and rich hunting. At dawn, robins wake the echoes of each new day with the admonition, "Cheer up! Cheer up!" and a little later big black vultures go wheeling through cloudland or hang there, like frozen splashes, searching the Limberlost and the surrounding country for food. The boom of the bittern resounds all day, and above it the rasping scream of the blue heron, as he strikes terror to the hearts of frogdom; while the occasional cries of a lost loon, strayed from its flock in northern migration, fill the swamp with sounds of wailing.

⁴ Flashing through the tree-tops of the Limberlost there are birds whose colour is more brilliant than that of the gaudiest flower lifting its face to light and air. The lilies of the mire are not so white as the white herons that fish among them. The ripest spray of goldenrod is not so highly coloured as the burnished gold on the breast of the oriole that rocks on it. The jays are bluer than the calamus bed they wrangle above with throaty chatter. The finches are a finer purple than the ironwort. For every clump of foxfire flaming in the Limberlost, there is a cardinal glowing redder on a bush above it. These may not be more numerous than other birds, but their brilliant colouring and the fearless disposition make them seem so.

The main purpose of the passage is to

The Song of the Cardinal I Gene Stratton-Porter

¹ The swamp resembles a big dining-table for the birds. Wild grape-vines clamber to the tops of the highest trees, spreading umbrella-wise over the branches, and their festooned floating trailers wave as silken fringe in the play of the wind. The birds loll in the shade, peel bark, gather dried curlers for nest material, and feast on the pungent fruit. They chatter in swarms over the wild-cherry trees, and overload their crops with red haws, wild plums, papaws, blackberries and mandrake. The alders around the edge draw flocks in search of berries, and the marsh grasses and weeds are weighted with seed hunters. The muck is alive with worms; and the whole swamp ablaze with flowers, whose colours and perfumes attract myriads of insects and butterflies.

² Wild creepers flaunt their red and gold from the treetops, and the bumblebees and humming-birds make common cause in rifling the honey-laden trumpets. The air around the wild-plum and redhaw trees is vibrant with the beating wings of millions of wild bees, and the bee-birds feast to gluttony. The fetid odours of the swamp draw insects in swarms, and fly-catchers tumble and twist in air in pursuit of them.

³ Every hollow tree homes its colony of bats. Snakes sun on the bushes. The water folk leave trails of shining ripples in their wake as they cross the lagoons. Turtles waddle clumsily from the logs. Frogs take graceful leaps from pool to pool. Everything native to that section of the country-underground, creeping, or a-wing--can be found in the Limberlost; but above all the birds. Dainty green warblers nest in its tree-tops, and red-eyed vireos choose a location below. It is the home of bell-birds, finches, and thrushes. There are flocks of blackbirds, grackles, and crows. Jays and catbirds quarrel constantly, and marsh-wrens keep up never-ending chatter. Orioles swing their pendent purses from the branches, and with the tanagers picnic on mulberries and insects. In the evening, night-hawks dart on silent wing; whippoorwills set up a plaintive cry that they continue far into the night; and owls revel in moonlight and rich hunting. At dawn, robins wake the echoes of each new day with the admonition, "Cheer up! Cheer up!" and a little later big black vultures go wheeling through cloudland or hang there, like frozen splashes, searching the Limberlost and the surrounding country for food. The boom of the bittern resounds all day, and above it the rasping scream of the blue heron, as he strikes terror to the hearts of frogdom; while the occasional cries of a lost loon, strayed from its flock in northern migration, fill the swamp with sounds of wailing.

⁴ Flashing through the tree-tops of the Limberlost there are birds whose colour is more brilliant than that of the gaudiest flower lifting its face to light and air. The lilies of the mire are not so white as the white herons that fish among them. The ripest spray of goldenrod is not so highly coloured as the burnished gold on the breast of the oriole that rocks on it. The jays are bluer than the calamus bed they wrangle above with throaty chatter. The finches are a finer purple than the ironwort. For every clump of foxfire flaming in the Limberlost, there is a cardinal glowing redder on a bush above it. These may not be more numerous than other birds, but their brilliant colouring and the fearless disposition make them seem so.

Which of these statements BEST expresses a comparison or contrast between the title and passage?

The Song of the Cardinal I Gene Stratton-Porter

¹ The swamp resembles a big dining-table for the birds. Wild grape-vines clamber to the tops of the highest trees, spreading umbrella-wise over the branches, and their festooned floating trailers wave as silken fringe in the play of the wind. The birds loll in the shade, peel bark, gather dried curlers for nest material, and feast on the pungent fruit. They chatter in swarms over the wild-cherry trees, and overload their crops with red haws, wild plums, papaws, blackberries and mandrake. The alders around the edge draw flocks in search of berries, and the marsh grasses and weeds are weighted with seed hunters. The muck is alive with worms; and the whole swamp ablaze with flowers, whose colours and perfumes attract myriads of insects and butterflies.

² Wild creepers flaunt their red and gold from the treetops, and the bumblebees and humming-birds make common cause in rifling the honey-laden trumpets. The air around the wild-plum and redhaw trees is vibrant with the beating wings of millions of wild bees, and the bee-birds feast to gluttony. The fetid odours of the swamp draw insects in swarms, and fly-catchers tumble and twist in air in pursuit of them.

³ Every hollow tree homes its colony of bats. Snakes sun on the bushes. The water folk leave trails of shining ripples in their wake as they cross the lagoons. Turtles waddle clumsily from the logs. Frogs take graceful leaps from pool to pool. Everything native to that section of the country-underground, creeping, or a-wing--can be found in the Limberlost; but above all the birds. Dainty green warblers nest in its tree-tops, and red-eyed vireos choose a location below. It is the home of bell-birds, finches, and thrushes. There are flocks of blackbirds, grackles, and crows. Jays and catbirds quarrel constantly, and marsh-wrens keep up never-ending chatter. Orioles swing their pendent purses from the branches, and with the tanagers picnic on mulberries and insects. In the evening, night-hawks dart on silent wing; whippoorwills set up a plaintive cry that they continue far into the night; and owls revel in moonlight and rich hunting. At dawn, robins wake the echoes of each new day with the admonition, "Cheer up! Cheer up!" and a little later big black vultures go wheeling through cloudland or hang there, like frozen splashes, searching the Limberlost and the surrounding country for food. The boom of the bittern resounds all day, and above it the rasping scream of the blue heron, as he strikes terror to the hearts of frogdom; while the occasional cries of a lost loon, strayed from its flock in northern migration, fill the swamp with sounds of wailing.

⁴ Flashing through the tree-tops of the Limberlost there are birds whose colour is more brilliant than that of the gaudiest flower lifting its face to light and air. The lilies of the mire are not so white as the white herons that fish among them. The ripest spray of goldenrod is not so highly coloured as the burnished gold on the breast of the oriole that rocks on it. The jays are bluer than the calamus bed they wrangle above with throaty chatter. The finches are a finer purple than the ironwort. For every clump of foxfire flaming in the Limberlost, there is a cardinal glowing redder on a bush above it. These may not be more numerous than other birds, but their brilliant colouring and the fearless disposition make them seem so.

Based on the information in this passage, you can tell that the author

The muck is alive with worms; and the whole swamp ablaze with flowers, whose colours and perfumes attract myriads of insects and butterflies.

What is the connotative effect of the word ablaze used in paragraph 1?

¹ The swamp resembles a big dining-table for the birds. Wild grape-vines clamber to the tops of the highest trees, spreading umbrella-wise over the branches, and their festooned floating trailers wave as silken fringe in the play of the wind. The birds loll in the shade, peel bark, gather dried curlers for nest material, and feast on the pungent fruit. They chatter in swarms over the wild-cherry trees, and overload their crops with red haws, wild plums, papaws, blackberries and mandrake. The alders around the edge draw flocks in search of berries, and the marsh grasses and weeds are weighted with seed hunters. The muck is alive with worms; and the whole swamp ablaze with flowers, whose colours and perfumes attract myriads of insects and butterflies.

² Wild creepers flaunt their red and gold from the treetops, and the bumblebees and humming-birds make common cause in rifling the honey-laden trumpets. The air around the wild-plum and redhaw trees is vibrant with the beating wings of millions of wild bees, and the bee-birds feast to gluttony. The fetid odours of the swamp draw insects in swarms, and fly-catchers tumble and twist in air in pursuit of them.

³ Every hollow tree homes its colony of bats. Snakes sun on the bushes. The water folk leave trails of shining ripples in their wake as they cross the lagoons. Turtles waddle clumsily from the logs. Frogs take graceful leaps from pool to pool. Everything native to that section of the country-underground, creeping, or a-wing--can be found in the Limberlost; but above all the birds. Dainty green warblers nest in its tree-tops, and red-eyed vireos choose a location below. It is the home of bell-birds, finches, and thrushes. There are flocks of blackbirds, grackles, and crows. Jays and catbirds quarrel constantly, and marsh-wrens keep up never-ending chatter. Orioles swing their pendent purses from the branches, and with the tanagers picnic on mulberries and insects. In the evening, night-hawks dart on silent wing; whippoorwills set up a plaintive cry that they continue far into the night; and owls revel in moonlight and rich hunting. At dawn, robins wake the echoes of each new day with the admonition, "Cheer up! Cheer up!" and a little later big black vultures go wheeling through cloudland or hang there, like frozen splashes, searching the Limberlost and the surrounding country for food. The boom of the bittern resounds all day, and above it the rasping scream of the blue heron, as he strikes terror to the hearts of frogdom; while the occasional cries of a lost loon, strayed from its flock in northern migration, fill the swamp with sounds of wailing.

⁴ Flashing through the tree-tops of the Limberlost there are birds whose colour is more brilliant than that of the gaudiest flower lifting its face to light and air. The lilies of the mire are not so white as the white herons that fish among them. The ripest spray of goldenrod is not so highly coloured as the burnished gold on the breast of the oriole that rocks on it. The jays are bluer than the calamus bed they wrangle above with throaty chatter. The finches are a finer purple than the ironwort. For every clump of foxfire flaming in the Limberlost, there is a cardinal glowing redder on a bush above it. These may not be more numerous than other birds, but their brilliant colouring and the fearless disposition make them seem so.

Comparing sections one and four leads the reader to infer

Dear JD Journal,

I just figured out that life really is a journey. Lame, right? - but yesterday was the best day ever! I realized how far I have come, and how far I have to go. As far back as I can remember, I have always loved sports, especially basketball. It’s just me and Pops now, since Mom died when I was eleven. Six years have passed and I hate that my memories of her are fading. She was so beautiful, with an easy smile and a kind heart. She was always ready with a proverb or clever phrase. Sometimes her voice still echoes in my mind:

“Jerome, the longest journey begins with a single step, so get moving-but remember to thank those who helped get you there.”

I listen to more soothing words:

“Son, help others, not just yourself -that’s why God put you on this earth.”

Back then her quotes and happy little sayings would drive me crazy, but now they bring me comfort and somehow make me sad, too.

Pops and I used to spend hours watching basketball. It was our sacred time together, cheering the spectacular feats of Shaq and Kobe, or chiding the referees for questionable calls against our team. Our excited discussions often edged toward debates arguing who is better or who is best between the latest top NBA or college stars. Sure, watching was great, but I yearned to wear a uniform and use some of those signature moves I saw on ESPN highlight reels. Although I was athletic by nature, I knew it would still take lots of practice to transform myself into the agile superstar I dreamed of becoming. After Mom was gone, the cheering stopped. Pops and I were wrapped up in our own individual worlds of pain and loss. It was hard without Mom. I could not make myself imagine going through life without her. I took no steps toward basketball. Then I met Coach Moses and Ms. Willow.

Now, don’t think I am exaggerating about yesterday. My ears are still ringing from the thunderous cheering of our Silver Fox fans. We closed our season with a two point defeat of our high school rivals, the Bulldogs. The game was a nail biter until the last minute. The sellout crowd was ecstatic and now I, Jerome Dunkin Duncan, am the hometown hero! The church parking lot was packed for the 5th Quarter Basketball Party, a local tradition. I was greeted like a king entering his majestic palace. Pops, Coach Moses, and Ms. Willow worked their way through the crowd.

“I’m proud of you, son,” beamed Pops.

“You gave 110% out there,” agreed Coach Moses. Ms. Willow simply smiled, handed me a sealed envelope, and hugged me. Pops assured me he would record the local news coverage of my no-look passes, dunks, steals, and fall-away three pointers.

It had been a perfect evening. I was walking on air, but grew tired of the spotlight. I left the party and drove home. Pops would be in the den, probably asleep in his chair. I bolted upstairs, anxious to open the card from Ms. Willow AND check out my stellar performance. Then I flopped on the bed, and bent down to untie my size thirteens. I froze. I studied my shoes as if they just appeared on my feet. Pictures of shoes flashed in my thoughts. Suddenly, memories of my mother flooded my mind, her voice crowding out my former thoughts of glory and fame. Sure, I was successful, but I became acutely aware of the fact that I had help along the way. My steps had been guided by family and friends. I blinked the moisture from my eyes, grabbed the card and headed for the den. My abrupt entrance startled Pops almost as much as the bear hug he got from me.

“Thanks for all you’ve done for me. I love you,” I stammered. I opened the envelope and a gift card fell out for Athlete’s Footgear. The handwritten words were simple and familiar:

“The longest journey begins with a single step. What’s next?

Love, Ms. Willow

Although we seldom spoke about it, that first year without Mom was the year Coach Moses and Ms. Willow, stepped into our lives. They were both from our church. Ms. Willow paid for my first summer basketball camp and bought my shoes every season. Coach took me home from practice during those middle school years. Pops always loved me and supported me. It was getting late, but I had two more things to do.

Like I said, life really is a journey. Look out tomorrow, here I come!

Sincerely,

Jerome Dunkin’ Duncan

Silver Fox #11

Which statement BEST summarizes Jerome's attitude AFTER his exciting day?

Dear JD Journal,

I just figured out that life really is a journey. Lame, right? - but yesterday was the best day ever! I realized how far I have come, and how far I have to go. As far back as I can remember, I have always loved sports, especially basketball. It’s just me and Pops now, since Mom died when I was eleven. Six years have passed and I hate that my memories of her are fading. She was so beautiful, with an easy smile and a kind heart. She was always ready with a proverb or clever phrase. Sometimes her voice still echoes in my mind:

“Jerome, the longest journey begins with a single step, so get moving-but remember to thank those who helped get you there.”

I listen to more soothing words:

“Son, help others, not just yourself -that’s why God put you on this earth.”

Back then her quotes and happy little sayings would drive me crazy, but now they bring me comfort and somehow make me sad, too.

Pops and I used to spend hours watching basketball. It was our sacred time together, cheering the spectacular feats of Shaq and Kobe, or chiding the referees for questionable calls against our team. Our excited discussions often edged toward debates arguing who is better or who is best between the latest top NBA or college stars. Sure, watching was great, but I yearned to wear a uniform and use some of those signature moves I saw on ESPN highlight reels. Although I was athletic by nature, I knew it would still take lots of practice to transform myself into the agile superstar I dreamed of becoming. After Mom was gone, the cheering stopped. Pops and I were wrapped up in our own individual worlds of pain and loss. It was hard without Mom. I could not make myself imagine going through life without her. I took no steps toward basketball. Then I met Coach Moses and Ms. Willow.

Now, don’t think I am exaggerating about yesterday. My ears are still ringing from the thunderous cheering of our Silver Fox fans. We closed our season with a two point defeat of our high school rivals, the Bulldogs. The game was a nail biter until the last minute. The sellout crowd was ecstatic and now I, Jerome Dunkin Duncan, am the hometown hero! The church parking lot was packed for the 5th Quarter Basketball Party, a local tradition. I was greeted like a king entering his majestic palace. Pops, Coach Moses, and Ms. Willow worked their way through the crowd.

“I’m proud of you, son,” beamed Pops.

“You gave 110% out there,” agreed Coach Moses. Ms. Willow simply smiled, handed me a sealed envelope, and hugged me. Pops assured me he would record the local news coverage of my no-look passes, dunks, steals, and fall-away three pointers.

It had been a perfect evening. I was walking on air, but grew tired of the spotlight. I left the party and drove home. Pops would be in the den, probably asleep in his chair. I bolted upstairs, anxious to open the card from Ms. Willow AND check out my stellar performance. Then I flopped on the bed, and bent down to untie my size thirteens. I froze. I studied my shoes as if they just appeared on my feet. Pictures of shoes flashed in my thoughts. Suddenly, memories of my mother flooded my mind, her voice crowding out my former thoughts of glory and fame. Sure, I was successful, but I became acutely aware of the fact that I had help along the way. My steps had been guided by family and friends. I blinked the moisture from my eyes, grabbed the card and headed for the den. My abrupt entrance startled Pops almost as much as the bear hug he got from me.

“Thanks for all you’ve done for me. I love you,” I stammered. I opened the envelope and a gift card fell out for Athlete’s Footgear. The handwritten words were simple and familiar:

“The longest journey begins with a single step. What’s next?

Love, Ms. Willow

Although we seldom spoke about it, that first year without Mom was the year Coach Moses and Ms. Willow, stepped into our lives. They were both from our church. Ms. Willow paid for my first summer basketball camp and bought my shoes every season. Coach took me home from practice during those middle school years. Pops always loved me and supported me. It was getting late, but I had two more things to do.

Like I said, life really is a journey. Look out tomorrow, here I come!

Sincerely,

Jerome Dunkin’ Duncan

Silver Fox #11

The purpose of this passage can BEST be described as

Dear JD Journal,

I just figured out that life really is a journey. Lame, right? - but yesterday was the best day ever! I realized how far I have come, and how far I have to go. As far back as I can remember, I have always loved sports, especially basketball. It’s just me and Pops now, since Mom died when I was eleven. Six years have passed and I hate that my memories of her are fading. She was so beautiful, with an easy smile and a kind heart. She was always ready with a proverb or clever phrase. Sometimes her voice still echoes in my mind:

“Jerome, the longest journey begins with a single step, so get moving-but remember to thank those who helped get you there.”

I listen to more soothing words:

“Son, help others, not just yourself -that’s why God put you on this earth.”

Back then her quotes and happy little sayings would drive me crazy, but now they bring me comfort and somehow make me sad, too.

Pops and I used to spend hours watching basketball. It was our sacred time together, cheering the spectacular feats of Shaq and Kobe, or chiding the referees for questionable calls against our team. Our excited discussions often edged toward debates arguing who is better or who is best between the latest top NBA or college stars. Sure, watching was great, but I yearned to wear a uniform and use some of those signature moves I saw on ESPN highlight reels. Although I was athletic by nature, I knew it would still take lots of practice to transform myself into the agile superstar I dreamed of becoming. After Mom was gone, the cheering stopped. Pops and I were wrapped up in our own individual worlds of pain and loss. It was hard without Mom. I could not make myself imagine going through life without her. I took no steps toward basketball. Then I met Coach Moses and Ms. Willow.

Now, don’t think I am exaggerating about yesterday. My ears are still ringing from the thunderous cheering of our Silver Fox fans. We closed our season with a two point defeat of our high school rivals, the Bulldogs. The game was a nail biter until the last minute. The sellout crowd was ecstatic and now I, Jerome Dunkin Duncan, am the hometown hero! The church parking lot was packed for the 5th Quarter Basketball Party, a local tradition. I was greeted like a king entering his majestic palace. Pops, Coach Moses, and Ms. Willow worked their way through the crowd.

“I’m proud of you, son,” beamed Pops.

“You gave 110% out there,” agreed Coach Moses. Ms. Willow simply smiled, handed me a sealed envelope, and hugged me. Pops assured me he would record the local news coverage of my no-look passes, dunks, steals, and fall-away three pointers.

It had been a perfect evening. I was walking on air, but grew tired of the spotlight. I left the party and drove home. Pops would be in the den, probably asleep in his chair. I bolted upstairs, anxious to open the card from Ms. Willow AND check out my stellar performance. Then I flopped on the bed, and bent down to untie my size thirteens. I froze. I studied my shoes as if they just appeared on my feet. Pictures of shoes flashed in my thoughts. Suddenly, memories of my mother flooded my mind, her voice crowding out my former thoughts of glory and fame. Sure, I was successful, but I became acutely aware of the fact that I had help along the way. My steps had been guided by family and friends. I blinked the moisture from my eyes, grabbed the card and headed for the den. My abrupt entrance startled Pops almost as much as the bear hug he got from me.

“Thanks for all you’ve done for me. I love you,” I stammered. I opened the envelope and a gift card fell out for Athlete’s Footgear. The handwritten words were simple and familiar:

“The longest journey begins with a single step. What’s next?

Love, Ms. Willow

Although we seldom spoke about it, that first year without Mom was the year Coach Moses and Ms. Willow, stepped into our lives. They were both from our church. Ms. Willow paid for my first summer basketball camp and bought my shoes every season. Coach took me home from practice during those middle school years. Pops always loved me and supported me. It was getting late, but I had two more things to do.

Like I said, life really is a journey. Look out tomorrow, here I come!

Sincerely,

Jerome Dunkin’ Duncan

Silver Fox #11

What do Jerome's memories reveal about him?

Dear JD Journal,

I just figured out that life really is a journey. Lame, right? - but yesterday was the best day ever! I realized how far I have come, and how far I have to go. As far back as I can remember, I have always loved sports, especially basketball. It’s just me and Pops now, since Mom died when I was eleven. Six years have passed and I hate that my memories of her are fading. She was so beautiful, with an easy smile and a kind heart. She was always ready with a proverb or clever phrase. Sometimes her voice still echoes in my mind:

“Jerome, the longest journey begins with a single step, so get moving-but remember to thank those who helped get you there.”

I listen to more soothing words:

“Son, help others, not just yourself -that’s why God put you on this earth.”

Back then her quotes and happy little sayings would drive me crazy, but now they bring me comfort and somehow make me sad, too.

Pops and I used to spend hours watching basketball. It was our sacred time together, cheering the spectacular feats of Shaq and Kobe, or chiding the referees for questionable calls against our team. Our excited discussions often edged toward debates arguing who is better or who is best between the latest top NBA or college stars. Sure, watching was great, but I yearned to wear a uniform and use some of those signature moves I saw on ESPN highlight reels. Although I was athletic by nature, I knew it would still take lots of practice to transform myself into the agile superstar I dreamed of becoming. After Mom was gone, the cheering stopped. Pops and I were wrapped up in our own individual worlds of pain and loss. It was hard without Mom. I could not make myself imagine going through life without her. I took no steps toward basketball. Then I met Coach Moses and Ms. Willow.

Now, don’t think I am exaggerating about yesterday. My ears are still ringing from the thunderous cheering of our Silver Fox fans. We closed our season with a two point defeat of our high school rivals, the Bulldogs. The game was a nail biter until the last minute. The sellout crowd was ecstatic and now I, Jerome Dunkin Duncan, am the hometown hero! The church parking lot was packed for the 5th Quarter Basketball Party, a local tradition. I was greeted like a king entering his majestic palace. Pops, Coach Moses, and Ms. Willow worked their way through the crowd.

“I’m proud of you, son,” beamed Pops.

“You gave 110% out there,” agreed Coach Moses. Ms. Willow simply smiled, handed me a sealed envelope, and hugged me. Pops assured me he would record the local news coverage of my no-look passes, dunks, steals, and fall-away three pointers.

It had been a perfect evening. I was walking on air, but grew tired of the spotlight. I left the party and drove home. Pops would be in the den, probably asleep in his chair. I bolted upstairs, anxious to open the card from Ms. Willow AND check out my stellar performance. Then I flopped on the bed, and bent down to untie my size thirteens. I froze. I studied my shoes as if they just appeared on my feet. Pictures of shoes flashed in my thoughts. Suddenly, memories of my mother flooded my mind, her voice crowding out my former thoughts of glory and fame. Sure, I was successful, but I became acutely aware of the fact that I had help along the way. My steps had been guided by family and friends. I blinked the moisture from my eyes, grabbed the card and headed for the den. My abrupt entrance startled Pops almost as much as the bear hug he got from me.

“Thanks for all you’ve done for me. I love you,” I stammered. I opened the envelope and a gift card fell out for Athlete’s Footgear. The handwritten words were simple and familiar:

“The longest journey begins with a single step. What’s next?

Love, Ms. Willow

Although we seldom spoke about it, that first year without Mom was the year Coach Moses and Ms. Willow, stepped into our lives. They were both from our church. Ms. Willow paid for my first summer basketball camp and bought my shoes every season. Coach took me home from practice during those middle school years. Pops always loved me and supported me. It was getting late, but I had two more things to do.

Like I said, life really is a journey. Look out tomorrow, here I come!

Sincerely,

Jerome Dunkin’ Duncan

Silver Fox #11

Which statement about Jerome is BEST supported by this diary entry?

Dear JD Journal,

I just figured out that life really is a journey. Lame, right? - but yesterday was the best day ever! I realized how far I have come, and how far I have to go. As far back as I can remember, I have always loved sports, especially basketball. It’s just me and Pops now, since Mom died when I was eleven. Six years have passed and I hate that my memories of her are fading. She was so beautiful, with an easy smile and a kind heart. She was always ready with a proverb or clever phrase. Sometimes her voice still echoes in my mind:

“Jerome, the longest journey begins with a single step, so get moving-but remember to thank those who helped get you there.”

I listen to more soothing words:

“Son, help others, not just yourself -that’s why God put you on this earth.”

Back then her quotes and happy little sayings would drive me crazy, but now they bring me comfort and somehow make me sad, too.

Pops and I used to spend hours watching basketball. It was our sacred time together, cheering the spectacular feats of Shaq and Kobe, or chiding the referees for questionable calls against our team. Our excited discussions often edged toward debates arguing who is better or who is best between the latest top NBA or college stars. Sure, watching was great, but I yearned to wear a uniform and use some of those signature moves I saw on ESPN highlight reels. Although I was athletic by nature, I knew it would still take lots of practice to transform myself into the agile superstar I dreamed of becoming. After Mom was gone, the cheering stopped. Pops and I were wrapped up in our own individual worlds of pain and loss. It was hard without Mom. I could not make myself imagine going through life without her. I took no steps toward basketball. Then I met Coach Moses and Ms. Willow.

Now, don’t think I am exaggerating about yesterday. My ears are still ringing from the thunderous cheering of our Silver Fox fans. We closed our season with a two point defeat of our high school rivals, the Bulldogs. The game was a nail biter until the last minute. The sellout crowd was ecstatic and now I, Jerome Dunkin Duncan, am the hometown hero! The church parking lot was packed for the 5th Quarter Basketball Party, a local tradition. I was greeted like a king entering his majestic palace. Pops, Coach Moses, and Ms. Willow worked their way through the crowd.

“I’m proud of you, son,” beamed Pops.

“You gave 110% out there,” agreed Coach Moses. Ms. Willow simply smiled, handed me a sealed envelope, and hugged me. Pops assured me he would record the local news coverage of my no-look passes, dunks, steals, and fall-away three pointers.

It had been a perfect evening. I was walking on air, but grew tired of the spotlight. I left the party and drove home. Pops would be in the den, probably asleep in his chair. I bolted upstairs, anxious to open the card from Ms. Willow AND check out my stellar performance. Then I flopped on the bed, and bent down to untie my size thirteens. I froze. I studied my shoes as if they just appeared on my feet. Pictures of shoes flashed in my thoughts. Suddenly, memories of my mother flooded my mind, her voice crowding out my former thoughts of glory and fame. Sure, I was successful, but I became acutely aware of the fact that I had help along the way. My steps had been guided by family and friends. I blinked the moisture from my eyes, grabbed the card and headed for the den. My abrupt entrance startled Pops almost as much as the bear hug he got from me.

“Thanks for all you’ve done for me. I love you,” I stammered. I opened the envelope and a gift card fell out for Athlete’s Footgear. The handwritten words were simple and familiar:

“The longest journey begins with a single step. What’s next?

Love, Ms. Willow

Although we seldom spoke about it, that first year without Mom was the year Coach Moses and Ms. Willow, stepped into our lives. They were both from our church. Ms. Willow paid for my first summer basketball camp and bought my shoes every season. Coach took me home from practice during those middle school years. Pops always loved me and supported me. It was getting late, but I had two more things to do.

Like I said, life really is a journey. Look out tomorrow, here I come!

Sincerely,

Jerome Dunkin’ Duncan

Silver Fox #11

Which reference material would be MOST USEFUL to a student who wants to learn more about both Shaq and Kobe?

Dear JD Journal,

I just figured out that life really is a journey. Lame, right? - but yesterday was the best day ever! I realized how far I have come, and how far I have to go. As far back as I can remember, I have always loved sports, especially basketball. It’s just me and Pops now, since Mom died when I was eleven. Six years have passed and I hate that my memories of her are fading. She was so beautiful, with an easy smile and a kind heart. She was always ready with a proverb or clever phrase. Sometimes her voice still echoes in my mind:

“Jerome, the longest journey begins with a single step, so get moving-but remember to thank those who helped get you there.”

I listen to more soothing words:

“Son, help others, not just yourself -that’s why God put you on this earth.”

Back then her quotes and happy little sayings would drive me crazy, but now they bring me comfort and somehow make me sad, too.

Pops and I used to spend hours watching basketball. It was our sacred time together, cheering the spectacular feats of Shaq and Kobe, or chiding the referees for questionable calls against our team. Our excited discussions often edged toward debates arguing who is better or who is best between the latest top NBA or college stars. Sure, watching was great, but I yearned to wear a uniform and use some of those signature moves I saw on ESPN highlight reels. Although I was athletic by nature, I knew it would still take lots of practice to transform myself into the agile superstar I dreamed of becoming. After Mom was gone, the cheering stopped. Pops and I were wrapped up in our own individual worlds of pain and loss. It was hard without Mom. I could not make myself imagine going through life without her. I took no steps toward basketball. Then I met Coach Moses and Ms. Willow.

Now, don’t think I am exaggerating about yesterday. My ears are still ringing from the thunderous cheering of our Silver Fox fans. We closed our season with a two point defeat of our high school rivals, the Bulldogs. The game was a nail biter until the last minute. The sellout crowd was ecstatic and now I, Jerome Dunkin Duncan, am the hometown hero! The church parking lot was packed for the 5th Quarter Basketball Party, a local tradition. I was greeted like a king entering his majestic palace. Pops, Coach Moses, and Ms. Willow worked their way through the crowd.

“I’m proud of you, son,” beamed Pops.

“You gave 110% out there,” agreed Coach Moses. Ms. Willow simply smiled, handed me a sealed envelope, and hugged me. Pops assured me he would record the local news coverage of my no-look passes, dunks, steals, and fall-away three pointers.

It had been a perfect evening. I was walking on air, but grew tired of the spotlight. I left the party and drove home. Pops would be in the den, probably asleep in his chair. I bolted upstairs, anxious to open the card from Ms. Willow AND check out my stellar performance. Then I flopped on the bed, and bent down to untie my size thirteens. I froze. I studied my shoes as if they just appeared on my feet. Pictures of shoes flashed in my thoughts. Suddenly, memories of my mother flooded my mind, her voice crowding out my former thoughts of glory and fame. Sure, I was successful, but I became acutely aware of the fact that I had help along the way. My steps had been guided by family and friends. I blinked the moisture from my eyes, grabbed the card and headed for the den. My abrupt entrance startled Pops almost as much as the bear hug he got from me.

“Thanks for all you’ve done for me. I love you,” I stammered. I opened the envelope and a gift card fell out for Athlete’s Footgear. The handwritten words were simple and familiar:

“The longest journey begins with a single step. What’s next?

Love, Ms. Willow

Although we seldom spoke about it, that first year without Mom was the year Coach Moses and Ms. Willow, stepped into our lives. They were both from our church. Ms. Willow paid for my first summer basketball camp and bought my shoes every season. Coach took me home from practice during those middle school years. Pops always loved me and supported me. It was getting late, but I had two more things to do.

Like I said, life really is a journey. Look out tomorrow, here I come!

Sincerely,

Jerome Dunkin’ Duncan

Silver Fox #11

The phrase, "the longest journey begins with a single step" means

Excerpt from Does It Work?Terri Roberts

1 Whether you’re an athlete, a busy mom chasing young children, or an employee whose job keeps you on your feet, you most likely suffer occasionally from sore feet. Chronic foot pain, however, is a condition that can affect your daily routine. This serious affliction can impact your entire body, leading to discomfort in the knees, hips, and lower back. 2 Today, many products claim to alleviate foot pain and correct posture to realign your body. If you watch television late at night, you’ve probably seen advertisements for the Pro Walk orthopedic inserts. This infomercial claims that these plastic inserts “offer support for your feet, correcting your gait and stabilizing your spine.” The advertisement also maintains that the inserts provide enhanced protection for the feet, absorbing some of the shock produced by standing, walking, and running. The Pro Walk Web site contains many positive assessments of the product’s benefits from anonymous consumers, but we wanted to evaluate the claims for ourselves.

Read the excerpt from the Pro Walk Web page. Which statement presents an opposing view from the excerpt?

Customer Review

from Renee in TX:

I have been using the Pro Walk inserts for about a month now. As a cashier, I am on my feet for about eight hours every day. The pain I was experiencing in my feet, hips, and lower back was so intense that I could barely get out of bed some days. I find that the Pro Walk helps to realign my body and provides my entire body with more support. I can’t believe the difference this product has made in my life.

Excerpt from Sophistication

Sherwood Anderson

There is a time in the life of every boy when he for the first time takes the backward view of life. Perhaps that is the moment when he crosses the line into manhood. The boy is walking through the street of his town. He is thinking of the future and of the figure he will cut in the world. Ambitions and regrets awake within him. Suddenly something happens; he stops under a tree and waits as for a voice calling his name. Ghosts of old things creep into his consciousness; the voices outside of himself whisper a message concerning the limitations of life. From being quite sure of himself and his future he becomes not at all sure. If he be an imaginative boy a door is torn open and for the first time he looks out upon the world, seeing, as though they marched in procession before him, the countless figures of men who before his time have come out of nothingness into the world, lived their lives and again disappeared into nothingness. The sadness of sophistication has come to the boy. With a little gasp he sees himself as merely a leaf blown by the wind through the streets of his village.

Which is a subtle incongruity in the extended metaphor within the passage?

Excerpt from The College Admission Process

Erin Sullivan

⁷ What does this mean for juniors starting the college admission process? Simply put, don’t worry. There are many postsecondary institutions looking for intelligent, hardworking high school graduates who make positive contributions to their communities. While these colleges may not have the same reputations as illustrious institutions such as Harvard, they are well-respected places of higher education. These schools can offer a meaningful educational experience and exceptional preparation for the professional world.

Which BEST describes the tone of the passage?

Which is a complex sentence?

This Message Was Brought To You by Me

Marie Devers

Advertisements everywhere, I haven’t time to think¹

without some local merchant selling me the kitchen sink. ²

All along my childhood, it’s been exceedingly bad— ³

from my diapers to my schoolbooks, there’s always been an ad. ⁴

Every show is brought to me by business courtesy; ⁵

every team I’ve been on has been sponsored for a fee. ⁶

Doesn’t matter what it is, if I’m their demographic, ⁷

they add MARSHMALLOWS! ‘til I think that I just have to have it. ⁸

I sing jingles when I read – their persistence is extreme! ⁹

I find ignoring messages to be a rough routine. ¹⁰

From getting up to lying down, the advertisements play, ¹¹

but I’ve learned to lower volume and just to walk away. ¹²

Future kids will probably find that our great civilization¹³

was easily told that they’d be sold the world’s next great sensation, ¹⁴

so kids like me have got to see that most ads are promotion¹⁵

designed to throw a lasso over human beings’ emotion, ¹⁶

but happiness cannot be found in catalogs or stores, ¹⁷

and the pleasure that they’re marketing may already be yours. ¹⁸

In line 2 the kitchen sink refers to

This Message Was Brought To You by Me

Marie Devers

Advertisements everywhere, I haven’t time to think¹

without some local merchant selling me the kitchen sink. ²

All along my childhood, it’s been exceedingly bad— ³

from my diapers to my schoolbooks, there’s always been an ad. ⁴

Every show is brought to me by business courtesy; ⁵

every team I’ve been on has been sponsored for a fee. ⁶

Doesn’t matter what it is, if I’m their demographic, ⁷

they add MARSHMALLOWS! ‘til I think that I just have to have it. ⁸

I sing jingles when I read – their persistence is extreme! ⁹

I find ignoring messages to be a rough routine. ¹⁰

From getting up to lying down, the advertisements play, ¹¹

but I’ve learned to lower volume and just to walk away. ¹²

Future kids will probably find that our great civilization¹³

was easily told that they’d be sold the world’s next great sensation, ¹⁴

so kids like me have got to see that most ads are promotion¹⁵

designed to throw a lasso over human beings’ emotion, ¹⁶

but happiness cannot be found in catalogs or stores, ¹⁷

and the pleasure that they’re marketing may already be yours. ¹⁸

Which statement BEST describes the theme of this story?

This Message Was Brought To You by Me

Marie Devers

Advertisements everywhere, I haven’t time to think¹

without some local merchant selling me the kitchen sink. ²

All along my childhood, it’s been exceedingly bad— ³

from my diapers to my schoolbooks, there’s always been an ad. ⁴

Every show is brought to me by business courtesy; ⁵

every team I’ve been on has been sponsored for a fee. ⁶

Doesn’t matter what it is, if I’m their demographic, ⁷

they add MARSHMALLOWS! ‘til I think that I just have to have it. ⁸

I sing jingles when I read – their persistence is extreme! ⁹

I find ignoring messages to be a rough routine. ¹⁰

From getting up to lying down, the advertisements play, ¹¹

but I’ve learned to lower volume and just to walk away. ¹²

Future kids will probably find that our great civilization¹³

was easily told that they’d be sold the world’s next great sensation, ¹⁴

so kids like me have got to see that most ads are promotion¹⁵

designed to throw a lasso over human beings’ emotion, ¹⁶

but happiness cannot be found in catalogs or stores, ¹⁷

and the pleasure that they’re marketing may already be yours. ¹⁸

Which word BEST describes the speaker in this passage?

This Message Was Brought To You by Me

Marie Devers

Advertisements everywhere, I haven’t time to think¹

without some local merchant selling me the kitchen sink. ²

All along my childhood, it’s been exceedingly bad— ³

from my diapers to my schoolbooks, there’s always been an ad. ⁴

Every show is brought to me by business courtesy; ⁵

every team I’ve been on has been sponsored for a fee. ⁶

Doesn’t matter what it is, if I’m their demographic, ⁷

they add MARSHMALLOWS! ‘til I think that I just have to have it. ⁸

I sing jingles when I read – their persistence is extreme! ⁹

I find ignoring messages to be a rough routine. ¹⁰

From getting up to lying down, the advertisements play, ¹¹

but I’ve learned to lower volume and just to walk away. ¹²

Future kids will probably find that our great civilization¹³

was easily told that they’d be sold the world’s next great sensation, ¹⁴

so kids like me have got to see that most ads are promotion¹⁵

designed to throw a lasso over human beings’ emotion, ¹⁶

but happiness cannot be found in catalogs or stores, ¹⁷

and the pleasure that they’re marketing may already be yours. ¹⁸

When the speaker says many businesses are selling me the kitchen sink, he means they

The Golden Fish: A Retelling of a Russian tale

Lee Washington

¹The old fisherman floated on the Black Sea, boat bobbing from side to side as a frigid wind sliced through his threadbare sweater. Though the fisherman and his wife were struggling to survive without much money, he thought happily of the meager but delicious dinner of homemade bread that was waiting for him at home. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pull on the fishing line, and the fisherman heaved a large, shining, yellow fish onto the boat. Its fins sparkled like coins cascading from a treasure chest.

²The fish began to beg. “If you release me,” the fish blubbered, “I’ll give you everything you need.”

The fisherman eyed the fantastic creature. “I am content with what I have, but I will let you go regardless,” the fisherman said as he plopped the fish back into the sea.

⁴When the sun’s heavy eyelids began to droop, the fisherman returned home through the town. He passed a wealthy man arguing with a shopkeeper about merchandise and sadly shook his head at the annoyed men as he entered his house.

“What did you catch today?” his wife inquired as she handed him some morsels of bread. The fisherman related the story of the remarkable talking fish.

“No fish and no wish? You threw away a lucky gift!” the wife scolded, her usual affectionate manner absent as she sent her husband back to ask for more food.

The drowsy fisherman walked back to the water’s edge and called the name of every fish in the sea until finally the golden fish arrived on a small, sparkling wave.

“My wife wants more food,” he told the fish, who simply nodded its scaly head and slipped back under water.

⁹After receiving more food, the wife sent the fisherman to ask the fish for a bigger house while she nervously picked at the expensive lobster feast spread before her. She became perpetually restless and irritable, pacing the house until the fisherman returned home each day to discover his wife’s latest longing.

Soon his wife felt unsatisfied with the new, luxurious house; she wanted to control more things on earth, so she sent her husband back to the fish with a request to make her queen of the seas. Once again, the exhausted fisherman walked to the sea. Hesitantly, he called every fish that lived there until the golden fish pushed aside each sardine and minnow, ready to grant the next wish. But when the fish heard that the wife wanted control of everything in the fish’s aquatic home, the fish squinted at the uncertain fisherman.

“ENOUGH!” said the fish, and the fisherman’s new house immediately turned back into the small cottage where he and his wife had once lived. Their extravagant food became simple again, and the fisherman’s wife once again learned to cherish the little that they had. Their love renewed once riches and wishes ceased breaking them apart. Although the fisherman still caught fish of every other name, the golden fish never returned.

In paragraph 1, the word meager means

The Golden Fish: A Retelling of a Russian tale

Lee Washington

¹The old fisherman floated on the Black Sea, boat bobbing from side to side as a frigid wind sliced through his threadbare sweater. Though the fisherman and his wife were struggling to survive without much money, he thought happily of the meager but delicious dinner of homemade bread that was waiting for him at home. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pull on the fishing line, and the fisherman heaved a large, shining, yellow fish onto the boat. Its fins sparkled like coins cascading from a treasure chest.

²The fish began to beg. “If you release me,” the fish blubbered, “I’ll give you everything you need.”

The fisherman eyed the fantastic creature. “I am content with what I have, but I will let you go regardless,” the fisherman said as he plopped the fish back into the sea.

⁴When the sun’s heavy eyelids began to droop, the fisherman returned home through the town. He passed a wealthy man arguing with a shopkeeper about merchandise and sadly shook his head at the annoyed men as he entered his house.

“What did you catch today?” his wife inquired as she handed him some morsels of bread. The fisherman related the story of the remarkable talking fish.

“No fish and no wish? You threw away a lucky gift!” the wife scolded, her usual affectionate manner absent as she sent her husband back to ask for more food.

The drowsy fisherman walked back to the water’s edge and called the name of every fish in the sea until finally the golden fish arrived on a small, sparkling wave.

“My wife wants more food,” he told the fish, who simply nodded its scaly head and slipped back under water.

⁹After receiving more food, the wife sent the fisherman to ask the fish for a bigger house while she nervously picked at the expensive lobster feast spread before her. She became perpetually restless and irritable, pacing the house until the fisherman returned home each day to discover his wife’s latest longing.

Soon his wife felt unsatisfied with the new, luxurious house; she wanted to control more things on earth, so she sent her husband back to the fish with a request to make her queen of the seas. Once again, the exhausted fisherman walked to the sea. Hesitantly, he called every fish that lived there until the golden fish pushed aside each sardine and minnow, ready to grant the next wish. But when the fish heard that the wife wanted control of everything in the fish’s aquatic home, the fish squinted at the uncertain fisherman.

“ENOUGH!” said the fish, and the fisherman’s new house immediately turned back into the small cottage where he and his wife had once lived. Their extravagant food became simple again, and the fisherman’s wife once again learned to cherish the little that they had. Their love renewed once riches and wishes ceased breaking them apart. Although the fisherman still caught fish of every other name, the golden fish never returned.

What is the theme of this story?

The Golden Fish: A Retelling of a Russian tale

Lee Washington

¹The old fisherman floated on the Black Sea, boat bobbing from side to side as a frigid wind sliced through his threadbare sweater. Though the fisherman and his wife were struggling to survive without much money, he thought happily of the meager but delicious dinner of homemade bread that was waiting for him at home. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pull on the fishing line, and the fisherman heaved a large, shining, yellow fish onto the boat. Its fins sparkled like coins cascading from a treasure chest.

²The fish began to beg. “If you release me,” the fish blubbered, “I’ll give you everything you need.”

The fisherman eyed the fantastic creature. “I am content with what I have, but I will let you go regardless,” the fisherman said as he plopped the fish back into the sea.

⁴When the sun’s heavy eyelids began to droop, the fisherman returned home through the town. He passed a wealthy man arguing with a shopkeeper about merchandise and sadly shook his head at the annoyed men as he entered his house.

“What did you catch today?” his wife inquired as she handed him some morsels of bread. The fisherman related the story of the remarkable talking fish.

“No fish and no wish? You threw away a lucky gift!” the wife scolded, her usual affectionate manner absent as she sent her husband back to ask for more food.

The drowsy fisherman walked back to the water’s edge and called the name of every fish in the sea until finally the golden fish arrived on a small, sparkling wave.

“My wife wants more food,” he told the fish, who simply nodded its scaly head and slipped back under water.

⁹After receiving more food, the wife sent the fisherman to ask the fish for a bigger house while she nervously picked at the expensive lobster feast spread before her. She became perpetually restless and irritable, pacing the house until the fisherman returned home each day to discover his wife’s latest longing.

Soon his wife felt unsatisfied with the new, luxurious house; she wanted to control more things on earth, so she sent her husband back to the fish with a request to make her queen of the seas. Once again, the exhausted fisherman walked to the sea. Hesitantly, he called every fish that lived there until the golden fish pushed aside each sardine and minnow, ready to grant the next wish. But when the fish heard that the wife wanted control of everything in the fish’s aquatic home, the fish squinted at the uncertain fisherman.

“ENOUGH!” said the fish, and the fisherman’s new house immediately turned back into the small cottage where he and his wife had once lived. Their extravagant food became simple again, and the fisherman’s wife once again learned to cherish the little that they had. Their love renewed once riches and wishes ceased breaking them apart. Although the fisherman still caught fish of every other name, the golden fish never returned.

The narrator's observations in paragraph 1 are important to the story because

The Golden Fish: A Retelling of a Russian tale

Lee Washington

¹The old fisherman floated on the Black Sea, boat bobbing from side to side as a frigid wind sliced through his threadbare sweater. Though the fisherman and his wife were struggling to survive without much money, he thought happily of the meager but delicious dinner of homemade bread that was waiting for him at home. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pull on the fishing line, and the fisherman heaved a large, shining, yellow fish onto the boat. Its fins sparkled like coins cascading from a treasure chest.

²The fish began to beg. “If you release me,” the fish blubbered, “I’ll give you everything you need.”

The fisherman eyed the fantastic creature. “I am content with what I have, but I will let you go regardless,” the fisherman said as he plopped the fish back into the sea.

⁴When the sun’s heavy eyelids began to droop, the fisherman returned home through the town. He passed a wealthy man arguing with a shopkeeper about merchandise and sadly shook his head at the annoyed men as he entered his house.

“What did you catch today?” his wife inquired as she handed him some morsels of bread. The fisherman related the story of the remarkable talking fish.

“No fish and no wish? You threw away a lucky gift!” the wife scolded, her usual affectionate manner absent as she sent her husband back to ask for more food.

The drowsy fisherman walked back to the water’s edge and called the name of every fish in the sea until finally the golden fish arrived on a small, sparkling wave.

“My wife wants more food,” he told the fish, who simply nodded its scaly head and slipped back under water.

⁹After receiving more food, the wife sent the fisherman to ask the fish for a bigger house while she nervously picked at the expensive lobster feast spread before her. She became perpetually restless and irritable, pacing the house until the fisherman returned home each day to discover his wife’s latest longing.

Soon his wife felt unsatisfied with the new, luxurious house; she wanted to control more things on earth, so she sent her husband back to the fish with a request to make her queen of the seas. Once again, the exhausted fisherman walked to the sea. Hesitantly, he called every fish that lived there until the golden fish pushed aside each sardine and minnow, ready to grant the next wish. But when the fish heard that the wife wanted control of everything in the fish’s aquatic home, the fish squinted at the uncertain fisherman.

“ENOUGH!” said the fish, and the fisherman’s new house immediately turned back into the small cottage where he and his wife had once lived. Their extravagant food became simple again, and the fisherman’s wife once again learned to cherish the little that they had. Their love renewed once riches and wishes ceased breaking them apart. Although the fisherman still caught fish of every other name, the golden fish never returned.

Another word for heaved is

The Golden Fish: A Retelling of a Russian tale

Lee Washington

¹The old fisherman floated on the Black Sea, boat bobbing from side to side as a frigid wind sliced through his threadbare sweater. Though the fisherman and his wife were struggling to survive without much money, he thought happily of the meager but delicious dinner of homemade bread that was waiting for him at home. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pull on the fishing line, and the fisherman heaved a large, shining, yellow fish onto the boat. Its fins sparkled like coins cascading from a treasure chest.

²The fish began to beg. “If you release me,” the fish blubbered, “I’ll give you everything you need.”

The fisherman eyed the fantastic creature. “I am content with what I have, but I will let you go regardless,” the fisherman said as he plopped the fish back into the sea.

⁴When the sun’s heavy eyelids began to droop, the fisherman returned home through the town. He passed a wealthy man arguing with a shopkeeper about merchandise and sadly shook his head at the annoyed men as he entered his house.

“What did you catch today?” his wife inquired as she handed him some morsels of bread. The fisherman related the story of the remarkable talking fish.

“No fish and no wish? You threw away a lucky gift!” the wife scolded, her usual affectionate manner absent as she sent her husband back to ask for more food.

The drowsy fisherman walked back to the water’s edge and called the name of every fish in the sea until finally the golden fish arrived on a small, sparkling wave.

“My wife wants more food,” he told the fish, who simply nodded its scaly head and slipped back under water.

⁹After receiving more food, the wife sent the fisherman to ask the fish for a bigger house while she nervously picked at the expensive lobster feast spread before her. She became perpetually restless and irritable, pacing the house until the fisherman returned home each day to discover his wife’s latest longing.

Soon his wife felt unsatisfied with the new, luxurious house; she wanted to control more things on earth, so she sent her husband back to the fish with a request to make her queen of the seas. Once again, the exhausted fisherman walked to the sea. Hesitantly, he called every fish that lived there until the golden fish pushed aside each sardine and minnow, ready to grant the next wish. But when the fish heard that the wife wanted control of everything in the fish’s aquatic home, the fish squinted at the uncertain fisherman.

“ENOUGH!” said the fish, and the fisherman’s new house immediately turned back into the small cottage where he and his wife had once lived. Their extravagant food became simple again, and the fisherman’s wife once again learned to cherish the little that they had. Their love renewed once riches and wishes ceased breaking them apart. Although the fisherman still caught fish of every other name, the golden fish never returned.

Why does the wife become angry with the fisherman?

The Golden Fish: A Retelling of a Russian tale

Lee Washington

¹The old fisherman floated on the Black Sea, boat bobbing from side to side as a frigid wind sliced through his threadbare sweater. Though the fisherman and his wife were struggling to survive without much money, he thought happily of the meager but delicious dinner of homemade bread that was waiting for him at home. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pull on the fishing line, and the fisherman heaved a large, shining, yellow fish onto the boat. Its fins sparkled like coins cascading from a treasure chest.

²The fish began to beg. “If you release me,” the fish blubbered, “I’ll give you everything you need.”

The fisherman eyed the fantastic creature. “I am content with what I have, but I will let you go regardless,” the fisherman said as he plopped the fish back into the sea.

⁴When the sun’s heavy eyelids began to droop, the fisherman returned home through the town. He passed a wealthy man arguing with a shopkeeper about merchandise and sadly shook his head at the annoyed men as he entered his house.

“What did you catch today?” his wife inquired as she handed him some morsels of bread. The fisherman related the story of the remarkable talking fish.

“No fish and no wish? You threw away a lucky gift!” the wife scolded, her usual affectionate manner absent as she sent her husband back to ask for more food.

The drowsy fisherman walked back to the water’s edge and called the name of every fish in the sea until finally the golden fish arrived on a small, sparkling wave.

“My wife wants more food,” he told the fish, who simply nodded its scaly head and slipped back under water.

⁹After receiving more food, the wife sent the fisherman to ask the fish for a bigger house while she nervously picked at the expensive lobster feast spread before her. She became perpetually restless and irritable, pacing the house until the fisherman returned home each day to discover his wife’s latest longing.

Soon his wife felt unsatisfied with the new, luxurious house; she wanted to control more things on earth, so she sent her husband back to the fish with a request to make her queen of the seas. Once again, the exhausted fisherman walked to the sea. Hesitantly, he called every fish that lived there until the golden fish pushed aside each sardine and minnow, ready to grant the next wish. But when the fish heard that the wife wanted control of everything in the fish’s aquatic home, the fish squinted at the uncertain fisherman.

“ENOUGH!” said the fish, and the fisherman’s new house immediately turned back into the small cottage where he and his wife had once lived. Their extravagant food became simple again, and the fisherman’s wife once again learned to cherish the little that they had. Their love renewed once riches and wishes ceased breaking them apart. Although the fisherman still caught fish of every other name, the golden fish never returned.

A synonym for the word longing in paragraph 9 is

2 Jonathan bounced a soccer ball from his toe, to his knee, and back to his toe. Suddenly, he kicked the ball too hard. It sailed over the neighbor’s fence.

The word sailed means

Excerpt from Emily Dickinson

Carole Jenkins

(10) Her poetry is wonderful to read. (11) Concrete imagery was used by her to illustrate abstract concepts, such as love and death. (12) Her unusual use of capitalization and punctuation and her use of irregular meter and rhyme make her poetry unique.

Which is the BEST way to rewrite sentence (11)

Excerpt from Norse Mythology Part A

Kate McConnaughey

(3)In his hand he carried a wonderful hammer which always had come back to his hand when he threw it.

How can this sentence be written to eliminate wordiness and redundancy without changing its original meaning?

Wichita Mourning David Matherne

Pipe organs—dusty and tarnished—

Bellowed the ancient song,

As movers carried the pews

For one last time.

Frozen branches—heavy with ice arms— ⁵

Couldn’t perform their dance,

As workmen shuffled inside

The worn-out floors.

Sally Richards—broken and mourning—

Watched while her father left, ¹⁰

As painters brought in their cans

For the first time.

Stained-glass windows—buckled and broken—

Surveyed commotion’s cause

As commerce won in the end ¹⁵

Yet one more time.

Reverend Richards—feeble and finished—

Cried as his exit was lost

On Christians who worshiped the dime;

A change of the times. ²⁰

The BEST definition for tarnished is

Wichita Mourning

David Matherne

Frozen branches—heavy with ice arms— ⁵

Couldn’t perform their dance,

As workmen shuffled inside

The worn-out floors.

What is the author's purpose in these lines from the poem?

Wichita Mourning

David Matherne

Pipe organs—dusty and tarnished—

Bellowed the ancient song,

As movers carried the pews

For one last time.

Frozen branches—heavy with ice arms— ⁵

Couldn’t perform their dance,

As workmen shuffled inside

The worn-out floors.

Sally Richards—broken and mourning—

Watched while her father left, ¹⁰

As painters brought in their cans

For the first time.

Stained-glass windows—buckled and broken—

Surveyed commotion’s cause

As commerce won in the end ¹⁵

Yet one more time.

Reverend Richards—feeble and finished—

Cried as his exit was lost

On Christians who worshiped the dime;

A change of the times. ²⁰

In the first line of each stanza, the author follows the pattern of a noun followed by a pair of adjectives. What is the purpose of this pattern?

Stained-glass windows - buckled and broken -

Surveyed commotion's cause

In lines 13-14, which literary device is found?

Wichita Mourning

David Matherne

Pipe organs—dusty and tarnished—

Bellowed the ancient song,

As movers carried the pews

For one last time.

Frozen branches—heavy with ice arms— ⁵

Couldn’t perform their dance,

As workmen shuffled inside

The worn-out floors.

Sally Richards—broken and mourning—

Watched while her father left, ¹⁰

As painters brought in their cans

For the first time.

Stained-glass windows—buckled and broken—

Surveyed commotion’s cause

As commerce won in the end ¹⁵

Yet one more time.

Reverend Richards—feeble and finished—

Cried as his exit was lost

On Christians who worshiped the dime;

A change of the times. ²⁰

In lines 5-8 and 13-16 of the poem, which figurative device does the poet use to create a feeling of hopelessness?

The Big Mystery of My Future History

Marie Devers

¹ When I think about my destiny, that cloudy cool mirage,

The options and the chances overlap in a collage.

³ I sometimes spend an afternoon in dreams of come what may,

A changeable amusement, better than any matinee.

⁵ Ambitious as I am, there is so much that I foresee,

I’m writing seven million drafts of my biography.

⁷ Youth is like a blindfold to the life I’ve yet to meet,

I can’t make out the future with my life so incomplete.

⁹ Who will be the obstacles, opposing my success?

And will they win, or will I be the most victorious?

¹¹ I hope that I am valiant at all my hopeful chances,

And that I handle, gracefully, my unique circumstances.

¹³ I tell myself when thinking of this future publication,

That whims I can’t predict are arranging their formation.

¹⁵ Trophies sit un-etched in a factory someplace,

Waiting for my name to illustrate their empty space.

¹⁷ No matter how much algebra I use to see what’s next,

The equations still have missing parts, defined as only X.

¹⁹ A mosaic in development, my life’s still so unsure,

Yet bound to be exciting as any novel from the store.

²¹ Do you ever stop and tell yourself your living narrative?

The fabric that you’re weaving that will be the life you live.

²³ I dare you now to play this game. Pick up your mental pen,

And fearlessly create the book your life is waiting in.

Why does the author call her destiny that cloudy cool mirage?

The Big Mystery of My Future History

Marie Devers

¹ When I think about my destiny, that cloudy cool mirage,

The options and the chances overlap in a collage.

³ I sometimes spend an afternoon in dreams of come what may,

A changeable amusement, better than any matinee.

⁵ Ambitious as I am, there is so much that I foresee,

I’m writing seven million drafts of my biography.

⁷ Youth is like a blindfold to the life I’ve yet to meet,

I can’t make out the future with my life so incomplete.

⁹ Who will be the obstacles, opposing my success?

And will they win, or will I be the most victorious?

¹¹ I hope that I am valiant at all my hopeful chances,

And that I handle, gracefully, my unique circumstances.

¹³ I tell myself when thinking of this future publication,

That whims I can’t predict are arranging their formation.

¹⁵ Trophies sit un-etched in a factory someplace,

Waiting for my name to illustrate their empty space.

¹⁷ No matter how much algebra I use to see what’s next,

The equations still have missing parts, defined as only X.

¹⁹ A mosaic in development, my life’s still so unsure,

Yet bound to be exciting as any novel from the store.

²¹ Do you ever stop and tell yourself your living narrative?

The fabric that you’re weaving that will be the life you live.

²³ I dare you now to play this game. Pick up your mental pen,

And fearlessly create the book your life is waiting in.

What figure of speech does the poet use in lines 9-10 to describe the obstacles in her life?

The Big Mystery of My Future History

Marie Devers

¹ When I think about my destiny, that cloudy cool mirage,

The options and the chances overlap in a collage.

³ I sometimes spend an afternoon in dreams of come what may,

A changeable amusement, better than any matinee.

⁵ Ambitious as I am, there is so much that I foresee,

I’m writing seven million drafts of my biography.

⁷ Youth is like a blindfold to the life I’ve yet to meet,

I can’t make out the future with my life so incomplete.

⁹ Who will be the obstacles, opposing my success?

And will they win, or will I be the most victorious?

¹¹ I hope that I am valiant at all my hopeful chances,

And that I handle, gracefully, my unique circumstances.

¹³ I tell myself when thinking of this future publication,

That whims I can’t predict are arranging their formation.

¹⁵ Trophies sit un-etched in a factory someplace,

Waiting for my name to illustrate their empty space.

¹⁷ No matter how much algebra I use to see what’s next,

The equations still have missing parts, defined as only X.

¹⁹ A mosaic in development, my life’s still so unsure,

Yet bound to be exciting as any novel from the store.

²¹ Do you ever stop and tell yourself your living narrative?

The fabric that you’re weaving that will be the life you live.

²³ I dare you now to play this game. Pick up your mental pen,

And fearlessly create the book your life is waiting in.

Line 6, when the speaker says I'm writing seven million drafts of my biography, is an example of

The Big Mystery of My Future History

Marie Devers

¹ When I think about my destiny, that cloudy cool mirage,

The options and the chances overlap in a collage.

³ I sometimes spend an afternoon in dreams of come what may,

A changeable amusement, better than any matinee.

⁵ Ambitious as I am, there is so much that I foresee,

I’m writing seven million drafts of my biography.

⁷ Youth is like a blindfold to the life I’ve yet to meet,

I can’t make out the future with my life so incomplete.

⁹ Who will be the obstacles, opposing my success?

And will they win, or will I be the most victorious?

¹¹ I hope that I am valiant at all my hopeful chances,

And that I handle, gracefully, my unique circumstances.

¹³ I tell myself when thinking of this future publication,

That whims I can’t predict are arranging their formation.

¹⁵ Trophies sit un-etched in a factory someplace,

Waiting for my name to illustrate their empty space.

¹⁷ No matter how much algebra I use to see what’s next,

The equations still have missing parts, defined as only X.

¹⁹ A mosaic in development, my life’s still so unsure,

Yet bound to be exciting as any novel from the store.

²¹ Do you ever stop and tell yourself your living narrative?

The fabric that you’re weaving that will be the life you live.

²³ I dare you now to play this game. Pick up your mental pen,

And fearlessly create the book your life is waiting in.

Why does the author compare her Youth to a blindfold?

What word is related to mosaic as it is used in the poem?

Excerpt from The Notorious Jumping Frog of Calaveras County

Mark Twain

There was a feller here once by the name of Jim Smily, in the winter of ’49 — or maybe it was the spring of ’50 — I don’t recollect exactly, somehow, though what makes me think it was one or the other is because I remember the big flume wasn’t finished when he first come to the camp.

What is the best reference source to use to find the meaning of the word flume as it is used in this sentence from the passage?

Excerpt from Incredible Oceans

Roberto Barerra

(5) Climate and weather are also intricately connected to the world’s oceans. Impressive storms form over the oceans and at times come ashore.

In paragraph 5, the word intricately means

Which of these is a compound sentence?