Which word is a synonym of stumble?

Read this sentence from The Road to Freedom.

My stomach grumbled and Mama handed me the last of the food.

What does the word grumbled mean in this sentence?

Directions: Read the question. Then select the best answer.

What word is a synonym of grumbled?

Read this sentence from The Road to Freedom.

“Make it across and you are in free territory.”

What does the word territory mean in this sentence?

Use what you know about the Latin root of territory. What does the word terrestrial mean?

The Road There

Eatonville, Florida, situated on land purchased by men recently freed from slavery, is the first township created and governed by African American citizens.

Nana and Baby Jo are already sitting in the horse cart we borrowed from Mr. Owens. The ragged old horse snorts in the cold morning air and looks about as happy to be there as I am. I hitch my leg up to jump in.

“You’re big enough to walk,” Pa says. I get down off the cart without a reply. I haven’t said a word for three weeks, ever since Ma told me about Eatonville. I don’t have a say, so there’s no reason for me to say anything.

It’s still pitch black when we start our six-mile trudge from Orlando, but I can just make out our house when I stop to sneak one last look at the only home I’ve ever known. I see the tree where Nana’s scarf got caught after church one day and Pa had to climb almost to the top to fetch it down. And the porch where Ma and I sit at night, doing whatever kitchen work we can outside before we go in to start cooking. I don’t want to leave.

Ma and Pa have been excited for weeks now. I heard them tell Mr. Owens that there’s no other place like Eatonville in America.

“You coming, Dee?” shouts Pa. It sounds like a question, but I know it isn’t. I just turn my back on home and drag my feet along the dusty road. I shuffle along, doing numbers in my head. In twelve years, it’ll be 1900 and I’ll be twenty years old. Old enough to go home to Orlando if I want to.

There’s not much to see when we get there. Just a dirt clearing, some houses that look more like shacks, and something bigger that might be a church or a barn.

But then I look around and see that everyone there looks like our family. For the first time, I start to understand what Ma meant when she said, “We gotta be part of this, Dee, even if it means ripping up our lives to do it. Eatonville is going to be something, and we’re going to be there.”

Ma’s busy unloading the cart when I tug on her sleeve and take her hand. “You were right, Ma,” I say. My voice sounds hoarse and strange after not talking for so long. “This is where we gotta be.”

Then quick I jump up on the cart to help get our things off. The bright sun’s right in my eyes, so I can’t see Ma’s face, but I’m pretty sure she’s smiling.

Directions: Read the question. Then select the best answer.

Who is the narrator of “The Road There”?

Directions: Read the passage. Then answer the questions.

The Road There

Eatonville, Florida, situated on land purchased by men recently freed from slavery, is the first township created and governed by African American citizens.

Nana and Baby Jo are already sitting in the horse cart we borrowed from Mr. Owens. The ragged old horse snorts in the cold morning air and looks about as happy to be there as I am. I hitch my leg up to jump in.

“You’re big enough to walk,” Pa says. I get down off the cart without a reply. I haven’t said a word for three weeks, ever since Ma told me about Eatonville. I don’t have a say, so there’s no reason for me to say anything.

It’s still pitch black when we start our six-mile trudge from Orlando, but I can just make out our house when I stop to sneak one last look at the only home I’ve ever known. I see the tree where Nana’s scarf got caught after church one day and Pa had to climb almost to the top to fetch it down. And the porch where Ma and I sit at night, doing whatever kitchen work we can outside before we go in to start cooking. I don’t want to leave.

Ma and Pa have been excited for weeks now. I heard them tell Mr. Owens that there’s no other place like Eatonville in America.

“You coming, Dee?” shouts Pa. It sounds like a question, but I know it isn’t. I just turn my back on home and drag my feet along the dusty road. I shuffle along, doing numbers in my head. In twelve years, it’ll be 1900 and I’ll be twenty years old. Old enough to go home to Orlando if I want to.

There’s not much to see when we get there. Just a dirt clearing, some houses that look more like shacks, and something bigger that might be a church or a barn.

But then I look around and see that everyone there looks like our family. For the first time, I start to understand what Ma meant when she said, “We gotta be part of this, Dee, even if it means ripping up our lives to do it. Eatonville is going to be something, and we’re going to be there.”

Ma’s busy unloading the cart when I tug on her sleeve and take her hand. “You were right, Ma,” I say. My voice sounds hoarse and strange after not talking for so long. “This is where we gotta be.”

Then quick I jump up on the cart to help get our things off. The bright sun’s right in my eyes, so I can’t see Ma’s face, but I’m pretty sure she’s smiling.

Directions: Read the question. Then select the best answer.

Which narrative point of view does “The Road There” have?

Directions: Read the passage. Then answer the questions.

The Road There

Eatonville, Florida, situated on land purchased by men recently freed from slavery, is the first township created and governed by African American citizens.

Nana and Baby Jo are already sitting in the horse cart we borrowed from Mr. Owens. The ragged old horse snorts in the cold morning air and looks about as happy to be there as I am. I hitch my leg up to jump in.

“You’re big enough to walk,” Pa says. I get down off the cart without a reply. I haven’t said a word for three weeks, ever since Ma told me about Eatonville. I don’t have a say, so there’s no reason for me to say anything.

It’s still pitch black when we start our six-mile trudge from Orlando, but I can just make out our house when I stop to sneak one last look at the only home I’ve ever known. I see the tree where Nana’s scarf got caught after church one day and Pa had to climb almost to the top to fetch it down. And the porch where Ma and I sit at night, doing whatever kitchen work we can outside before we go in to start cooking. I don’t want to leave.

Ma and Pa have been excited for weeks now. I heard them tell Mr. Owens that there’s no other place like Eatonville in America.

“You coming, Dee?” shouts Pa. It sounds like a question, but I know it isn’t. I just turn my back on home and drag my feet along the dusty road. I shuffle along, doing numbers in my head. In twelve years, it’ll be 1900 and I’ll be twenty years old. Old enough to go home to Orlando if I want to.

There’s not much to see when we get there. Just a dirt clearing, some houses that look more like shacks, and something bigger that might be a church or a barn.

But then I look around and see that everyone there looks like our family. For the first time, I start to understand what Ma meant when she said, “We gotta be part of this, Dee, even if it means ripping up our lives to do it. Eatonville is going to be something, and we’re going to be there.”

Ma’s busy unloading the cart when I tug on her sleeve and take her hand. “You were right, Ma,” I say. My voice sounds hoarse and strange after not talking for so long. “This is where we gotta be.”

Then quick I jump up on the cart to help get our things off. The bright sun’s right in my eyes, so I can’t see Ma’s face, but I’m pretty sure she’s smiling.

Directions: Read the question. Then select the best answer.

At the beginning of “The Road There,” how does the narrator feel about the move to Eatonville?

Directions: Read the passage. Then answer the questions.

The Road There

Eatonville, Florida, situated on land purchased by men recently freed from slavery, is the first township created and governed by African American citizens.

Nana and Baby Jo are already sitting in the horse cart we borrowed from Mr. Owens. The ragged old horse snorts in the cold morning air and looks about as happy to be there as I am. I hitch my leg up to jump in.

“You’re big enough to walk,” Pa says. I get down off the cart without a reply. I haven’t said a word for three weeks, ever since Ma told me about Eatonville. I don’t have a say, so there’s no reason for me to say anything.

It’s still pitch black when we start our six-mile trudge from Orlando, but I can just make out our house when I stop to sneak one last look at the only home I’ve ever known. I see the tree where Nana’s scarf got caught after church one day and Pa had to climb almost to the top to fetch it down. And the porch where Ma and I sit at night, doing whatever kitchen work we can outside before we go in to start cooking. I don’t want to leave.

Ma and Pa have been excited for weeks now. I heard them tell Mr. Owens that there’s no other place like Eatonville in America.

“You coming, Dee?” shouts Pa. It sounds like a question, but I know it isn’t. I just turn my back on home and drag my feet along the dusty road. I shuffle along, doing numbers in my head. In twelve years, it’ll be 1900 and I’ll be twenty years old. Old enough to go home to Orlando if I want to.

There’s not much to see when we get there. Just a dirt clearing, some houses that look more like shacks, and something bigger that might be a church or a barn.

But then I look around and see that everyone there looks like our family. For the first time, I start to understand what Ma meant when she said, “We gotta be part of this, Dee, even if it means ripping up our lives to do it. Eatonville is going to be something, and we’re going to be there.”

Ma’s busy unloading the cart when I tug on her sleeve and take her hand. “You were right, Ma,” I say. My voice sounds hoarse and strange after not talking for so long. “This is where we gotta be.”

Then quick I jump up on the cart to help get our things off. The bright sun’s right in my eyes, so I can’t see Ma’s face, but I’m pretty sure she’s smiling.

Directions: Read the question. Then select the best answer.

At first, how does the narrator respond to the news about Eatonville?

Read the question. Then select the best answer.

Which sentence best summarizes “The Road There”?

The Road There

Eatonville, Florida, situated on land purchased by men recently freed from slavery, is the first township created and governed by African American citizens.

Nana and Baby Jo are already sitting in the horse cart we borrowed from Mr. Owens. The ragged old horse snorts in the cold morning air and looks about as happy to be there as I am. I hitch my leg up to jump in.

“You’re big enough to walk,” Pa says. I get down off the cart without a reply. I haven’t said a word for three weeks, ever since Ma told me about Eatonville. I don’t have a say, so there’s no reason for me to say anything.

It’s still pitch black when we start our six-mile trudge from Orlando, but I can just make out our house when I stop to sneak one last look at the only home I’ve ever known. I see the tree where Nana’s scarf got caught after church one day and Pa had to climb almost to the top to fetch it down. And the porch where Ma and I sit at night, doing whatever kitchen work we can outside before we go in to start cooking. I don’t want to leave.

Ma and Pa have been excited for weeks now. I heard them tell Mr. Owens that there’s no other place like Eatonville in America.

“You coming, Dee?” shouts Pa. It sounds like a question, but I know it isn’t. I just turn my back on home and drag my feet along the dusty road. I shuffle along, doing numbers in my head. In twelve years, it’ll be 1900 and I’ll be twenty years old. Old enough to go home to Orlando if I want to.

There’s not much to see when we get there. Just a dirt clearing, some houses that look more like shacks, and something bigger that might be a church or a barn.

But then I look around and see that everyone there looks like our family. For the first time, I start to understand what Ma meant when she said, “We gotta be part of this, Dee, even if it means ripping up our lives to do it. Eatonville is going to be something, and we’re going to be there.”

Ma’s busy unloading the cart when I tug on her sleeve and take her hand. “You were right, Ma,” I say. My voice sounds hoarse and strange after not talking for so long. “This is where we gotta be.”

Then quick I jump up on the cart to help get our things off. The bright sun’s right in my eyes, so I can’t see Ma’s face, but I’m pretty sure she’s smiling.

Read the question. Then select the best answer.

What does the bright sun at the end of the story suggest?

The Road There

Eatonville, Florida, situated on land purchased by men recently freed from slavery, is the first township created and governed by African American citizens.

Nana and Baby Jo are already sitting in the horse cart we borrowed from Mr. Owens. The ragged old horse snorts in the cold morning air and looks about as happy to be there as I am. I hitch my leg up to jump in.

“You’re big enough to walk,” Pa says. I get down off the cart without a reply. I haven’t said a word for three weeks, ever since Ma told me about Eatonville. I don’t have a say, so there’s no reason for me to say anything.

It’s still pitch black when we start our six-mile trudge from Orlando, but I can just make out our house when I stop to sneak one last look at the only home I’ve ever known. I see the tree where Nana’s scarf got caught after church one day and Pa had to climb almost to the top to fetch it down. And the porch where Ma and I sit at night, doing whatever kitchen work we can outside before we go in to start cooking. I don’t want to leave.

Ma and Pa have been excited for weeks now. I heard them tell Mr. Owens that there’s no other place like Eatonville in America.

“You coming, Dee?” shouts Pa. It sounds like a question, but I know it isn’t. I just turn my back on home and drag my feet along the dusty road. I shuffle along, doing numbers in my head. In twelve years, it’ll be 1900 and I’ll be twenty years old. Old enough to go home to Orlando if I want to.

There’s not much to see when we get there. Just a dirt clearing, some houses that look more like shacks, and something bigger that might be a church or a barn.

But then I look around and see that everyone there looks like our family. For the first time, I start to understand what Ma meant when she said, “We gotta be part of this, Dee, even if it means ripping up our lives to do it. Eatonville is going to be something, and we’re going to be there.”

Ma’s busy unloading the cart when I tug on her sleeve and take her hand. “You were right, Ma,” I say. My voice sounds hoarse and strange after not talking for so long. “This is where we gotta be.”

Then quick I jump up on the cart to help get our things off. The bright sun’s right in my eyes, so I can’t see Ma’s face, but I’m pretty sure she’s smiling.

Directions: Read the question. Then select the best answer.

Which detail does not belong in a summary of the story?

The Road There

Eatonville, Florida, situated on land purchased by men recently freed from slavery, is the first township created and governed by African American citizens.

Nana and Baby Jo are already sitting in the horse cart we borrowed from Mr. Owens. The ragged old horse snorts in the cold morning air and looks about as happy to be there as I am. I hitch my leg up to jump in.

“You’re big enough to walk,” Pa says. I get down off the cart without a reply. I haven’t said a word for three weeks, ever since Ma told me about Eatonville. I don’t have a say, so there’s no reason for me to say anything.

It’s still pitch black when we start our six-mile trudge from Orlando, but I can just make out our house when I stop to sneak one last look at the only home I’ve ever known. I see the tree where Nana’s scarf got caught after church one day and Pa had to climb almost to the top to fetch it down. And the porch where Ma and I sit at night, doing whatever kitchen work we can outside before we go in to start cooking. I don’t want to leave.

Ma and Pa have been excited for weeks now. I heard them tell Mr. Owens that there’s no other place like Eatonville in America.

“You coming, Dee?” shouts Pa. It sounds like a question, but I know it isn’t. I just turn my back on home and drag my feet along the dusty road. I shuffle along, doing numbers in my head. In twelve years, it’ll be 1900 and I’ll be twenty years old. Old enough to go home to Orlando if I want to.

There’s not much to see when we get there. Just a dirt clearing, some houses that look more like shacks, and something bigger that might be a church or a barn.

But then I look around and see that everyone there looks like our family. For the first time, I start to understand what Ma meant when she said, “We gotta be part of this, Dee, even if it means ripping up our lives to do it. Eatonville is going to be something, and we’re going to be there.”

Ma’s busy unloading the cart when I tug on her sleeve and take her hand. “You were right, Ma,” I say. My voice sounds hoarse and strange after not talking for so long. “This is where we gotta be.”

Then quick I jump up on the cart to help get our things off. The bright sun’s right in my eyes, so I can’t see Ma’s face, but I’m pretty sure she’s smiling.

Directions: Read the question. Then select the best answer.

Based on details in the story, what is the theme of “The Road There”?

Language Analysis

Directions: Read the question. Then select the best answer.

Read this sentence from The Road to Freedom.

One night, with a light snow falling all around us, we crossed into the North.

Which effect does the sentence have?