Read these two sentences: The number of nursing students has nearly doubled this year. The majority of the new students are male. Which transition word correctly links the two sentences? (5 points)

Fall of the House of Usher, excerptBy Edgar Allan Poe The room in which I found myself was very large and lofty. The windows were long, narrow, and pointed, and at so vast a distance from the black oaken floor as to be altogether inaccessible from within. Feeble gleams of encrimsoned light made their way through the trellised panes, and served to render sufficiently distinct the more prominent objects around; the eye, however, struggled in vain to reach the remoter angles of the chamber, or the recesses of the vaulted and fretted ceiling. Dark draperies hung upon the walls. The general furniture was profuse, comfortless, antique, and tattered. Many books and musical instruments lay scattered about, but failed to give any vitality to the scene. I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow. An air of stern, deep, and irredeemable gloom hung over and pervaded all. Read these lines from the text: Dark draperies hung upon the walls. The general furniture was profuse, comfortless, antique, and tattered. Many books and musical instruments lay scattered about, but failed to give any vitality to the scene. Which of the following best summarizes the main message of these lines? (5 points)

Which sentence below most strongly emphasizes the role of Gina? (5 points)

Read this line from “The Fall of the House of Usher” by Edgar Allen Poe: The silken hair, too, had been suffered to grow all unheeded, and as, in its wild gossamer texture, it floated rather than fell about the face, I could not, even with effort, connect its Arabesque expression with any idea of simple humanity. Which pair of words from the sentence above gives clues to the meaning of the word gossamer? (5 points)

Lady Macbeth (Act 1; Scene V): Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt beWhat thou art promised: yet do I fear thy nature;It is too full o’ the milk of human kindnessTo catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great;Art not without ambition, but withoutThe illness should attend it: what thou wouldst highly,That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false,And yet wouldst wrongly win:thou’ldst have, great Glamis,That which cries ‘Thus thou must do, if thou have it;And that which rather thou dost fear to doThan wishest should be undone.’ Hie thee hither,That I may pour my spirits in thine ear;And chastise with the valour of my tongueAll that impedes thee from the golden round,Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seemTo have thee crown’d withal. Macbeth (Act 1; Scene VII): He’s here in double trust;First, as I am his kinsman and his subject,Strong both against the deed; then, as his host,Who should against his murderer shut the door,Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this DuncanHath borne his faculties so meek, hath beenSo clear in his great office, that his virtuesWill plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, againstThe deep damnation of his taking-off;And pity, like a naked new-born babe,Striding the blast, or heaven’s cherubim, horsedUpon the sightless couriers of the air,Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spurTo prick the sides of my intent, but onlyVaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itselfAnd falls on the other. Use the excerpts from Macbeth to complete the following task: Write an essay of at least three paragraphs, supporting the assertion that Lady Macbeth does not trust Macbeth to live up to his ambition. Be sure to include evidence from the text to support your answer. Remember to clearly state your main point and use correct citation in your response. (100 points)

Read these lines from Frederick Douglass’s speech “What to The Slave Is the Fourth of July?” The blessings in which you this day rejoice, are not enjoyed in common. Which of the following correctly defines the word common as it is used here? (5 points)

Which sentence correctly uses a hyphen? (5 points)

(LC) From “The Tyranny of Things” by Elizabeth Morris Once upon a time, when I was very tired, I chanced to go away to a little house by the sea. “It is empty,” they said, “but you can easily furnish it.” Empty! Yes, thank Heaven! Furnish it? Heaven forbid! Its floors were bare, its walls were bare, its tables there were only two in the house were bare. There was nothing in the closets but books; nothing in the bureau drawers but the smell of clean, fresh wood; nothing in the kitchen but an oil stove, and a few a very few dishes; nothing in the attic but rafters and sunshine, and a view of the sea. After I had been there an hour there descended upon me a great peace, a sense of freedom, of in finite leisure. In the twilight I sat before the flickering embers of the open fire, and looked out through the open door to the sea, and asked myself, “Why?” Then the answer came: I was emancipated from things. There was nothing in the house to demand care, to claim attention, to cumber my consciousness with its insistent, unchanging companionship. There was nothing but a shelter, and outside, the fields and marshes, the shore and the sea. These did not have to be taken down and put up and arranged and dusted and cared for. They were not things at all, they were powers, presences. And so I rested. While the spell was still unbroken, I came away. For broken it would have been, I know, had I not fled first. Even in this refuge the enemy would have pursued me, found me out, encompassed me. If we could but free ourselves once for all, how simple life might become! One of my friends, who, with six young children and only one servant, keeps a spotless house and a soul serene, told me once how she did it. “My dear, once a month I give away every single thing in the house that we do not imperatively need. It sounds wasteful, but I don’t believe it really is. Sometimes Jeremiah mourns over missing old clothes, or back numbers of the magazines, but I tell him if he doesn’t want to be mated to a gibbering maniac he will let me do as I like.” The old monks knew all this very well. One wonders sometimes how they got their power; but go up to Fiesole, and sit a while in one of those little, bare, white-walled cells, and you will begin to understand. If there were any spiritual force in one, it would have to come out there. I have not their courage, and I win no such freedom. I allow myself to be overwhelmed by the invading host of things, making fitful resistance, but without any real steadiness of purpose. Yet never do I wholly give up the struggle, and in my heart I cherish an ideal, remotely typified by that empty little house beside the sea. Which statement from the essay illustrates how Morris feels about things? (4 points)

(LC) “The Old Swimmin’ Hole” by James Whitcomb Riley OH! the old swimmin’–hole! whare the crick so still and deepLooked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest belowSounded like the laugh of something we onc’t ust to knowBefore we could remember anything but the eyesOf the angels lookin’ out as we left Paradise;But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle,And it’s hard to part ferever with the old swimmin’–hole. Oh! the old swimmin’–hole! In the happy days of yore,When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tideThat gazed back at me so gay and glorified,It made me love myself, as I leaped to caressMy shadder smilin’ up at me with sich tenderness.But them days is past and gone, and old Time’s tuck his tollFrom the old man come back to the old swimmin’–hole. Oh! the old swimmin’–hole! In the long, lazy-daysWhen the humdrum of school made so many run-a-ways,How plesant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so planeYou could tell by the dent of the heel and the soleThey was lots o’fun on hands at the old swimmin’–hole.But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow rollLike the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin’–hole. There the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall,And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;And it mottled the worter with amber and goldTel the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled;And the snake-feeder’s four gauzy wings fluttered byLike the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky,Or a wounded apple-blossom in the breeze’s controleAs it cut acrost some orchurd to’rds the old swimmin’–hole. Oh! the old swimmin’—hole! When I last saw the place,The scene was all changed, like the change in my face;The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spotWhare the old divin’–log lays sunk and fergot.And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be –But never again will theyr shade shelter me!And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin’–hole. The poem begins with the speaker describing (4 points)

(LC) From “The Tyranny of Things” by Elizabeth Morris Once upon a time, when I was very tired, I chanced to go away to a little house by the sea. “It is empty,” they said, “but you can easily furnish it.” Empty! Yes, thank Heaven! Furnish it? Heaven forbid! Its floors were bare, its walls were bare, its tables there were only two in the house were bare. There was nothing in the closets but books; nothing in the bureau drawers but the smell of clean, fresh wood; nothing in the kitchen but an oil stove, and a few a very few dishes; nothing in the attic but rafters and sunshine, and a view of the sea. After I had been there an hour there descended upon me a great peace, a sense of freedom, of in finite leisure. In the twilight I sat before the flickering embers of the open fire, and looked out through the open door to the sea, and asked myself, “Why?” Then the answer came: I was emancipated from things. There was nothing in the house to demand care, to claim attention, to cumber my consciousness with its insistent, unchanging companionship. There was nothing but a shelter, and outside, the fields and marshes, the shore and the sea. These did not have to be taken down and put up and arranged and dusted and cared for. They were not things at all, they were powers, presences. And so I rested. While the spell was still unbroken, I came away. For broken it would have been, I know, had I not fled first. Even in this refuge the enemy would have pursued me, found me out, encompassed me. If we could but free ourselves once for all, how simple life might become! One of my friends, who, with six young children and only one servant, keeps a spotless house and a soul serene, told me once how she did it. “My dear, once a month I give away every single thing in the house that we do not imperatively need. It sounds wasteful, but I don’t believe it really is. Sometimes Jeremiah mourns over missing old clothes, or back numbers of the magazines, but I tell him if he doesn’t want to be mated to a gibbering maniac he will let me do as I like.” The old monks knew all this very well. One wonders sometimes how they got their power; but go up to Fiesole, and sit a while in one of those little, bare, white-walled cells, and you will begin to understand. If there were any spiritual force in one, it would have to come out there. I have not their courage, and I win no such freedom. I allow myself to be overwhelmed by the invading host of things, making fitful resistance, but without any real steadiness of purpose. Yet never do I wholly give up the struggle, and in my heart I cherish an ideal, remotely typified by that empty little house beside the sea. Based on her description, the reader knows Morris enjoyed her time in the house by the sea because (4 points)