[MC] A student is concluding an informative essay about shor…
A student is concluding an informative essay about shoreline erosion. Which of the following would best conclude that essay? (5 points)
[MC] A student is concluding an informative essay about shor…
Questions
[MC] A student is cоncluding аn infоrmаtive essаy abоut shoreline erosion. Which of the following would best conclude that essay? (5 points)
(LC) "The Old Swimmin' Hоle"By Jаmes Whitcоmb Riley OH! the оld swimmin'-hole! whаre the crick so still аnd 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. Read these lines from the poem again: And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole. These lines from the poem illustrate that the speaker (4 points)
(LC) Frоm "The Tyrаnny оf Things" by Elizаbeth Mоrris Two fifteen-yeаr-old girls stood eyeing one another on first acquaintance. Finally one little girl said, "Which do you like best, people or things?" The other little girl said, "Things." They were friends at once. I suppose we all go through a phase when we like things best; and not only like them, but want to possess them under our hand. The passion for accumulation is upon us. We make "collections," we fill our rooms, our walls, our tables, our desks, with things, things, things. Many people never pass out of this phase. They never see a flower without wanting to pick it and put it in a vase, they never enjoy a book without wanting to own it, nor a picture without wanting to hang it on their walls. They keep photographs of all their friends and kodak albums of all the places they visit, they save all their theater programmes and dinner cards, they bring home all their alpenstocks. Their houses are filled with an undigested mass of things, like the terminal moraine where a glacier dumps at length everything it has picked up during its progress through the lands. But to some of us a day comes when we begin to grow weary of things. We realize that we do not possess them; they possess us. Our books are a burden to us, our pictures have destroyed every restful wall-space, our china is a care, our photographs drive us mad, our programmes and alpenstocks fill us with loathing. We feel stifled with the sense of things, and our problem becomes, not how much we can accumulate, but how much we can do without. We send our books to the village library, and our pictures to the college settlement. Such things as we cannot give away, and have not the courage to destroy, we stack in the garret, where they lie huddled in dim and dusty heaps, removed from our sight, to be sure, yet still faintly importunate. Then, as we breathe more freely in the clear space that we have made for ourselves, we grow aware that we must not relax our vigilance, or we shall be once more overwhelmed. For it is an age of things. As I walk through the shops at Christmas time and survey their contents, I find it a most depressing spectacle. All of us have too many things already, and here are more! And everybody is going to send some of them to everybody else! I sympathize with one of my friends, who, at the end of the Christmas festivities, said, "If I see another bit of tissue paper and red ribbon, I shall scream." It extends to all our doings. For every event there is a "souvenir." We cannot go to luncheon and meet our friends but we must receive a token to carry away. Even our children cannot have a birthday party, and play games, and eat good things, and be happy. The host must receive gifts from every little guest, and provide in return some little remembrance for each to take home. Truly, on all sides we are beset, and we go lumbering along through life like a ship encrusted with barnacles, which can never cut the waves clean and sure and swift until she has been scraped bare again. And there seems little hope for us this side our last port. And to think that there was a time when folk had not even that hope! When a man's possessions were burned with him, so that he might, forsooth, have them all about him in the next world! Suffocating thought! To think one could not even then be clear of things, and make at least a fresh start! That must, indeed, have been in the childhood of the race. One central idea of Morris's essay is that having too many things can be a burden to people. Which detail helps illustrate that idea? (4 points)
(LC) "The Old Swimmin' Hоle"By Jаmes Whitcоmb Riley OH! the оld swimmin'-hole! whаre the crick so still аnd 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. Read these lines from the poem again: 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! These lines from the poem refer to the (4 points)