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Directions: Read the passages and choose the best answer to each question.
Passage
PROSE FICTION: This passage is adapted from The Story of a Bad Boy by Thomas Bailey Aldrich © 1869.
I call my story the story of a bad boy, partly to
distinguish myself from those faultless young gentle-
men who generally figure in narratives of this kind,
and partly because I really was not an angel. I may
(5) truthfully say I was an amiable, impulsive lad, and no
hypocrite. I didn’t want to be an angel; I didn’t think
the sermons presented to me by the Reverend Hawkins
were half so nice as Robinson Crusoe; and I didn’t
send my pocket-change to the needy, but spent it on
(10) peppermint-drops and taffy candy. In short, I was a
real human boy, such as you may meet anywhere in
New England, and not like the impossible boy in a
storybook.
Whenever a new scholar came to our school,
(15) I used to confront him at recess with the following
words: “My name’s Tom Bailey; what’s your name?”
If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands with
the new pupil cordially; but if it didn’t, I would turn
and walk away, for I was particular on this point. Such
(20) names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Spriggins were offen-
sive affronts to my ear; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake,
and the like, were passwords to my confidence and
esteem. I was born in Rivermouth almost fifty years
(25) ago, but, before I became very well acquainted with
that pretty New England town, my parents moved to
New Orleans, where my father invested in the banking
business. I was only eighteen months old at the time
of the move, and it didn’t make much difference to me
(30) where I was because I was so small; but several years
later, when my father proposed to take me North to be
educated, I had my own views on the subject. I instantly
kicked over the little boy, Sam, who happened to be
standing by me at the moment, and, stamping my foot
(35) violently on the floor, declared that I would not be taken
away to live among a lot of Yankees!
You see I was what is called “a Northern man
with Southern principles.” I had no recollection of
New England: my earliest memories were connected
(40) with the South. I knew I was born in the North, but
hoped nobody would find it out. I never told my
schoolmates I was a Yankee because they talked about
the Yankees in such a scornful way it made me feel
that it was quite a disgrace not to be born in the South.
(45) And this impression was strengthened by Aunt Chloe,
who said, “there wasn’t no gentlemen in the North no way.”
To be frank, my idea of the North was not at all
accurate. I supposed the inhabitants were divided into
two classes—hunters and schoolmasters. I pictured it to
(50) be winter pretty much all the year round. The prevailing
style of architecture I took to be log-cabins.
With this picture of Northern civilization in my
eye, the reader will easily understand my terror at the
bare thought of being transported to Rivermouth to
(55) school, and possibly will forgive me for kicking over
little Sam, when my father announced this to me. As
for kicking little Sam, I always did that, more or less
gently, when anything went wrong with me.
My father was greatly perplexed and troubled by
(60) this violent outbreak. As little Sam picked himself up,
my father took my hand in his and led me thoughtfully
to the library. I can see him now as he leaned back
in the bamboo chair and questioned me. He appeared
strangely puzzled on learning the nature of my
(65) objections to going North, and proceeded at once to
knock down all my pine log houses, and scatter all the
hunters and schoolmasters with which I had populated
the greater portion of the Eastern and Middle States.
“Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain with
(70) such silly stories?” asked my father calmly.
“Aunt Chloe, sir; she told me.”
My father devoted that evening and several sub-
sequent evenings to giving me a clear and succinct
account of New England: its early struggles, its
(75) progress, and its present condition—faint and confused
glimmerings of which I had obtained at school, where
history had never been a favorite pursuit of mine.
I was no longer unwilling to go North; on the
contrary, the proposed journey to a new world full of
(80) wonders kept me awake nights. Long before the mov-
ing day arrived I was eager to be off. My impatience
was increased by the fact that my father had purchased
for me a fine little Mustang pony, and shipped it to
Rivermouth two weeks before the date set for our own
(85) journey. The pony completely resigned me to the situa-
tion. The pony’s name was Gitana, which is the Spanish
for “gypsy,” so I always called her Gypsy
Finally the time came to leave the vine-covered
mansion among the orange-trees, to say goodbye to
(90) little Sam (I am convinced he was heartily glad to get
rid of me), and to part with Aunt Chloe. I imagine them
standing by the open garden gate; the tears are rolling
down Aunt Chloe’s cheeks; Sam’s six front teeth are
glistening like pearls; I wave my hand to him manfully.
(95) Then I call out “goodbye” in a muffled voice to Aunt
Chloe; they and the old home fade away. I am never to
see them again!
Passage
PROSE FICTION: This passage is adapted from The Story of a Bad Boy by Thomas Bailey Aldrich © 1869.
I call my story the story of a bad boy, partly to
distinguish myself from those faultless young gentle-
men who generally figure in narratives of this kind,
and partly because I really was not an angel. I may
(5) truthfully say I was an amiable, impulsive lad, and no
hypocrite. I didn’t want to be an angel; I didn’t think
the sermons presented to me by the Reverend Hawkins
were half so nice as Robinson Crusoe; and I didn’t
send my pocket-change to the needy, but spent it on
(10) peppermint-drops and taffy candy. In short, I was a
real human boy, such as you may meet anywhere in
New England, and not like the impossible boy in a
storybook.
Whenever a new scholar came to our school,
(15) I used to confront him at recess with the following
words: “My name’s Tom Bailey; what’s your name?”
If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands with
the new pupil cordially; but if it didn’t, I would turn
and walk away, for I was particular on this point. Such
(20) names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Spriggins were offen-
sive affronts to my ear; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake,
and the like, were passwords to my confidence and
esteem. I was born in Rivermouth almost fifty years
(25) ago, but, before I became very well acquainted with
that pretty New England town, my parents moved to
New Orleans, where my father invested in the banking
business. I was only eighteen months old at the time
of the move, and it didn’t make much difference to me
(30) where I was because I was so small; but several years
later, when my father proposed to take me North to be
educated, I had my own views on the subject. I instantly
kicked over the little boy, Sam, who happened to be
standing by me at the moment, and, stamping my foot
(35) violently on the floor, declared that I would not be taken
away to live among a lot of Yankees!
You see I was what is called “a Northern man
with Southern principles.” I had no recollection of
New England: my earliest memories were connected
(40) with the South. I knew I was born in the North, but
hoped nobody would find it out. I never told my
schoolmates I was a Yankee because they talked about
the Yankees in such a scornful way it made me feel
that it was quite a disgrace not to be born in the South.
(45) And this impression was strengthened by Aunt Chloe,
who said, “there wasn’t no gentlemen in the North no way.”
To be frank, my idea of the North was not at all
accurate. I supposed the inhabitants were divided into
two classes—hunters and schoolmasters. I pictured it to
(50) be winter pretty much all the year round. The prevailing
style of architecture I took to be log-cabins.
With this picture of Northern civilization in my
eye, the reader will easily understand my terror at the
bare thought of being transported to Rivermouth to
(55) school, and possibly will forgive me for kicking over
little Sam, when my father announced this to me. As
for kicking little Sam, I always did that, more or less
gently, when anything went wrong with me.
My father was greatly perplexed and troubled by
(60) this violent outbreak. As little Sam picked himself up,
my father took my hand in his and led me thoughtfully
to the library. I can see him now as he leaned back
in the bamboo chair and questioned me. He appeared
strangely puzzled on learning the nature of my
(65) objections to going North, and proceeded at once to
knock down all my pine log houses, and scatter all the
hunters and schoolmasters with which I had populated
the greater portion of the Eastern and Middle States.
“Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain with
(70) such silly stories?” asked my father calmly.
“Aunt Chloe, sir; she told me.”
My father devoted that evening and several sub-
sequent evenings to giving me a clear and succinct
account of New England: its early struggles, its
(75) progress, and its present condition—faint and confused
glimmerings of which I had obtained at school, where
history had never been a favorite pursuit of mine.
I was no longer unwilling to go North; on the
contrary, the proposed journey to a new world full of
(80) wonders kept me awake nights. Long before the mov-
ing day arrived I was eager to be off. My impatience
was increased by the fact that my father had purchased
for me a fine little Mustang pony, and shipped it to
Rivermouth two weeks before the date set for our own
(85) journey. The pony completely resigned me to the situa-
tion. The pony’s name was Gitana, which is the Spanish
for “gypsy,” so I always called her Gypsy
Finally the time came to leave the vine-covered
mansion among the orange-trees, to say goodbye to
(90) little Sam (I am convinced he was heartily glad to get
rid of me), and to part with Aunt Chloe. I imagine them
standing by the open garden gate; the tears are rolling
down Aunt Chloe’s cheeks; Sam’s six front teeth are
glistening like pearls; I wave my hand to him manfully.
(95) Then I call out “goodbye” in a muffled voice to Aunt
Chloe; they and the old home fade away. I am never to
see them again!
Q. As he is revealed in the conversation he has with his son, the narrator’s father can best be characterized as:
- a)understanding and patient.
- b)stern and unforgiving.
- c)proud but uneducated.
- d)ignorant but affectionate.
Correct answer is option 'A'. Can you explain this answer?
Most Upvoted Answer
Directions: Read the passages and choose the best answer to each quest...
The best answer is F. Tom’s father shows his patience and understanding through the manner in which he handles Tom’s ridiculous misconceptions about moving North. The passage states that Tom’s father asked him “calmly” about who told him such silly stories, and that his father “devoted that evening and several subsequent evenings” to explaining to Tom the true history and present happenings of life in Northern states.
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Directions: Read the passages and choose the best answer to each question.PassagePROSE FICTION: This passage is adapted from The Story of a Bad Boy by Thomas Bailey Aldrich © 1869.I call my story the story of a bad boy, partly todistinguish myself from those faultless young gentle-men who generally figure in narratives of this kind,and partly because I really was not an angel. I may(5) truthfully say I was an amiable, impulsive lad, and nohypocrite. I didn’t want to be an angel; I didn’t thinkthe sermons presented to me by the Reverend Hawkinswere half so nice as Robinson Crusoe; and I didn’tsend my pocket-change to the needy, but spent it on(10) peppermint-drops and taffy candy. In short, I was areal human boy, such as you may meet anywhere inNew England, and not like the impossible boy in astorybook.Whenever a new scholar came to our school,(15) I used to confront him at recess with the followingwords: “My name’s Tom Bailey; what’s your name?”If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands withthe new pupil cordially; but if it didn’t, I would turnand walk away, for I was particular on this point. Such(20) names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Spriggins were offen-sive affronts to my ear; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake,and the like, were passwords to my confidence andesteem. I was born in Rivermouth almost fifty years(25)ago, but, before I became very well acquainted withthat pretty New England town, my parents moved toNew Orleans, where my father invested in the bankingbusiness. I was only eighteen months old at the timeof the move, and it didn’t make much difference to me(30) where I was because I was so small; but several yearslater, when my father proposed to take me North to beeducated, I had my own views on the subject. I instantlykicked over the little boy, Sam, who happened to bestanding by me at the moment, and, stamping my foot(35) violently on the floor, declared that I would not be takenaway to live among a lot of Yankees!You see I was what is called “a Northern manwith Southern principles.” I had no recollection ofNew England: my earliest memories were connected(40) with the South. I knew I was born in the North, buthoped nobody would find it out. I never told myschoolmates I was a Yankee because they talked aboutthe Yankees in such a scornful way it made me feelthat it was quite a disgrace not to be born in the South.(45) And this impression was strengthened by Aunt Chloe,who said, “there wasn’t no gentlemen in the North no way.”To be frank, my idea of the North was not at allaccurate. I supposed the inhabitants were divided intotwo classes—hunters and schoolmasters. I pictured it to(50) be winter pretty much all the year round. The prevailingstyle of architecture I took to be log-cabins.With this picture of Northern civilization in myeye, the reader will easily understand my terror at thebare thought of being transported to Rivermouth to(55) school, and possibly will forgive me for kicking overlittle Sam, when my father announced this to me. Asfor kicking little Sam, I always did that, more or lessgently, when anything went wrong with me.My father was greatly perplexed and troubled by(60) this violent outbreak. As little Sam picked himself up,my father took my hand in his and led me thoughtfullyto the library. I can see him now as he leaned backin the bamboo chair and questioned me. He appearedstrangely puzzled on learning the nature of my(65) objections to going North, and proceeded at once toknock down all my pine log houses, and scatter all thehunters and schoolmasters with which I had populatedthe greater portion of the Eastern and Middle States.“Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain with(70) such silly stories?” asked my father calmly.“Aunt Chloe, sir; she told me.”My father devoted that evening and several sub-sequent evenings to giving me a clear and succinctaccount of New England: its early struggles, its(75) progress, and its present condition—faint and confusedglimmerings of which I had obtained at school, wherehistory had never been a favorite pursuit of mine.I was no longer unwilling to go North; on thecontrary, the proposed journey to a new world full of(80) wonders kept me awake nights. Long before the mov-ing day arrived I was eager to be off. My impatiencewas increased by the fact that my father had purchasedfor me a fine little Mustang pony, and shipped it toRivermouth two weeks before the date set for our own(85)journey. The pony completely resigned me to the situa-tion. The pony’s name was Gitana, which is the Spanishfor “gypsy,” so I always called her GypsyFinally the time came to leave the vine-coveredmansion among the orange-trees, to say goodbye to(90) little Sam (I am convinced he was heartily glad to getrid of me), and to part with Aunt Chloe. I imagine themstanding by the open garden gate; the tears are rollingdown Aunt Chloe’s cheeks; Sam’s six front teeth areglistening like pearls; I wave my hand to him manfully.(95) Then I call out “goodbye” in a muffled voice to AuntChloe; they and the old home fade away. I am never tosee them again!Q.As he is revealed in the conversation he has with his son, the narrator’s father can best be characterized as:a)understanding and patient.b)stern and unforgiving.c)proud but uneducated.d) ignorant but affectionate.Correct answer is option 'A'. Can you explain this answer?
Question Description
Directions: Read the passages and choose the best answer to each question.PassagePROSE FICTION: This passage is adapted from The Story of a Bad Boy by Thomas Bailey Aldrich © 1869.I call my story the story of a bad boy, partly todistinguish myself from those faultless young gentle-men who generally figure in narratives of this kind,and partly because I really was not an angel. I may(5) truthfully say I was an amiable, impulsive lad, and nohypocrite. I didn’t want to be an angel; I didn’t thinkthe sermons presented to me by the Reverend Hawkinswere half so nice as Robinson Crusoe; and I didn’tsend my pocket-change to the needy, but spent it on(10) peppermint-drops and taffy candy. In short, I was areal human boy, such as you may meet anywhere inNew England, and not like the impossible boy in astorybook.Whenever a new scholar came to our school,(15) I used to confront him at recess with the followingwords: “My name’s Tom Bailey; what’s your name?”If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands withthe new pupil cordially; but if it didn’t, I would turnand walk away, for I was particular on this point. Such(20) names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Spriggins were offen-sive affronts to my ear; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake,and the like, were passwords to my confidence andesteem. I was born in Rivermouth almost fifty years(25)ago, but, before I became very well acquainted withthat pretty New England town, my parents moved toNew Orleans, where my father invested in the bankingbusiness. I was only eighteen months old at the timeof the move, and it didn’t make much difference to me(30) where I was because I was so small; but several yearslater, when my father proposed to take me North to beeducated, I had my own views on the subject. I instantlykicked over the little boy, Sam, who happened to bestanding by me at the moment, and, stamping my foot(35) violently on the floor, declared that I would not be takenaway to live among a lot of Yankees!You see I was what is called “a Northern manwith Southern principles.” I had no recollection ofNew England: my earliest memories were connected(40) with the South. I knew I was born in the North, buthoped nobody would find it out. I never told myschoolmates I was a Yankee because they talked aboutthe Yankees in such a scornful way it made me feelthat it was quite a disgrace not to be born in the South.(45) And this impression was strengthened by Aunt Chloe,who said, “there wasn’t no gentlemen in the North no way.”To be frank, my idea of the North was not at allaccurate. I supposed the inhabitants were divided intotwo classes—hunters and schoolmasters. I pictured it to(50) be winter pretty much all the year round. The prevailingstyle of architecture I took to be log-cabins.With this picture of Northern civilization in myeye, the reader will easily understand my terror at thebare thought of being transported to Rivermouth to(55) school, and possibly will forgive me for kicking overlittle Sam, when my father announced this to me. Asfor kicking little Sam, I always did that, more or lessgently, when anything went wrong with me.My father was greatly perplexed and troubled by(60) this violent outbreak. As little Sam picked himself up,my father took my hand in his and led me thoughtfullyto the library. I can see him now as he leaned backin the bamboo chair and questioned me. He appearedstrangely puzzled on learning the nature of my(65) objections to going North, and proceeded at once toknock down all my pine log houses, and scatter all thehunters and schoolmasters with which I had populatedthe greater portion of the Eastern and Middle States.“Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain with(70) such silly stories?” asked my father calmly.“Aunt Chloe, sir; she told me.”My father devoted that evening and several sub-sequent evenings to giving me a clear and succinctaccount of New England: its early struggles, its(75) progress, and its present condition—faint and confusedglimmerings of which I had obtained at school, wherehistory had never been a favorite pursuit of mine.I was no longer unwilling to go North; on thecontrary, the proposed journey to a new world full of(80) wonders kept me awake nights. Long before the mov-ing day arrived I was eager to be off. My impatiencewas increased by the fact that my father had purchasedfor me a fine little Mustang pony, and shipped it toRivermouth two weeks before the date set for our own(85)journey. The pony completely resigned me to the situa-tion. The pony’s name was Gitana, which is the Spanishfor “gypsy,” so I always called her GypsyFinally the time came to leave the vine-coveredmansion among the orange-trees, to say goodbye to(90) little Sam (I am convinced he was heartily glad to getrid of me), and to part with Aunt Chloe. I imagine themstanding by the open garden gate; the tears are rollingdown Aunt Chloe’s cheeks; Sam’s six front teeth areglistening like pearls; I wave my hand to him manfully.(95) Then I call out “goodbye” in a muffled voice to AuntChloe; they and the old home fade away. I am never tosee them again!Q.As he is revealed in the conversation he has with his son, the narrator’s father can best be characterized as:a)understanding and patient.b)stern and unforgiving.c)proud but uneducated.d) ignorant but affectionate.Correct answer is option 'A'. Can you explain this answer? for ACT 2025 is part of ACT preparation. The Question and answers have been prepared according to the ACT exam syllabus. Information about Directions: Read the passages and choose the best answer to each question.PassagePROSE FICTION: This passage is adapted from The Story of a Bad Boy by Thomas Bailey Aldrich © 1869.I call my story the story of a bad boy, partly todistinguish myself from those faultless young gentle-men who generally figure in narratives of this kind,and partly because I really was not an angel. I may(5) truthfully say I was an amiable, impulsive lad, and nohypocrite. I didn’t want to be an angel; I didn’t thinkthe sermons presented to me by the Reverend Hawkinswere half so nice as Robinson Crusoe; and I didn’tsend my pocket-change to the needy, but spent it on(10) peppermint-drops and taffy candy. In short, I was areal human boy, such as you may meet anywhere inNew England, and not like the impossible boy in astorybook.Whenever a new scholar came to our school,(15) I used to confront him at recess with the followingwords: “My name’s Tom Bailey; what’s your name?”If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands withthe new pupil cordially; but if it didn’t, I would turnand walk away, for I was particular on this point. Such(20) names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Spriggins were offen-sive affronts to my ear; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake,and the like, were passwords to my confidence andesteem. I was born in Rivermouth almost fifty years(25)ago, but, before I became very well acquainted withthat pretty New England town, my parents moved toNew Orleans, where my father invested in the bankingbusiness. I was only eighteen months old at the timeof the move, and it didn’t make much difference to me(30) where I was because I was so small; but several yearslater, when my father proposed to take me North to beeducated, I had my own views on the subject. I instantlykicked over the little boy, Sam, who happened to bestanding by me at the moment, and, stamping my foot(35) violently on the floor, declared that I would not be takenaway to live among a lot of Yankees!You see I was what is called “a Northern manwith Southern principles.” I had no recollection ofNew England: my earliest memories were connected(40) with the South. I knew I was born in the North, buthoped nobody would find it out. I never told myschoolmates I was a Yankee because they talked aboutthe Yankees in such a scornful way it made me feelthat it was quite a disgrace not to be born in the South.(45) And this impression was strengthened by Aunt Chloe,who said, “there wasn’t no gentlemen in the North no way.”To be frank, my idea of the North was not at allaccurate. I supposed the inhabitants were divided intotwo classes—hunters and schoolmasters. I pictured it to(50) be winter pretty much all the year round. The prevailingstyle of architecture I took to be log-cabins.With this picture of Northern civilization in myeye, the reader will easily understand my terror at thebare thought of being transported to Rivermouth to(55) school, and possibly will forgive me for kicking overlittle Sam, when my father announced this to me. Asfor kicking little Sam, I always did that, more or lessgently, when anything went wrong with me.My father was greatly perplexed and troubled by(60) this violent outbreak. As little Sam picked himself up,my father took my hand in his and led me thoughtfullyto the library. I can see him now as he leaned backin the bamboo chair and questioned me. He appearedstrangely puzzled on learning the nature of my(65) objections to going North, and proceeded at once toknock down all my pine log houses, and scatter all thehunters and schoolmasters with which I had populatedthe greater portion of the Eastern and Middle States.“Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain with(70) such silly stories?” asked my father calmly.“Aunt Chloe, sir; she told me.”My father devoted that evening and several sub-sequent evenings to giving me a clear and succinctaccount of New England: its early struggles, its(75) progress, and its present condition—faint and confusedglimmerings of which I had obtained at school, wherehistory had never been a favorite pursuit of mine.I was no longer unwilling to go North; on thecontrary, the proposed journey to a new world full of(80) wonders kept me awake nights. Long before the mov-ing day arrived I was eager to be off. My impatiencewas increased by the fact that my father had purchasedfor me a fine little Mustang pony, and shipped it toRivermouth two weeks before the date set for our own(85)journey. The pony completely resigned me to the situa-tion. The pony’s name was Gitana, which is the Spanishfor “gypsy,” so I always called her GypsyFinally the time came to leave the vine-coveredmansion among the orange-trees, to say goodbye to(90) little Sam (I am convinced he was heartily glad to getrid of me), and to part with Aunt Chloe. I imagine themstanding by the open garden gate; the tears are rollingdown Aunt Chloe’s cheeks; Sam’s six front teeth areglistening like pearls; I wave my hand to him manfully.(95) Then I call out “goodbye” in a muffled voice to AuntChloe; they and the old home fade away. I am never tosee them again!Q.As he is revealed in the conversation he has with his son, the narrator’s father can best be characterized as:a)understanding and patient.b)stern and unforgiving.c)proud but uneducated.d) ignorant but affectionate.Correct answer is option 'A'. Can you explain this answer? covers all topics & solutions for ACT 2025 Exam. Find important definitions, questions, meanings, examples, exercises and tests below for Directions: Read the passages and choose the best answer to each question.PassagePROSE FICTION: This passage is adapted from The Story of a Bad Boy by Thomas Bailey Aldrich © 1869.I call my story the story of a bad boy, partly todistinguish myself from those faultless young gentle-men who generally figure in narratives of this kind,and partly because I really was not an angel. I may(5) truthfully say I was an amiable, impulsive lad, and nohypocrite. I didn’t want to be an angel; I didn’t thinkthe sermons presented to me by the Reverend Hawkinswere half so nice as Robinson Crusoe; and I didn’tsend my pocket-change to the needy, but spent it on(10) peppermint-drops and taffy candy. In short, I was areal human boy, such as you may meet anywhere inNew England, and not like the impossible boy in astorybook.Whenever a new scholar came to our school,(15) I used to confront him at recess with the followingwords: “My name’s Tom Bailey; what’s your name?”If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands withthe new pupil cordially; but if it didn’t, I would turnand walk away, for I was particular on this point. Such(20) names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Spriggins were offen-sive affronts to my ear; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake,and the like, were passwords to my confidence andesteem. I was born in Rivermouth almost fifty years(25)ago, but, before I became very well acquainted withthat pretty New England town, my parents moved toNew Orleans, where my father invested in the bankingbusiness. I was only eighteen months old at the timeof the move, and it didn’t make much difference to me(30) where I was because I was so small; but several yearslater, when my father proposed to take me North to beeducated, I had my own views on the subject. I instantlykicked over the little boy, Sam, who happened to bestanding by me at the moment, and, stamping my foot(35) violently on the floor, declared that I would not be takenaway to live among a lot of Yankees!You see I was what is called “a Northern manwith Southern principles.” I had no recollection ofNew England: my earliest memories were connected(40) with the South. I knew I was born in the North, buthoped nobody would find it out. I never told myschoolmates I was a Yankee because they talked aboutthe Yankees in such a scornful way it made me feelthat it was quite a disgrace not to be born in the South.(45) And this impression was strengthened by Aunt Chloe,who said, “there wasn’t no gentlemen in the North no way.”To be frank, my idea of the North was not at allaccurate. I supposed the inhabitants were divided intotwo classes—hunters and schoolmasters. I pictured it to(50) be winter pretty much all the year round. The prevailingstyle of architecture I took to be log-cabins.With this picture of Northern civilization in myeye, the reader will easily understand my terror at thebare thought of being transported to Rivermouth to(55) school, and possibly will forgive me for kicking overlittle Sam, when my father announced this to me. Asfor kicking little Sam, I always did that, more or lessgently, when anything went wrong with me.My father was greatly perplexed and troubled by(60) this violent outbreak. As little Sam picked himself up,my father took my hand in his and led me thoughtfullyto the library. I can see him now as he leaned backin the bamboo chair and questioned me. He appearedstrangely puzzled on learning the nature of my(65) objections to going North, and proceeded at once toknock down all my pine log houses, and scatter all thehunters and schoolmasters with which I had populatedthe greater portion of the Eastern and Middle States.“Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain with(70) such silly stories?” asked my father calmly.“Aunt Chloe, sir; she told me.”My father devoted that evening and several sub-sequent evenings to giving me a clear and succinctaccount of New England: its early struggles, its(75) progress, and its present condition—faint and confusedglimmerings of which I had obtained at school, wherehistory had never been a favorite pursuit of mine.I was no longer unwilling to go North; on thecontrary, the proposed journey to a new world full of(80) wonders kept me awake nights. Long before the mov-ing day arrived I was eager to be off. My impatiencewas increased by the fact that my father had purchasedfor me a fine little Mustang pony, and shipped it toRivermouth two weeks before the date set for our own(85)journey. The pony completely resigned me to the situa-tion. The pony’s name was Gitana, which is the Spanishfor “gypsy,” so I always called her GypsyFinally the time came to leave the vine-coveredmansion among the orange-trees, to say goodbye to(90) little Sam (I am convinced he was heartily glad to getrid of me), and to part with Aunt Chloe. I imagine themstanding by the open garden gate; the tears are rollingdown Aunt Chloe’s cheeks; Sam’s six front teeth areglistening like pearls; I wave my hand to him manfully.(95) Then I call out “goodbye” in a muffled voice to AuntChloe; they and the old home fade away. I am never tosee them again!Q.As he is revealed in the conversation he has with his son, the narrator’s father can best be characterized as:a)understanding and patient.b)stern and unforgiving.c)proud but uneducated.d) ignorant but affectionate.Correct answer is option 'A'. Can you explain this answer?.
Directions: Read the passages and choose the best answer to each question.PassagePROSE FICTION: This passage is adapted from The Story of a Bad Boy by Thomas Bailey Aldrich © 1869.I call my story the story of a bad boy, partly todistinguish myself from those faultless young gentle-men who generally figure in narratives of this kind,and partly because I really was not an angel. I may(5) truthfully say I was an amiable, impulsive lad, and nohypocrite. I didn’t want to be an angel; I didn’t thinkthe sermons presented to me by the Reverend Hawkinswere half so nice as Robinson Crusoe; and I didn’tsend my pocket-change to the needy, but spent it on(10) peppermint-drops and taffy candy. In short, I was areal human boy, such as you may meet anywhere inNew England, and not like the impossible boy in astorybook.Whenever a new scholar came to our school,(15) I used to confront him at recess with the followingwords: “My name’s Tom Bailey; what’s your name?”If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands withthe new pupil cordially; but if it didn’t, I would turnand walk away, for I was particular on this point. Such(20) names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Spriggins were offen-sive affronts to my ear; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake,and the like, were passwords to my confidence andesteem. I was born in Rivermouth almost fifty years(25)ago, but, before I became very well acquainted withthat pretty New England town, my parents moved toNew Orleans, where my father invested in the bankingbusiness. I was only eighteen months old at the timeof the move, and it didn’t make much difference to me(30) where I was because I was so small; but several yearslater, when my father proposed to take me North to beeducated, I had my own views on the subject. I instantlykicked over the little boy, Sam, who happened to bestanding by me at the moment, and, stamping my foot(35) violently on the floor, declared that I would not be takenaway to live among a lot of Yankees!You see I was what is called “a Northern manwith Southern principles.” I had no recollection ofNew England: my earliest memories were connected(40) with the South. I knew I was born in the North, buthoped nobody would find it out. I never told myschoolmates I was a Yankee because they talked aboutthe Yankees in such a scornful way it made me feelthat it was quite a disgrace not to be born in the South.(45) And this impression was strengthened by Aunt Chloe,who said, “there wasn’t no gentlemen in the North no way.”To be frank, my idea of the North was not at allaccurate. I supposed the inhabitants were divided intotwo classes—hunters and schoolmasters. I pictured it to(50) be winter pretty much all the year round. The prevailingstyle of architecture I took to be log-cabins.With this picture of Northern civilization in myeye, the reader will easily understand my terror at thebare thought of being transported to Rivermouth to(55) school, and possibly will forgive me for kicking overlittle Sam, when my father announced this to me. Asfor kicking little Sam, I always did that, more or lessgently, when anything went wrong with me.My father was greatly perplexed and troubled by(60) this violent outbreak. As little Sam picked himself up,my father took my hand in his and led me thoughtfullyto the library. I can see him now as he leaned backin the bamboo chair and questioned me. He appearedstrangely puzzled on learning the nature of my(65) objections to going North, and proceeded at once toknock down all my pine log houses, and scatter all thehunters and schoolmasters with which I had populatedthe greater portion of the Eastern and Middle States.“Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain with(70) such silly stories?” asked my father calmly.“Aunt Chloe, sir; she told me.”My father devoted that evening and several sub-sequent evenings to giving me a clear and succinctaccount of New England: its early struggles, its(75) progress, and its present condition—faint and confusedglimmerings of which I had obtained at school, wherehistory had never been a favorite pursuit of mine.I was no longer unwilling to go North; on thecontrary, the proposed journey to a new world full of(80) wonders kept me awake nights. Long before the mov-ing day arrived I was eager to be off. My impatiencewas increased by the fact that my father had purchasedfor me a fine little Mustang pony, and shipped it toRivermouth two weeks before the date set for our own(85)journey. The pony completely resigned me to the situa-tion. The pony’s name was Gitana, which is the Spanishfor “gypsy,” so I always called her GypsyFinally the time came to leave the vine-coveredmansion among the orange-trees, to say goodbye to(90) little Sam (I am convinced he was heartily glad to getrid of me), and to part with Aunt Chloe. I imagine themstanding by the open garden gate; the tears are rollingdown Aunt Chloe’s cheeks; Sam’s six front teeth areglistening like pearls; I wave my hand to him manfully.(95) Then I call out “goodbye” in a muffled voice to AuntChloe; they and the old home fade away. I am never tosee them again!Q.As he is revealed in the conversation he has with his son, the narrator’s father can best be characterized as:a)understanding and patient.b)stern and unforgiving.c)proud but uneducated.d) ignorant but affectionate.Correct answer is option 'A'. Can you explain this answer? for ACT 2025 is part of ACT preparation. The Question and answers have been prepared according to the ACT exam syllabus. Information about Directions: Read the passages and choose the best answer to each question.PassagePROSE FICTION: This passage is adapted from The Story of a Bad Boy by Thomas Bailey Aldrich © 1869.I call my story the story of a bad boy, partly todistinguish myself from those faultless young gentle-men who generally figure in narratives of this kind,and partly because I really was not an angel. I may(5) truthfully say I was an amiable, impulsive lad, and nohypocrite. I didn’t want to be an angel; I didn’t thinkthe sermons presented to me by the Reverend Hawkinswere half so nice as Robinson Crusoe; and I didn’tsend my pocket-change to the needy, but spent it on(10) peppermint-drops and taffy candy. In short, I was areal human boy, such as you may meet anywhere inNew England, and not like the impossible boy in astorybook.Whenever a new scholar came to our school,(15) I used to confront him at recess with the followingwords: “My name’s Tom Bailey; what’s your name?”If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands withthe new pupil cordially; but if it didn’t, I would turnand walk away, for I was particular on this point. Such(20) names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Spriggins were offen-sive affronts to my ear; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake,and the like, were passwords to my confidence andesteem. I was born in Rivermouth almost fifty years(25)ago, but, before I became very well acquainted withthat pretty New England town, my parents moved toNew Orleans, where my father invested in the bankingbusiness. I was only eighteen months old at the timeof the move, and it didn’t make much difference to me(30) where I was because I was so small; but several yearslater, when my father proposed to take me North to beeducated, I had my own views on the subject. I instantlykicked over the little boy, Sam, who happened to bestanding by me at the moment, and, stamping my foot(35) violently on the floor, declared that I would not be takenaway to live among a lot of Yankees!You see I was what is called “a Northern manwith Southern principles.” I had no recollection ofNew England: my earliest memories were connected(40) with the South. I knew I was born in the North, buthoped nobody would find it out. I never told myschoolmates I was a Yankee because they talked aboutthe Yankees in such a scornful way it made me feelthat it was quite a disgrace not to be born in the South.(45) And this impression was strengthened by Aunt Chloe,who said, “there wasn’t no gentlemen in the North no way.”To be frank, my idea of the North was not at allaccurate. I supposed the inhabitants were divided intotwo classes—hunters and schoolmasters. I pictured it to(50) be winter pretty much all the year round. The prevailingstyle of architecture I took to be log-cabins.With this picture of Northern civilization in myeye, the reader will easily understand my terror at thebare thought of being transported to Rivermouth to(55) school, and possibly will forgive me for kicking overlittle Sam, when my father announced this to me. Asfor kicking little Sam, I always did that, more or lessgently, when anything went wrong with me.My father was greatly perplexed and troubled by(60) this violent outbreak. As little Sam picked himself up,my father took my hand in his and led me thoughtfullyto the library. I can see him now as he leaned backin the bamboo chair and questioned me. He appearedstrangely puzzled on learning the nature of my(65) objections to going North, and proceeded at once toknock down all my pine log houses, and scatter all thehunters and schoolmasters with which I had populatedthe greater portion of the Eastern and Middle States.“Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain with(70) such silly stories?” asked my father calmly.“Aunt Chloe, sir; she told me.”My father devoted that evening and several sub-sequent evenings to giving me a clear and succinctaccount of New England: its early struggles, its(75) progress, and its present condition—faint and confusedglimmerings of which I had obtained at school, wherehistory had never been a favorite pursuit of mine.I was no longer unwilling to go North; on thecontrary, the proposed journey to a new world full of(80) wonders kept me awake nights. Long before the mov-ing day arrived I was eager to be off. My impatiencewas increased by the fact that my father had purchasedfor me a fine little Mustang pony, and shipped it toRivermouth two weeks before the date set for our own(85)journey. The pony completely resigned me to the situa-tion. The pony’s name was Gitana, which is the Spanishfor “gypsy,” so I always called her GypsyFinally the time came to leave the vine-coveredmansion among the orange-trees, to say goodbye to(90) little Sam (I am convinced he was heartily glad to getrid of me), and to part with Aunt Chloe. I imagine themstanding by the open garden gate; the tears are rollingdown Aunt Chloe’s cheeks; Sam’s six front teeth areglistening like pearls; I wave my hand to him manfully.(95) Then I call out “goodbye” in a muffled voice to AuntChloe; they and the old home fade away. I am never tosee them again!Q.As he is revealed in the conversation he has with his son, the narrator’s father can best be characterized as:a)understanding and patient.b)stern and unforgiving.c)proud but uneducated.d) ignorant but affectionate.Correct answer is option 'A'. Can you explain this answer? covers all topics & solutions for ACT 2025 Exam. Find important definitions, questions, meanings, examples, exercises and tests below for Directions: Read the passages and choose the best answer to each question.PassagePROSE FICTION: This passage is adapted from The Story of a Bad Boy by Thomas Bailey Aldrich © 1869.I call my story the story of a bad boy, partly todistinguish myself from those faultless young gentle-men who generally figure in narratives of this kind,and partly because I really was not an angel. I may(5) truthfully say I was an amiable, impulsive lad, and nohypocrite. I didn’t want to be an angel; I didn’t thinkthe sermons presented to me by the Reverend Hawkinswere half so nice as Robinson Crusoe; and I didn’tsend my pocket-change to the needy, but spent it on(10) peppermint-drops and taffy candy. In short, I was areal human boy, such as you may meet anywhere inNew England, and not like the impossible boy in astorybook.Whenever a new scholar came to our school,(15) I used to confront him at recess with the followingwords: “My name’s Tom Bailey; what’s your name?”If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands withthe new pupil cordially; but if it didn’t, I would turnand walk away, for I was particular on this point. Such(20) names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Spriggins were offen-sive affronts to my ear; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake,and the like, were passwords to my confidence andesteem. I was born in Rivermouth almost fifty years(25)ago, but, before I became very well acquainted withthat pretty New England town, my parents moved toNew Orleans, where my father invested in the bankingbusiness. I was only eighteen months old at the timeof the move, and it didn’t make much difference to me(30) where I was because I was so small; but several yearslater, when my father proposed to take me North to beeducated, I had my own views on the subject. I instantlykicked over the little boy, Sam, who happened to bestanding by me at the moment, and, stamping my foot(35) violently on the floor, declared that I would not be takenaway to live among a lot of Yankees!You see I was what is called “a Northern manwith Southern principles.” I had no recollection ofNew England: my earliest memories were connected(40) with the South. I knew I was born in the North, buthoped nobody would find it out. I never told myschoolmates I was a Yankee because they talked aboutthe Yankees in such a scornful way it made me feelthat it was quite a disgrace not to be born in the South.(45) And this impression was strengthened by Aunt Chloe,who said, “there wasn’t no gentlemen in the North no way.”To be frank, my idea of the North was not at allaccurate. I supposed the inhabitants were divided intotwo classes—hunters and schoolmasters. I pictured it to(50) be winter pretty much all the year round. The prevailingstyle of architecture I took to be log-cabins.With this picture of Northern civilization in myeye, the reader will easily understand my terror at thebare thought of being transported to Rivermouth to(55) school, and possibly will forgive me for kicking overlittle Sam, when my father announced this to me. Asfor kicking little Sam, I always did that, more or lessgently, when anything went wrong with me.My father was greatly perplexed and troubled by(60) this violent outbreak. As little Sam picked himself up,my father took my hand in his and led me thoughtfullyto the library. I can see him now as he leaned backin the bamboo chair and questioned me. He appearedstrangely puzzled on learning the nature of my(65) objections to going North, and proceeded at once toknock down all my pine log houses, and scatter all thehunters and schoolmasters with which I had populatedthe greater portion of the Eastern and Middle States.“Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain with(70) such silly stories?” asked my father calmly.“Aunt Chloe, sir; she told me.”My father devoted that evening and several sub-sequent evenings to giving me a clear and succinctaccount of New England: its early struggles, its(75) progress, and its present condition—faint and confusedglimmerings of which I had obtained at school, wherehistory had never been a favorite pursuit of mine.I was no longer unwilling to go North; on thecontrary, the proposed journey to a new world full of(80) wonders kept me awake nights. Long before the mov-ing day arrived I was eager to be off. My impatiencewas increased by the fact that my father had purchasedfor me a fine little Mustang pony, and shipped it toRivermouth two weeks before the date set for our own(85)journey. The pony completely resigned me to the situa-tion. The pony’s name was Gitana, which is the Spanishfor “gypsy,” so I always called her GypsyFinally the time came to leave the vine-coveredmansion among the orange-trees, to say goodbye to(90) little Sam (I am convinced he was heartily glad to getrid of me), and to part with Aunt Chloe. I imagine themstanding by the open garden gate; the tears are rollingdown Aunt Chloe’s cheeks; Sam’s six front teeth areglistening like pearls; I wave my hand to him manfully.(95) Then I call out “goodbye” in a muffled voice to AuntChloe; they and the old home fade away. I am never tosee them again!Q.As he is revealed in the conversation he has with his son, the narrator’s father can best be characterized as:a)understanding and patient.b)stern and unforgiving.c)proud but uneducated.d) ignorant but affectionate.Correct answer is option 'A'. Can you explain this answer?.
Solutions for Directions: Read the passages and choose the best answer to each question.PassagePROSE FICTION: This passage is adapted from The Story of a Bad Boy by Thomas Bailey Aldrich © 1869.I call my story the story of a bad boy, partly todistinguish myself from those faultless young gentle-men who generally figure in narratives of this kind,and partly because I really was not an angel. I may(5) truthfully say I was an amiable, impulsive lad, and nohypocrite. I didn’t want to be an angel; I didn’t thinkthe sermons presented to me by the Reverend Hawkinswere half so nice as Robinson Crusoe; and I didn’tsend my pocket-change to the needy, but spent it on(10) peppermint-drops and taffy candy. In short, I was areal human boy, such as you may meet anywhere inNew England, and not like the impossible boy in astorybook.Whenever a new scholar came to our school,(15) I used to confront him at recess with the followingwords: “My name’s Tom Bailey; what’s your name?”If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands withthe new pupil cordially; but if it didn’t, I would turnand walk away, for I was particular on this point. Such(20) names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Spriggins were offen-sive affronts to my ear; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake,and the like, were passwords to my confidence andesteem. I was born in Rivermouth almost fifty years(25)ago, but, before I became very well acquainted withthat pretty New England town, my parents moved toNew Orleans, where my father invested in the bankingbusiness. I was only eighteen months old at the timeof the move, and it didn’t make much difference to me(30) where I was because I was so small; but several yearslater, when my father proposed to take me North to beeducated, I had my own views on the subject. I instantlykicked over the little boy, Sam, who happened to bestanding by me at the moment, and, stamping my foot(35) violently on the floor, declared that I would not be takenaway to live among a lot of Yankees!You see I was what is called “a Northern manwith Southern principles.” I had no recollection ofNew England: my earliest memories were connected(40) with the South. I knew I was born in the North, buthoped nobody would find it out. I never told myschoolmates I was a Yankee because they talked aboutthe Yankees in such a scornful way it made me feelthat it was quite a disgrace not to be born in the South.(45) And this impression was strengthened by Aunt Chloe,who said, “there wasn’t no gentlemen in the North no way.”To be frank, my idea of the North was not at allaccurate. I supposed the inhabitants were divided intotwo classes—hunters and schoolmasters. I pictured it to(50) be winter pretty much all the year round. The prevailingstyle of architecture I took to be log-cabins.With this picture of Northern civilization in myeye, the reader will easily understand my terror at thebare thought of being transported to Rivermouth to(55) school, and possibly will forgive me for kicking overlittle Sam, when my father announced this to me. Asfor kicking little Sam, I always did that, more or lessgently, when anything went wrong with me.My father was greatly perplexed and troubled by(60) this violent outbreak. As little Sam picked himself up,my father took my hand in his and led me thoughtfullyto the library. I can see him now as he leaned backin the bamboo chair and questioned me. He appearedstrangely puzzled on learning the nature of my(65) objections to going North, and proceeded at once toknock down all my pine log houses, and scatter all thehunters and schoolmasters with which I had populatedthe greater portion of the Eastern and Middle States.“Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain with(70) such silly stories?” asked my father calmly.“Aunt Chloe, sir; she told me.”My father devoted that evening and several sub-sequent evenings to giving me a clear and succinctaccount of New England: its early struggles, its(75) progress, and its present condition—faint and confusedglimmerings of which I had obtained at school, wherehistory had never been a favorite pursuit of mine.I was no longer unwilling to go North; on thecontrary, the proposed journey to a new world full of(80) wonders kept me awake nights. Long before the mov-ing day arrived I was eager to be off. My impatiencewas increased by the fact that my father had purchasedfor me a fine little Mustang pony, and shipped it toRivermouth two weeks before the date set for our own(85)journey. The pony completely resigned me to the situa-tion. The pony’s name was Gitana, which is the Spanishfor “gypsy,” so I always called her GypsyFinally the time came to leave the vine-coveredmansion among the orange-trees, to say goodbye to(90) little Sam (I am convinced he was heartily glad to getrid of me), and to part with Aunt Chloe. I imagine themstanding by the open garden gate; the tears are rollingdown Aunt Chloe’s cheeks; Sam’s six front teeth areglistening like pearls; I wave my hand to him manfully.(95) Then I call out “goodbye” in a muffled voice to AuntChloe; they and the old home fade away. I am never tosee them again!Q.As he is revealed in the conversation he has with his son, the narrator’s father can best be characterized as:a)understanding and patient.b)stern and unforgiving.c)proud but uneducated.d) ignorant but affectionate.Correct answer is option 'A'. Can you explain this answer? in English & in Hindi are available as part of our courses for ACT.
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Here you can find the meaning of Directions: Read the passages and choose the best answer to each question.PassagePROSE FICTION: This passage is adapted from The Story of a Bad Boy by Thomas Bailey Aldrich © 1869.I call my story the story of a bad boy, partly todistinguish myself from those faultless young gentle-men who generally figure in narratives of this kind,and partly because I really was not an angel. I may(5) truthfully say I was an amiable, impulsive lad, and nohypocrite. I didn’t want to be an angel; I didn’t thinkthe sermons presented to me by the Reverend Hawkinswere half so nice as Robinson Crusoe; and I didn’tsend my pocket-change to the needy, but spent it on(10) peppermint-drops and taffy candy. In short, I was areal human boy, such as you may meet anywhere inNew England, and not like the impossible boy in astorybook.Whenever a new scholar came to our school,(15) I used to confront him at recess with the followingwords: “My name’s Tom Bailey; what’s your name?”If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands withthe new pupil cordially; but if it didn’t, I would turnand walk away, for I was particular on this point. Such(20) names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Spriggins were offen-sive affronts to my ear; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake,and the like, were passwords to my confidence andesteem. I was born in Rivermouth almost fifty years(25)ago, but, before I became very well acquainted withthat pretty New England town, my parents moved toNew Orleans, where my father invested in the bankingbusiness. I was only eighteen months old at the timeof the move, and it didn’t make much difference to me(30) where I was because I was so small; but several yearslater, when my father proposed to take me North to beeducated, I had my own views on the subject. I instantlykicked over the little boy, Sam, who happened to bestanding by me at the moment, and, stamping my foot(35) violently on the floor, declared that I would not be takenaway to live among a lot of Yankees!You see I was what is called “a Northern manwith Southern principles.” I had no recollection ofNew England: my earliest memories were connected(40) with the South. I knew I was born in the North, buthoped nobody would find it out. I never told myschoolmates I was a Yankee because they talked aboutthe Yankees in such a scornful way it made me feelthat it was quite a disgrace not to be born in the South.(45) And this impression was strengthened by Aunt Chloe,who said, “there wasn’t no gentlemen in the North no way.”To be frank, my idea of the North was not at allaccurate. I supposed the inhabitants were divided intotwo classes—hunters and schoolmasters. I pictured it to(50) be winter pretty much all the year round. The prevailingstyle of architecture I took to be log-cabins.With this picture of Northern civilization in myeye, the reader will easily understand my terror at thebare thought of being transported to Rivermouth to(55) school, and possibly will forgive me for kicking overlittle Sam, when my father announced this to me. Asfor kicking little Sam, I always did that, more or lessgently, when anything went wrong with me.My father was greatly perplexed and troubled by(60) this violent outbreak. As little Sam picked himself up,my father took my hand in his and led me thoughtfullyto the library. I can see him now as he leaned backin the bamboo chair and questioned me. He appearedstrangely puzzled on learning the nature of my(65) objections to going North, and proceeded at once toknock down all my pine log houses, and scatter all thehunters and schoolmasters with which I had populatedthe greater portion of the Eastern and Middle States.“Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain with(70) such silly stories?” asked my father calmly.“Aunt Chloe, sir; she told me.”My father devoted that evening and several sub-sequent evenings to giving me a clear and succinctaccount of New England: its early struggles, its(75) progress, and its present condition—faint and confusedglimmerings of which I had obtained at school, wherehistory had never been a favorite pursuit of mine.I was no longer unwilling to go North; on thecontrary, the proposed journey to a new world full of(80) wonders kept me awake nights. Long before the mov-ing day arrived I was eager to be off. My impatiencewas increased by the fact that my father had purchasedfor me a fine little Mustang pony, and shipped it toRivermouth two weeks before the date set for our own(85)journey. The pony completely resigned me to the situa-tion. The pony’s name was Gitana, which is the Spanishfor “gypsy,” so I always called her GypsyFinally the time came to leave the vine-coveredmansion among the orange-trees, to say goodbye to(90) little Sam (I am convinced he was heartily glad to getrid of me), and to part with Aunt Chloe. I imagine themstanding by the open garden gate; the tears are rollingdown Aunt Chloe’s cheeks; Sam’s six front teeth areglistening like pearls; I wave my hand to him manfully.(95) Then I call out “goodbye” in a muffled voice to AuntChloe; they and the old home fade away. I am never tosee them again!Q.As he is revealed in the conversation he has with his son, the narrator’s father can best be characterized as:a)understanding and patient.b)stern and unforgiving.c)proud but uneducated.d) ignorant but affectionate.Correct answer is option 'A'. Can you explain this answer? defined & explained in the simplest way possible. Besides giving the explanation of
Directions: Read the passages and choose the best answer to each question.PassagePROSE FICTION: This passage is adapted from The Story of a Bad Boy by Thomas Bailey Aldrich © 1869.I call my story the story of a bad boy, partly todistinguish myself from those faultless young gentle-men who generally figure in narratives of this kind,and partly because I really was not an angel. I may(5) truthfully say I was an amiable, impulsive lad, and nohypocrite. I didn’t want to be an angel; I didn’t thinkthe sermons presented to me by the Reverend Hawkinswere half so nice as Robinson Crusoe; and I didn’tsend my pocket-change to the needy, but spent it on(10) peppermint-drops and taffy candy. In short, I was areal human boy, such as you may meet anywhere inNew England, and not like the impossible boy in astorybook.Whenever a new scholar came to our school,(15) I used to confront him at recess with the followingwords: “My name’s Tom Bailey; what’s your name?”If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands withthe new pupil cordially; but if it didn’t, I would turnand walk away, for I was particular on this point. Such(20) names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Spriggins were offen-sive affronts to my ear; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake,and the like, were passwords to my confidence andesteem. I was born in Rivermouth almost fifty years(25)ago, but, before I became very well acquainted withthat pretty New England town, my parents moved toNew Orleans, where my father invested in the bankingbusiness. I was only eighteen months old at the timeof the move, and it didn’t make much difference to me(30) where I was because I was so small; but several yearslater, when my father proposed to take me North to beeducated, I had my own views on the subject. I instantlykicked over the little boy, Sam, who happened to bestanding by me at the moment, and, stamping my foot(35) violently on the floor, declared that I would not be takenaway to live among a lot of Yankees!You see I was what is called “a Northern manwith Southern principles.” I had no recollection ofNew England: my earliest memories were connected(40) with the South. I knew I was born in the North, buthoped nobody would find it out. I never told myschoolmates I was a Yankee because they talked aboutthe Yankees in such a scornful way it made me feelthat it was quite a disgrace not to be born in the South.(45) And this impression was strengthened by Aunt Chloe,who said, “there wasn’t no gentlemen in the North no way.”To be frank, my idea of the North was not at allaccurate. I supposed the inhabitants were divided intotwo classes—hunters and schoolmasters. I pictured it to(50) be winter pretty much all the year round. The prevailingstyle of architecture I took to be log-cabins.With this picture of Northern civilization in myeye, the reader will easily understand my terror at thebare thought of being transported to Rivermouth to(55) school, and possibly will forgive me for kicking overlittle Sam, when my father announced this to me. Asfor kicking little Sam, I always did that, more or lessgently, when anything went wrong with me.My father was greatly perplexed and troubled by(60) this violent outbreak. As little Sam picked himself up,my father took my hand in his and led me thoughtfullyto the library. I can see him now as he leaned backin the bamboo chair and questioned me. He appearedstrangely puzzled on learning the nature of my(65) objections to going North, and proceeded at once toknock down all my pine log houses, and scatter all thehunters and schoolmasters with which I had populatedthe greater portion of the Eastern and Middle States.“Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain with(70) such silly stories?” asked my father calmly.“Aunt Chloe, sir; she told me.”My father devoted that evening and several sub-sequent evenings to giving me a clear and succinctaccount of New England: its early struggles, its(75) progress, and its present condition—faint and confusedglimmerings of which I had obtained at school, wherehistory had never been a favorite pursuit of mine.I was no longer unwilling to go North; on thecontrary, the proposed journey to a new world full of(80) wonders kept me awake nights. Long before the mov-ing day arrived I was eager to be off. My impatiencewas increased by the fact that my father had purchasedfor me a fine little Mustang pony, and shipped it toRivermouth two weeks before the date set for our own(85)journey. The pony completely resigned me to the situa-tion. The pony’s name was Gitana, which is the Spanishfor “gypsy,” so I always called her GypsyFinally the time came to leave the vine-coveredmansion among the orange-trees, to say goodbye to(90) little Sam (I am convinced he was heartily glad to getrid of me), and to part with Aunt Chloe. I imagine themstanding by the open garden gate; the tears are rollingdown Aunt Chloe’s cheeks; Sam’s six front teeth areglistening like pearls; I wave my hand to him manfully.(95) Then I call out “goodbye” in a muffled voice to AuntChloe; they and the old home fade away. I am never tosee them again!Q.As he is revealed in the conversation he has with his son, the narrator’s father can best be characterized as:a)understanding and patient.b)stern and unforgiving.c)proud but uneducated.d) ignorant but affectionate.Correct answer is option 'A'. Can you explain this answer?, a detailed solution for Directions: Read the passages and choose the best answer to each question.PassagePROSE FICTION: This passage is adapted from The Story of a Bad Boy by Thomas Bailey Aldrich © 1869.I call my story the story of a bad boy, partly todistinguish myself from those faultless young gentle-men who generally figure in narratives of this kind,and partly because I really was not an angel. I may(5) truthfully say I was an amiable, impulsive lad, and nohypocrite. I didn’t want to be an angel; I didn’t thinkthe sermons presented to me by the Reverend Hawkinswere half so nice as Robinson Crusoe; and I didn’tsend my pocket-change to the needy, but spent it on(10) peppermint-drops and taffy candy. In short, I was areal human boy, such as you may meet anywhere inNew England, and not like the impossible boy in astorybook.Whenever a new scholar came to our school,(15) I used to confront him at recess with the followingwords: “My name’s Tom Bailey; what’s your name?”If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands withthe new pupil cordially; but if it didn’t, I would turnand walk away, for I was particular on this point. Such(20) names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Spriggins were offen-sive affronts to my ear; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake,and the like, were passwords to my confidence andesteem. I was born in Rivermouth almost fifty years(25)ago, but, before I became very well acquainted withthat pretty New England town, my parents moved toNew Orleans, where my father invested in the bankingbusiness. I was only eighteen months old at the timeof the move, and it didn’t make much difference to me(30) where I was because I was so small; but several yearslater, when my father proposed to take me North to beeducated, I had my own views on the subject. I instantlykicked over the little boy, Sam, who happened to bestanding by me at the moment, and, stamping my foot(35) violently on the floor, declared that I would not be takenaway to live among a lot of Yankees!You see I was what is called “a Northern manwith Southern principles.” I had no recollection ofNew England: my earliest memories were connected(40) with the South. I knew I was born in the North, buthoped nobody would find it out. I never told myschoolmates I was a Yankee because they talked aboutthe Yankees in such a scornful way it made me feelthat it was quite a disgrace not to be born in the South.(45) And this impression was strengthened by Aunt Chloe,who said, “there wasn’t no gentlemen in the North no way.”To be frank, my idea of the North was not at allaccurate. I supposed the inhabitants were divided intotwo classes—hunters and schoolmasters. I pictured it to(50) be winter pretty much all the year round. The prevailingstyle of architecture I took to be log-cabins.With this picture of Northern civilization in myeye, the reader will easily understand my terror at thebare thought of being transported to Rivermouth to(55) school, and possibly will forgive me for kicking overlittle Sam, when my father announced this to me. Asfor kicking little Sam, I always did that, more or lessgently, when anything went wrong with me.My father was greatly perplexed and troubled by(60) this violent outbreak. As little Sam picked himself up,my father took my hand in his and led me thoughtfullyto the library. I can see him now as he leaned backin the bamboo chair and questioned me. He appearedstrangely puzzled on learning the nature of my(65) objections to going North, and proceeded at once toknock down all my pine log houses, and scatter all thehunters and schoolmasters with which I had populatedthe greater portion of the Eastern and Middle States.“Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain with(70) such silly stories?” asked my father calmly.“Aunt Chloe, sir; she told me.”My father devoted that evening and several sub-sequent evenings to giving me a clear and succinctaccount of New England: its early struggles, its(75) progress, and its present condition—faint and confusedglimmerings of which I had obtained at school, wherehistory had never been a favorite pursuit of mine.I was no longer unwilling to go North; on thecontrary, the proposed journey to a new world full of(80) wonders kept me awake nights. Long before the mov-ing day arrived I was eager to be off. My impatiencewas increased by the fact that my father had purchasedfor me a fine little Mustang pony, and shipped it toRivermouth two weeks before the date set for our own(85)journey. The pony completely resigned me to the situa-tion. The pony’s name was Gitana, which is the Spanishfor “gypsy,” so I always called her GypsyFinally the time came to leave the vine-coveredmansion among the orange-trees, to say goodbye to(90) little Sam (I am convinced he was heartily glad to getrid of me), and to part with Aunt Chloe. I imagine themstanding by the open garden gate; the tears are rollingdown Aunt Chloe’s cheeks; Sam’s six front teeth areglistening like pearls; I wave my hand to him manfully.(95) Then I call out “goodbye” in a muffled voice to AuntChloe; they and the old home fade away. I am never tosee them again!Q.As he is revealed in the conversation he has with his son, the narrator’s father can best be characterized as:a)understanding and patient.b)stern and unforgiving.c)proud but uneducated.d) ignorant but affectionate.Correct answer is option 'A'. Can you explain this answer? has been provided alongside types of Directions: Read the passages and choose the best answer to each question.PassagePROSE FICTION: This passage is adapted from The Story of a Bad Boy by Thomas Bailey Aldrich © 1869.I call my story the story of a bad boy, partly todistinguish myself from those faultless young gentle-men who generally figure in narratives of this kind,and partly because I really was not an angel. I may(5) truthfully say I was an amiable, impulsive lad, and nohypocrite. I didn’t want to be an angel; I didn’t thinkthe sermons presented to me by the Reverend Hawkinswere half so nice as Robinson Crusoe; and I didn’tsend my pocket-change to the needy, but spent it on(10) peppermint-drops and taffy candy. In short, I was areal human boy, such as you may meet anywhere inNew England, and not like the impossible boy in astorybook.Whenever a new scholar came to our school,(15) I used to confront him at recess with the followingwords: “My name’s Tom Bailey; what’s your name?”If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands withthe new pupil cordially; but if it didn’t, I would turnand walk away, for I was particular on this point. Such(20) names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Spriggins were offen-sive affronts to my ear; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake,and the like, were passwords to my confidence andesteem. I was born in Rivermouth almost fifty years(25)ago, but, before I became very well acquainted withthat pretty New England town, my parents moved toNew Orleans, where my father invested in the bankingbusiness. I was only eighteen months old at the timeof the move, and it didn’t make much difference to me(30) where I was because I was so small; but several yearslater, when my father proposed to take me North to beeducated, I had my own views on the subject. I instantlykicked over the little boy, Sam, who happened to bestanding by me at the moment, and, stamping my foot(35) violently on the floor, declared that I would not be takenaway to live among a lot of Yankees!You see I was what is called “a Northern manwith Southern principles.” I had no recollection ofNew England: my earliest memories were connected(40) with the South. I knew I was born in the North, buthoped nobody would find it out. I never told myschoolmates I was a Yankee because they talked aboutthe Yankees in such a scornful way it made me feelthat it was quite a disgrace not to be born in the South.(45) And this impression was strengthened by Aunt Chloe,who said, “there wasn’t no gentlemen in the North no way.”To be frank, my idea of the North was not at allaccurate. I supposed the inhabitants were divided intotwo classes—hunters and schoolmasters. I pictured it to(50) be winter pretty much all the year round. The prevailingstyle of architecture I took to be log-cabins.With this picture of Northern civilization in myeye, the reader will easily understand my terror at thebare thought of being transported to Rivermouth to(55) school, and possibly will forgive me for kicking overlittle Sam, when my father announced this to me. Asfor kicking little Sam, I always did that, more or lessgently, when anything went wrong with me.My father was greatly perplexed and troubled by(60) this violent outbreak. As little Sam picked himself up,my father took my hand in his and led me thoughtfullyto the library. I can see him now as he leaned backin the bamboo chair and questioned me. He appearedstrangely puzzled on learning the nature of my(65) objections to going North, and proceeded at once toknock down all my pine log houses, and scatter all thehunters and schoolmasters with which I had populatedthe greater portion of the Eastern and Middle States.“Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain with(70) such silly stories?” asked my father calmly.“Aunt Chloe, sir; she told me.”My father devoted that evening and several sub-sequent evenings to giving me a clear and succinctaccount of New England: its early struggles, its(75) progress, and its present condition—faint and confusedglimmerings of which I had obtained at school, wherehistory had never been a favorite pursuit of mine.I was no longer unwilling to go North; on thecontrary, the proposed journey to a new world full of(80) wonders kept me awake nights. Long before the mov-ing day arrived I was eager to be off. My impatiencewas increased by the fact that my father had purchasedfor me a fine little Mustang pony, and shipped it toRivermouth two weeks before the date set for our own(85)journey. The pony completely resigned me to the situa-tion. The pony’s name was Gitana, which is the Spanishfor “gypsy,” so I always called her GypsyFinally the time came to leave the vine-coveredmansion among the orange-trees, to say goodbye to(90) little Sam (I am convinced he was heartily glad to getrid of me), and to part with Aunt Chloe. I imagine themstanding by the open garden gate; the tears are rollingdown Aunt Chloe’s cheeks; Sam’s six front teeth areglistening like pearls; I wave my hand to him manfully.(95) Then I call out “goodbye” in a muffled voice to AuntChloe; they and the old home fade away. I am never tosee them again!Q.As he is revealed in the conversation he has with his son, the narrator’s father can best be characterized as:a)understanding and patient.b)stern and unforgiving.c)proud but uneducated.d) ignorant but affectionate.Correct answer is option 'A'. Can you explain this answer? theory, EduRev gives you an
ample number of questions to practice Directions: Read the passages and choose the best answer to each question.PassagePROSE FICTION: This passage is adapted from The Story of a Bad Boy by Thomas Bailey Aldrich © 1869.I call my story the story of a bad boy, partly todistinguish myself from those faultless young gentle-men who generally figure in narratives of this kind,and partly because I really was not an angel. I may(5) truthfully say I was an amiable, impulsive lad, and nohypocrite. I didn’t want to be an angel; I didn’t thinkthe sermons presented to me by the Reverend Hawkinswere half so nice as Robinson Crusoe; and I didn’tsend my pocket-change to the needy, but spent it on(10) peppermint-drops and taffy candy. In short, I was areal human boy, such as you may meet anywhere inNew England, and not like the impossible boy in astorybook.Whenever a new scholar came to our school,(15) I used to confront him at recess with the followingwords: “My name’s Tom Bailey; what’s your name?”If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands withthe new pupil cordially; but if it didn’t, I would turnand walk away, for I was particular on this point. Such(20) names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Spriggins were offen-sive affronts to my ear; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake,and the like, were passwords to my confidence andesteem. I was born in Rivermouth almost fifty years(25)ago, but, before I became very well acquainted withthat pretty New England town, my parents moved toNew Orleans, where my father invested in the bankingbusiness. I was only eighteen months old at the timeof the move, and it didn’t make much difference to me(30) where I was because I was so small; but several yearslater, when my father proposed to take me North to beeducated, I had my own views on the subject. I instantlykicked over the little boy, Sam, who happened to bestanding by me at the moment, and, stamping my foot(35) violently on the floor, declared that I would not be takenaway to live among a lot of Yankees!You see I was what is called “a Northern manwith Southern principles.” I had no recollection ofNew England: my earliest memories were connected(40) with the South. I knew I was born in the North, buthoped nobody would find it out. I never told myschoolmates I was a Yankee because they talked aboutthe Yankees in such a scornful way it made me feelthat it was quite a disgrace not to be born in the South.(45) And this impression was strengthened by Aunt Chloe,who said, “there wasn’t no gentlemen in the North no way.”To be frank, my idea of the North was not at allaccurate. I supposed the inhabitants were divided intotwo classes—hunters and schoolmasters. I pictured it to(50) be winter pretty much all the year round. The prevailingstyle of architecture I took to be log-cabins.With this picture of Northern civilization in myeye, the reader will easily understand my terror at thebare thought of being transported to Rivermouth to(55) school, and possibly will forgive me for kicking overlittle Sam, when my father announced this to me. Asfor kicking little Sam, I always did that, more or lessgently, when anything went wrong with me.My father was greatly perplexed and troubled by(60) this violent outbreak. As little Sam picked himself up,my father took my hand in his and led me thoughtfullyto the library. I can see him now as he leaned backin the bamboo chair and questioned me. He appearedstrangely puzzled on learning the nature of my(65) objections to going North, and proceeded at once toknock down all my pine log houses, and scatter all thehunters and schoolmasters with which I had populatedthe greater portion of the Eastern and Middle States.“Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain with(70) such silly stories?” asked my father calmly.“Aunt Chloe, sir; she told me.”My father devoted that evening and several sub-sequent evenings to giving me a clear and succinctaccount of New England: its early struggles, its(75) progress, and its present condition—faint and confusedglimmerings of which I had obtained at school, wherehistory had never been a favorite pursuit of mine.I was no longer unwilling to go North; on thecontrary, the proposed journey to a new world full of(80) wonders kept me awake nights. Long before the mov-ing day arrived I was eager to be off. My impatiencewas increased by the fact that my father had purchasedfor me a fine little Mustang pony, and shipped it toRivermouth two weeks before the date set for our own(85)journey. The pony completely resigned me to the situa-tion. The pony’s name was Gitana, which is the Spanishfor “gypsy,” so I always called her GypsyFinally the time came to leave the vine-coveredmansion among the orange-trees, to say goodbye to(90) little Sam (I am convinced he was heartily glad to getrid of me), and to part with Aunt Chloe. I imagine themstanding by the open garden gate; the tears are rollingdown Aunt Chloe’s cheeks; Sam’s six front teeth areglistening like pearls; I wave my hand to him manfully.(95) Then I call out “goodbye” in a muffled voice to AuntChloe; they and the old home fade away. I am never tosee them again!Q.As he is revealed in the conversation he has with his son, the narrator’s father can best be characterized as:a)understanding and patient.b)stern and unforgiving.c)proud but uneducated.d) ignorant but affectionate.Correct answer is option 'A'. Can you explain this answer? tests, examples and also practice ACT tests.
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