Cognizant Verbal Paper - Quant MCQ

For a period of more than two centuries paleontologists have been intrigued by the fossilized remains of pterosaurs, the first flying vertebrates. The issues, which puzzle them, are how these heavy creatures, having a wingspan of about 8-12 meters managed the various problems associated with powered flight and whether these creatures were reptiles or birds. Perhaps the least controversial assertion about the pterosaurs is that they were reptiles. Their skulls, pelvises, and hind feet are reptilian. The anatomy of their wings suggests that they did not evolve into the class of birds. In pterosaurs a greatly elongated fourth finger of each forelimb supported a wing like membrane. 

The other fingers were short and reptilian, with sharp claws. In birds the second finger is the principal strut of the wing, which consists primarily of feathers. If the pterosaurs walked on all fours, the three short fingers may have been employed for grasping. When a pterosaurs walked or remained stationary, the fourth finger, and with it the wing, could only urn upward in an extended inverted V- shape along each side of the animals body. In resemblance they were extremely similar to both birds and bats, with regard to their overall body structure and proportion. This is hardly surprising as the design of any flying vertebrate is subject to aerodynamic constraints. Both the pterosaurs and the birds have hollow bones, a feature that represents a savings in weight. 

There is a difference, which is that the bones of the birds are more massively reinforced by internal struts. Although scales typically cover reptiles, the pterosaurs probably had hairy coats. T.H. Huxley reasoned that flying vertebrates must have been warm-blooded because flying implies a high rate of metabolism, which in turn implies a high internal temperature. Huxley speculated that a coat of hair would insulate against loss of body heat and might streamline the body to reduce drag in flight. The recent discovery of a pterosaur specimen covered in long, dense, and relatively thick hair like fossil material was the first clear evidence that his reasoning was correct. 

Some paleontologists are of the opinion that the pterosaurs jumped from s dropped from trees or perhaps rose into the light winds from the crests of waves in order to become airborne. Each theory has its associated difficulties. The first makes a wrong assumption that the pterosaurs hind feet resembled a bats and could serve as hooks by which the animal could hang in preparation for flight. The second hypothesis seems unlikely because large pterosaurs could not have landed in trees without damaging their wings. The third calls for high aces to channel updrafts. The pterosaurs would have been unable to control their flight once airborne as the wind from which such waves arose would have been too strong.

Q. The organization of the last paragraph of the passage can best be described as:

For a period of more than two centuries paleontologists have been intrigued by the fossilized remains of pterosaurs, the first flying vertebrates. The issues, which puzzle them, are how these heavy creatures, having a wingspan of about 8-12 meters managed the various problems associated with powered flight and whether these creatures were reptiles or birds. Perhaps the least controversial assertion about the pterosaurs is that they were reptiles. Their skulls, pelvises, and hind feet are reptilian. The anatomy of their wings suggests that they did not evolve into the class of birds. In pterosaurs a greatly elongated fourth finger of each forelimb supported a wing like membrane. 

The other fingers were short and reptilian, with sharp claws. In birds the second finger is the principal strut of the wing, which consists primarily of feathers. If the pterosaurs walked on all fours, the three short fingers may have been employed for grasping. When a pterosaurs walked or remained stationary, the fourth finger, and with it the wing, could only urn upward in an extended inverted V- shape along each side of the animals body. In resemblance they were extremely similar to both birds and bats, with regard to their overall body structure and proportion. This is hardly surprising as the design of any flying vertebrate is subject to aerodynamic constraints. Both the pterosaurs and the birds have hollow bones, a feature that represents a savings in weight. 

There is a difference, which is that the bones of the birds are more massively reinforced by internal struts. Although scales typically cover reptiles, the pterosaurs probably had hairy coats. T.H. Huxley reasoned that flying vertebrates must have been warm-blooded because flying implies a high rate of metabolism, which in turn implies a high internal temperature. Huxley speculated that a coat of hair would insulate against loss of body heat and might streamline the body to reduce drag in flight. The recent discovery of a pterosaur specimen covered in long, dense, and relatively thick hair like fossil material was the first clear evidence that his reasoning was correct. 

Some paleontologists are of the opinion that the pterosaurs jumped from s dropped from trees or perhaps rose into the light winds from the crests of waves in order to become airborne. Each theory has its associated difficulties. The first makes a wrong assumption that the pterosaurs hind feet resembled a bats and could serve as hooks by which the animal could hang in preparation for flight. The second hypothesis seems unlikely because large pterosaurs could not have landed in trees without damaging their wings. The third calls for high aces to channel updrafts. The pterosaurs would have been unable to control their flight once airborne as the wind from which such waves arose would have been too strong.

Q. According to the passage, some scientists believe that pterosaurs

Directions for Questions 6 to 9:

Read the passage and answer the questions that follow on the basis of the information provided in the passage.

After his fathers death, writer Laurence Yep returned to San Francisco to look for the apartment house where his family had lived, which also housed their grocery store. It had been replaced by a two-story parking garage for a nearby college. There were trees growing where the store door had been. I had to look at the street signs on the corner to make sure I was in the right spot. Behind the trees was a door of solid metal painted a battleship gray Stretching to either side were concrete walls with metal grates bolted over the openings in the sides. The upper story of the garage was open to the air but through the grates I could look into the lower level. The gray, oil-stained concrete spread onward endlessly, having replaced the red cement floor of our store. 

Lines marked parking places where my parents had laid wooden planks to ease the ache and chill on their feet. Where the old-fashioned glass store counter had been was a row of cars. I looked past the steel I-beams that formed the columns and ceiling of the garage, peering through the dimness in an attempt to locate where my fathers garden had been; but there was only an endless stretch of cars within the painted stalls. We called it the garden though that was stretching the definition of the word because it was only a small, narrow cement courtyard on the north side of our apartment house. There was only a brief time during the day when the sun could reach the tiny courtyard; but fuchsia bushes, which loved the shade, grew as tall as trees from the dirt plot there. 

Next to it my father had fashioned shelves from old hundred-pound rice cans and planks; and on these makeshift shelves he had his miniature flower patches growing in old soda pop crates from which he had removed the wooden dividers. He would go out periodically to a wholesale nursery by the beach and load the car with boxes full of little flowers and seedlings which he would lovingly transplant in his shadowy garden. If you compared our crude little garden to your own backyards, you would probably laugh; and yet the cats in the neighborhood loved my fathers garden almost as much as he did--to his great dismay The cats loved to roll among the flowers, crushing what were just about the only green growing things in the area. Other times, they ate them-perhaps as a source of greens. Whatever the case, my father could have done without their destructive displays of appreciation. 

I dont know where my father came by his love of growing things. He had come to San Francisco as a boy and, except for a brief time spent picking fruit, had lived most of his life among cement, brick, and asphalt. I hadnt thought of my fathers garden in years; and yet it was the surest symbol of my father. Somehow he could persuade flowers to grow within the old, yellow soda pop crates though the sun seldom touched them; and he could coax green shoots out of what seemed like lifeless sticks. His was the gift of renewal. However, though I stared and stared, I could not quite figure out where it had been. Everything looked the same; more concrete and more cars. Store, home and garden had all been torn down and replaced by something as cold, massive and impersonal as a prison. 

Even if I could have gone through the gate, there was nothing for me inside there. If I wanted to return to that lost garden, I would have to go back into my own memories. Award-winning author Laurence Yep did return to his fathers garden in his memories. In 1991 he published The Lost Garden an autobiography in which he tells of growing up in San Francisco and of coming to use his writing to celebrate his family and his ethnic heritage.

Q. The author is searching for something as he looks through the window of a parking garage. What is he searching for?

After his fathers death, writer Laurence Yep returned to San Francisco to look for the apartment house where his family had lived, which also housed their grocery store. It had been replaced by a two-story parking garage for a nearby college. There were trees growing where the store door had been. I had to look at the street signs on the corner to make sure I was in the right spot. Behind the trees was a door of solid metal painted a battleship gray Stretching to either side were concrete walls with metal grates bolted over the openings in the sides. The upper story of the garage was open to the air but through the grates I could look into the lower level. The gray, oil-stained concrete spread onward endlessly, having replaced the red cement floor of our store. 

Lines marked parking places where my parents had laid wooden planks to ease the ache and chill on their feet. Where the old-fashioned glass store counter had been was a row of cars. I looked past the steel I-beams that formed the columns and ceiling of the garage, peering through the dimness in an attempt to locate where my fathers garden had been; but there was only an endless stretch of cars within the painted stalls. We called it the garden though that was stretching the definition of the word because it was only a small, narrow cement courtyard on the north side of our apartment house. There was only a brief time during the day when the sun could reach the tiny courtyard; but fuchsia bushes, which loved the shade, grew as tall as trees from the dirt plot there. 

Next to it my father had fashioned shelves from old hundred-pound rice cans and planks; and on these makeshift shelves he had his miniature flower patches growing in old soda pop crates from which he had removed the wooden dividers. He would go out periodically to a wholesale nursery by the beach and load the car with boxes full of little flowers and seedlings which he would lovingly transplant in his shadowy garden. If you compared our crude little garden to your own backyards, you would probably laugh; and yet the cats in the neighborhood loved my fathers garden almost as much as he did--to his great dismay The cats loved to roll among the flowers, crushing what were just about the only green growing things in the area. Other times, they ate them-perhaps as a source of greens. Whatever the case, my father could have done without their destructive displays of appreciation. 

I dont know where my father came by his love of growing things. He had come to San Francisco as a boy and, except for a brief time spent picking fruit, had lived most of his life among cement, brick, and asphalt. I hadnt thought of my fathers garden in years; and yet it was the surest symbol of my father. Somehow he could persuade flowers to grow within the old, yellow soda pop crates though the sun seldom touched them; and he could coax green shoots out of what seemed like lifeless sticks. His was the gift of renewal. However, though I stared and stared, I could not quite figure out where it had been. Everything looked the same; more concrete and more cars. Store, home and garden had all been torn down and replaced by something as cold, massive and impersonal as a prison. 

Even if I could have gone through the gate, there was nothing for me inside there. If I wanted to return to that lost garden, I would have to go back into my own memories. Award-winning author Laurence Yep did return to his fathers garden in his memories. In 1991 he published The Lost Garden an autobiography in which he tells of growing up in San Francisco and of coming to use his writing to celebrate his family and his ethnic heritage.

Q. What kind of work did the authors father do?

After his fathers death, writer Laurence Yep returned to San Francisco to look for the apartment house where his family had lived, which also housed their grocery store. It had been replaced by a two-story parking garage for a nearby college. There were trees growing where the store door had been. I had to look at the street signs on the corner to make sure I was in the right spot. Behind the trees was a door of solid metal painted a battleship gray Stretching to either side were concrete walls with metal grates bolted over the openings in the sides. The upper story of the garage was open to the air but through the grates I could look into the lower level. The gray, oil-stained concrete spread onward endlessly, having replaced the red cement floor of our store. 

Lines marked parking places where my parents had laid wooden planks to ease the ache and chill on their feet. Where the old-fashioned glass store counter had been was a row of cars. I looked past the steel I-beams that formed the columns and ceiling of the garage, peering through the dimness in an attempt to locate where my fathers garden had been; but there was only an endless stretch of cars within the painted stalls. We called it the garden though that was stretching the definition of the word because it was only a small, narrow cement courtyard on the north side of our apartment house. There was only a brief time during the day when the sun could reach the tiny courtyard; but fuchsia bushes, which loved the shade, grew as tall as trees from the dirt plot there. 

Next to it my father had fashioned shelves from old hundred-pound rice cans and planks; and on these makeshift shelves he had his miniature flower patches growing in old soda pop crates from which he had removed the wooden dividers. He would go out periodically to a wholesale nursery by the beach and load the car with boxes full of little flowers and seedlings which he would lovingly transplant in his shadowy garden. If you compared our crude little garden to your own backyards, you would probably laugh; and yet the cats in the neighborhood loved my fathers garden almost as much as he did--to his great dismay The cats loved to roll among the flowers, crushing what were just about the only green growing things in the area. Other times, they ate them-perhaps as a source of greens. Whatever the case, my father could have done without their destructive displays of appreciation. 

I dont know where my father came by his love of growing things. He had come to San Francisco as a boy and, except for a brief time spent picking fruit, had lived most of his life among cement, brick, and asphalt. I hadnt thought of my fathers garden in years; and yet it was the surest symbol of my father. Somehow he could persuade flowers to grow within the old, yellow soda pop crates though the sun seldom touched them; and he could coax green shoots out of what seemed like lifeless sticks. His was the gift of renewal. However, though I stared and stared, I could not quite figure out where it had been. Everything looked the same; more concrete and more cars. Store, home and garden had all been torn down and replaced by something as cold, massive and impersonal as a prison. 

Even if I could have gone through the gate, there was nothing for me inside there. If I wanted to return to that lost garden, I would have to go back into my own memories. Award-winning author Laurence Yep did return to his fathers garden in his memories. In 1991 he published The Lost Garden an autobiography in which he tells of growing up in San Francisco and of coming to use his writing to celebrate his family and his ethnic heritage.

Q. What idea does the story suggest about the authors parents?

After his fathers death, writer Laurence Yep returned to San Francisco to look for the apartment house where his family had lived, which also housed their grocery store. It had been replaced by a two-story parking garage for a nearby college. There were trees growing where the store door had been. I had to look at the street signs on the corner to make sure I was in the right spot. Behind the trees was a door of solid metal painted a battleship gray Stretching to either side were concrete walls with metal grates bolted over the openings in the sides. The upper story of the garage was open to the air but through the grates I could look into the lower level. The gray, oil-stained concrete spread onward endlessly, having replaced the red cement floor of our store. 

Lines marked parking places where my parents had laid wooden planks to ease the ache and chill on their feet. Where the old-fashioned glass store counter had been was a row of cars. I looked past the steel I-beams that formed the columns and ceiling of the garage, peering through the dimness in an attempt to locate where my fathers garden had been; but there was only an endless stretch of cars within the painted stalls. We called it the garden though that was stretching the definition of the word because it was only a small, narrow cement courtyard on the north side of our apartment house. There was only a brief time during the day when the sun could reach the tiny courtyard; but fuchsia bushes, which loved the shade, grew as tall as trees from the dirt plot there. 

Next to it my father had fashioned shelves from old hundred-pound rice cans and planks; and on these makeshift shelves he had his miniature flower patches growing in old soda pop crates from which he had removed the wooden dividers. He would go out periodically to a wholesale nursery by the beach and load the car with boxes full of little flowers and seedlings which he would lovingly transplant in his shadowy garden. If you compared our crude little garden to your own backyards, you would probably laugh; and yet the cats in the neighborhood loved my fathers garden almost as much as he did--to his great dismay The cats loved to roll among the flowers, crushing what were just about the only green growing things in the area. Other times, they ate them-perhaps as a source of greens. Whatever the case, my father could have done without their destructive displays of appreciation. 

I dont know where my father came by his love of growing things. He had come to San Francisco as a boy and, except for a brief time spent picking fruit, had lived most of his life among cement, brick, and asphalt. I hadnt thought of my fathers garden in years; and yet it was the surest symbol of my father. Somehow he could persuade flowers to grow within the old, yellow soda pop crates though the sun seldom touched them; and he could coax green shoots out of what seemed like lifeless sticks. His was the gift of renewal. However, though I stared and stared, I could not quite figure out where it had been. Everything looked the same; more concrete and more cars. Store, home and garden had all been torn down and replaced by something as cold, massive and impersonal as a prison. 

Even if I could have gone through the gate, there was nothing for me inside there. If I wanted to return to that lost garden, I would have to go back into my own memories. Award-winning author Laurence Yep did return to his fathers garden in his memories. In 1991 he published The Lost Garden an autobiography in which he tells of growing up in San Francisco and of coming to use his writing to celebrate his family and his ethnic heritage.

Q. What do you know about the fathers garden?

Directions for Questions 10 to 11:

Read each sentence to find if there is any grammatical error in it. If there is any error, it will be only one part of the sentence.

Q. I shall (A)/ ring him (B)/ tomorrow (C)/ in the afternoon./(D)

I enjoyed (A)/ during my (B)/ stay in (C)/ England /(D)

Directions for Questions 12 to 14:

One of the four sentences given in each question is grammatically wrong. Find the incorrect sentence.

One of the four sentences given in each question is grammatically wrong. Find the incorrect sentence.

One of the four sentences given in each question is grammatically wrong. Find the incorrect sentence.

Directions for Questions 15 to 19:

In each of the following questions, some sentence are given which are on the same theme. decide which sentence is the most preferable with respect to grammar; meaning and usage, suitable for formal writing in English. Find the correct sentence.

Find the correct sentence.

Find the correct sentence.

Find the correct sentence.

Find the correct sentence.

Directions for Questions 20 to 24:

In each of the following questions, a paragraph or a sentence has been broken up into different parts. The parts have been scrambled and numbered as given below. Choose the correct order of these parts from the given alternatives.

Q. 

1) is decidedly harmful

2) disregarding other equally important aspects,

3) to the total neglect of others

4) in the life of a man or a woman

5) is not wisdom but

6) cultivating only one quality

7) giving all attention and energy to one aspect of national life only,

8) folly

9) similarly in the life of a nation.

Choose the correct order of these parts from the given alternatives.

1) Zealand

2) islands

3) Australia

4) of

5) new

6) consist

7) both

8) and

9) two

Choose the correct order of these parts from the given alternatives.

1) Pentium 4

2) any

3) conflicts.

4) handle

5) It seems

6) can

7)that

8)without

9) it

Choose the correct order of these parts from the given alternatives.

1) language

2) of

3) two

4) the

5) official

6)countries

7) is

8) English

9) the

Choose the correct order of these parts from the given alternatives.

1) two

2) there

3) some

4) however

5) countries

6) between

7) are

8) differences

9) the

Out of forty students, there are 14 who are taking Physics and 29 who are taking Calculus. What is the probability that a randomly chosen student from this group is taking only the Calculus class?

In town of 500 people, 285 read Hindu and 212 read Indian express and 127read Times of India 20 read Hindu and times of India and 29 read hindu and Indian express and 35 read times of India and Indian express. 50 read no news paper. Then how many read only one paper?

In a group of persons traveling in a bus, 6 persons can speak Tamil, 15 can speak Hindi and 6 can speak Gujarati. In that group, none can speak any other language. If 2 persons in the group can speak two languages and one person can speak all the three languages, then how many persons are there in the group?

Out of a total of 120 musicians in a club , 5% can play all the three instruments- Guitar, violin and Flute. It so happens that the number of musicians who can play any two and only two of the above instruments is 30. The number of musicians who can play the guitar alone is 40. What is the total number of those who can play violin alone or flute alone?

In a town 65% people watched the news on television, 40% read a newspaper and 25% read a newspaper and watched the news on television also. What percent of the people neither watched the news on television nor read a news paper?

A secret can be told only 2 persons in 5 minutes .the same person tells to 2 more persons and so on. How long will take to tell it to 768 persons?