In а perfectly cоmpetitive lаbоr mаrket, an increase in an effective minimum wage will result in
Which оf the fоllоwing best explаins the relаtive lаck of communication between the people of the Americas and Afro-Eurasia after about 8000 bce?
Reаd the fоllоwing pаssаge carefully befоre you choose your answers. Oddly enough, while several explanations are advanced as to how Charles Parker, Jr.,* became known as “Bird” (“Yardbird,” in an earlier metamorphosis), none is conclusive. There is, however, overpowering internal evidence that whatever the true circumstance of his ornithological designation, it had little to do with the chicken yard. Randy roosters and operatic hens are familiars to fans of the animated cartoons, but for all the pathetic comedy of his living—and despite the crabbed and constricted character of his style—Parker was a most inventive melodist; in bird-watcher’s terminology, a true songster. This failure in the exposition of Bird’s legend is intriguing, for nicknames are indicative of a change from a given to an achieved identity, whether by rise or fall, and they tell us something of the nicknamed individual’s interaction with his fellows. Thus, since we suspect that more of legend is involved in his renaming . . . let us at least consult Roger Tory Peterson’s Field Guide to the Birds for a hint as to why, during a period when most jazzmen were labeled “cats,” someone hung the bird on Charlie. Let us note too that “legend” originally meant “the story of a saint” and that saints were often identified with symbolic animals. Two species won our immediate attention, the goldfinch and the mockingbird—the goldfinch because the beatnik phrase “Bird lives,” which, following Parker’s death, has been chalked endlessly on Village buildings and subway walls, reminds us that during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries a symbolic goldfinch frequently appeared in European devotional paintings. An apocryphal story has it that upon being given a clay bird for a toy, the infant Jesus brought it miraculously to life as a goldfinch. Thus the small, tawny-brown bird with a bright red patch about the base of its bill and a broad yellow band across its wings became a representative of the soul, the Passion, and the Sacrifice. In more worldly late-Renaissance art, the little bird became the ambiguous symbol of death and the soul’s immortality. For our own purposes, however, its song poses a major problem: it is like that of a canary—which, soul or no soul, rules the goldfinch out. The mockingbird, Mimus polyglottos, is more promising. Peterson informs us that its song consists of “long successions of notes and phrases of great variety, with each phrase repeated a half-dozen times before going on to the next,” that the mockingbirds are “excellent mimics” who “adeptly imitate a score or more species found in the neighborhood,” and that they frequently sing at night—a description which not only comes close to Parker’s way with a saxophone but even hints at a trait of his character. For although he usually sang at night, his playing was characterized by velocity, by long-continued successions of notes and phrases, by swoops, bleats, echoes, rapidly repeated bebops—I mean rebopped bebops—by mocking mimicry of other jazzmen’s styles, and by interpolations of motifs from extraneous melodies, all of which added up to a dazzling display of wit, satire, burlesque, and pathos. Further, he was as expert at issuing his improvisations from the dense brush as from the extreme treetops of the harmonic landscape, and there was, without doubt, as irrepressible a mockery in his personal conduct as in his music. “On Bird, Bird-Watching, and Jazz,” from SHADOW AND ACT by Ralph Ellison, copyright 1953, 1964 by Ralph Ellison. Used by permission of Random House, Inc. and Professor John E. Callahan, literary executor of the estate of Ralph Ellison. *American jazz musician and composer (1920–1955), a developer of bebop The speaker suggests that the primary purpose of the passage is to
I hаve tаken up bаking as a hоbby, and it is paying оff big-time.
(The fоllоwing pаssаge is аn excerpt frоm a speech delivered by a leading women’s rights activist in 1913.) exigence: The exigence is what motivates a rhetor to argue in the first place. It answers the question: Why does the rhetor need to make this point? What will this argument do for the world? If I were a man and I said to you, “I come from a country which professes to have representative institutions and yet denies me, a taxpayer, an inhabitant of the country, representative rights,” you would at once understand that that human being, being a man, was justified in the adoption of revolutionary methods to get representative institutions. But since I am a woman it is necessary in the twentieth century to explain why women have adopted revolutionary methods in order to win the rights of citizenship. You see, in spite of a good deal that we hear about revolutionary methods not being necessary for American women, because American women are so well off, most of the men of the United States quite calmly acquiesce in the fact that half of the community are deprived absolutely of citizen rights, and we women, in trying to make our case clear, always have to make as part of our argument, and urge upon men in our audience the fact—a very simple fact—that women are human beings. It is quite evident you do not all realize we are human beings or it would not be necessary to argue with you that women may, suffering from intolerable injustice, be driven to adopt revolutionary methods. We have, first of all to convince you we are human beings, and I hope to be able to do that in the course of the evening before I sit down, but before doing that, I want to put a few political arguments before you—not arguments for the suffrage,* because I said when I opened, I didn’t mean to do that—but arguments for the adoption of militant methods in order to win political rights. A great many of you have been led to believe, from the somewhat meager accounts you get in the newspapers, that in England there is a strange manifestation taking place, a new form of hysteria being swept across part of the feminist population of those Isles, and this manifestation takes the shape of irresponsible breaking of windows, burning of letters, general inconvenience to respectable, honest business people who want to attend to their business. It is very irrational you say: even if these women had sufficient intelligence to understand what they were doing, and really did want the vote, they have adopted very irrational means for getting the vote. “How are they going to persuade people that they ought to have the vote by breaking their windows?” you say. Now, if you say that, it shows you do not understand the meaning of our revolution at all, and I want to show you that when damage is done to property it is not done in order to convert people to woman suffrage at all. It is a practical political means, the only means we consider open to voteless persons to bring about a political situation, which can only be solved by giving women the vote. Suppose the men of Hartford had a grievance, and they laid that grievance before their legislature, and the legislature obstinately refused to listen to them, or to remove their grievance, what would be the proper and the constitutional and the practical way of getting their grievance removed? Well, it is perfectly obvious at the next general election, when the legislature is elected, the men of Hartford in sufficient numbers would turn out that legislature and elect a new one: entirely change the personnel of an obstinate legislature which would not remove their grievance. It is perfectly simple and perfectly easy for voting communities to get their grievances removed if they act in combination and make an example of the legislature by changing the composition of the legislature and sending better people to take the place of those who have failed to do justice. But let the men of Hartford imagine that they were not in the position of being voters at all, that they were governed without their consent being obtained, that the legislature turned an absolutely deaf ear to their demands, what would the men of Hartford do then? They couldn’t vote the legislature out. They would have to choose; they would have to make a choice of two evils: they would either have to submit indefinitely to an unjust state of affairs, or they would have to rise up and adopt some of the antiquated means by which men in the past got their grievances remedied. Which of the following best describes the author’s exigence in the passage?
Reаd the fоllоwing pаssаge carefully befоre you choose your answers. It was not a union which seemed likely to prosper, since its chief characteristics were imprudence, youth and extreme good looks. But the married life of the young Brudenells unexpectedly turned out a rustic idyll. They chose to live quietly in the country at the Manor, Hambleden, Buckinghamshire, a Jacobean house set on gently rising ground and framed in chestnut trees. The rector of Hambleden at the time has left letters in which are glimpses of an amiable, charitable and democratic pair. They preferred not to use their title and, even after Robert had succeeded his uncle as Earl of Cardigan, they were known in Hambleden as Mr. and Mrs. Brudenell. They were much given to good works, and Robert, “ever a good friend to Hambleden,” bought two and a half acres of land and presented it to the village for cottagers’ gardens; “these gardens are a great benefit and much prized.” Penelope interested herself in the village women and the school. “She is a sweet woman, possessing a temper both mild and engaging,” wrote the rector. And at the Manor on October 16th, 1797, their second child and only male infant was born and christened James Thomas. The circumstances surrounding his arrival were Impressive. It was three generations since the succession of the Earls of Cardigan had gone direct from father to son. The much desired heir was of almost mystic importance, and, as he lay in his cradle, wealth, rank, power and honours gathered round his head. It was unfortunate that he was destined to grow up in a world that was almost entirely feminine. He already had an elder sister, and seven more girls followed his birth, of whom six survived. He remained the only son, the only boy among seven girls, unique, unchallenged, and the effect on his character was decisive. He was brought up at home among his sisters, and he grew up as such boys do, spoilt, domineering and headstrong. No arm was stronger than his. No rude voice contradicted him, no rough shoulder pushed him. From his earliest consciousness he was the most important, the most interesting, the most influential person in the world. He retained, however, from these early years a liking for the society of women and a softness in his manner toward them which, having regard to his manner with men, struck his contemporaries with surprise. For a woman, a pretty woman, above all a pretty women in distress, James Brudenell, later Lord Cardigan, had an almost medieval deference, a chivalrous turn of phrase, a sometimes embarrassing readiness to protect and defend, which, though productive of astonishment and mirth, were nevertheless rooted in a genuine sympathy. It was to be expected that his parents and sisters should be passionately attached to him, and natural affection and pride were immensely heightened by the circumstance of his extraordinary good looks. In him the Brudenell beauty had come to flower. He was tall, with wide shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, his hair was golden, his eyes flashing sapphire blue, his nose aristocratic, his bearing proud. If there were a fault it was that the lower part of his face was oddly long and narrow so that sometimes one was surprised to catch an obstinate, almost a foxy Look. But the boy had a dash and gallantry that were irresistible. He did not know what fear was. A superb and reckless horseman, he risked his neck on the most dangerous brutes. No tree was too tall for him to climb, no tower too high to scale. He excelled in swordsmanship and promised to be a first-class shot. He had in addition to courage another characteristic which impressed itself on all who met him. He was, alas, unusually stupid; in fact, as Greville pronounced later, an ass. The melancholy truth was that his glorious golden head had nothing in it. The speaker's primary purpose in the passage is to