SHSAT English Language Arts Quiz: Tone From Word Choice

Excerpt from "Winter Wheat" by Mildred Walker

(1) I love Dad's way of talking that makes him seem different from other ranchers. He's lived here twenty-three years, but he still says "back East where I come from." He's the one who gets excited when I do about spring coming or a serial running in the magazine we're both reading, but it's what Mom says that I depend on. When Mom used to say "Don't worry" about my pet chicken or dog or new calf, it always got well. Dad is always talking of going some place, not now, but next year, maybe. Mom seems to think of nothing farther away than today or perhaps yesterday or tomorrow morning.

(2) Mom folded the ironing board and put it inside their bedroom that was just off the kitchen. She carried in the freshly ironed clothes. Dad went back to his paper. When Mom came back she took beans from the cupboard to soak for tomorrow. Dad always said Mom could make all the dishes he'd had back in Vermont as well as though she were a New Englander herself, instead of a Russian. All of a sudden, I realized that tomorrow when those beans would be ready to eat I'd be going away. It gave me a funny feeling.

(3) "I'll be taking the train tomorrow night," I said aloud, more to hear it myself.

(4) "We can drive you into town in the afternoon," Dad said, dropping his paper on the floor.

(5) "There's no need to go to town; she can catch the train at Gotham just as well. We haven't nothing to take us into town for," Mom said.

(6) "Well, we don't have to decide tonight," Dad said, but I knew he wanted to go into Clark City. It wouldn't be so flat as just seeing me go off on the train from Gotham. My going away was hard on both of them; they were so different—and I was part of them both. It made me uncomfortable to think of leaving them.

(7) While I was getting ready for bed in my room that's off the front room, I saw how it would be if I left from town. We'd go in right after dinner and go around to the stores, Dad going one way and Mom and I another. Dad would probably have his hair cut at the barbershop and stop in the bank and meet someone he knew to talk to. Then we'd meet at the big store on the corner and go to the cafeteria for supper. The train stops ten minutes or so at the station in town and there are other people and excitement and you have time to wave from the platform and then again from your window by your seat. We went to the station in Clark City to see the Goodals off when they went back to Iowa.

(8) If I left from Gotham, we'd just drive down in the truck and wait till the train came. It only stops long enough for you to get on and you hardly have time to taste the flavor of going away.

(9) I sat on the bed in my pyjamas with my arms around my knees. I couldn't keep from thinking of that time Dad went back East. I tried to, and then I just sat still and looked straight at it. Sometimes that's better than working so hard to keep from looking at what's in your mind.

(10) Dad went all the way back to Vermont. ... It was in November and it was already dark when the train came through Gotham. Even now, I could feel how cold and dark it was. I held Mom's hand. Dad was so dressed-up he seemed strange.... We stood there without saying anything until Dad told Mom to remember to call Mr. Bardich, our neighbor, if the cow didn't calve tomorrow.

(11) "I'll manage," Mom snapped back.

(12) "I wish you could go, Anna," Dad said to Mom, "and we could take Ellen." ...

(13) "Good-by, Anna Petrovna," he said, looking at Mom. I had never heard him call her by two names before.

(14) "Good-by," Mom said, standing still, without smiling.

(15) Then he was gone and the crossroads were darker than ever. The train light shone on the high window in the top of the grain elevator for a moment and then that too was dark. We got into our old Ford and Mom drove back to the house. My throat ached all the way. The name Dad had called Mom kept saying itself in my ears: "Anna Petrovna, Anna Petrovna." ...

(16) Our house seemed lonely when we came back to it. It seemed to be hiding under the coulee. I went with Mom to put the truck in the barn that was bigger than the house. I think Mom was prouder of our barn than the house, anyway. We walked back to look at the cow that was going to calve. She was just a big light blob in the dark, waiting. I had thought she was exciting this morning, but now she seemed sad, too.

(17) The wind blew when we walked across the open space to the house and I couldn't help shivering with the cold. Inside the house it was warm, but empty.

(18) "Bring your nightgown in here and I heat you some milk," Mom said.

(19) I drank the milk sitting on a stool in front of the stove. It tasted good, but the lonely ache in my throat was still there. I picked up my clothes and hung them neatly behind the stove and put my cup on the sink board. Mom was fixing oatmeal for tomorrow morning.

(20) "Good night, Mom," I said almost timidly, standing beside her. She seemed wrapped around in a kind of strangeness. Then she turned around and drew me to her. The front of her dress was warm from the stove. I felt the comfortable heat through my gown. She laid her hand against my face and it felt rough and hard but firm. I dared ask her something I wanted to know.

(21) "Mom, was that really your name—what Dad called you?"

(22) Her voice sounded surprised. "Why, Yelena, you know that; Anna Petrovna. You know I am born in Russia, in Seletskoe."

(23) "Yes, but I didn't know your other name," I said.

(24) "Anna Petrovna Webb." She pronounced it slowly. "Once I think what a funny name Ben Webb is!" She laughed. Her laugh was warm and low like our kitchen, and comfortable. The house seemed natural and right again....

(25) But now that I am grown, I feel the wall of strangeness between them, more than when I was a child. I wondered how they would get along without me.

In paragraph 1, the narrator says "I love Dad's way of talking" and then notes that Dad "is always talking of going some place, not now, but next year, maybe." Weighing these words, the narrator's tone toward Dad's habit is best described as

(1) Mr. Anya was a man carved from sea-salt and patience. He taught sailing not by lecturing from the dock, but by putting you at the tiller of his small, weathered boat, the Sea Lark, and letting the wind do the talking. My first lesson was on a blustery afternoon. The sail cracked and popped like a whip, and the boat heeled over so far I was certain we would capsize. My knuckles were white on the tiller. "Feel the boat," was all he said, his voice calm as the deep water beneath us. "She's telling you what she wants."

(2) I didn't understand. The boat was telling me it wanted to throw me into the churning grey waves. I wrestled with the tiller, trying to force the boat upright, to impose my will on the wind. The more I fought, the more stubborn the Sea Lark became, her sail luffing uselessly, her momentum lost. We sat dead in the water, rocking in the chop. Mr. Anya didn't sigh or correct me. He simply waited, letting me feel the full, frustrating weight of my failure.

(3) "You are fighting the wind," he said at last. "You cannot win that fight. You must listen to it. Use it." He placed his hand gently over mine on the tiller. He didn't push or pull. Instead, he seemed to just relax, and through his hand, I felt a subtle vibration. It was a slight pressure, a hum. He made a minuscule adjustment, and instantly, the sail filled with a satisfying whoomp, the boat leaned into a graceful angle, and we were moving again, slicing cleanly through the water. It felt like magic.

(4) "There," he said. "You feel that? That is the conversation. The wind pushes the sail, the sail pushes the boat, the water pushes back. And you, at the tiller, are the interpreter. Not the dictator." For the rest of the afternoon, I tried to stop dictating and start interpreting. I focused on that hum, that subtle pressure. It was a new language, spoken not in words, but in forces. By the time we sailed back into the harbor, my knuckles were no longer white. I was holding the tiller lightly, feeling the story the boat was telling me, and for the first time, I felt like I was beginning to understand.

Based on the phrases "no longer white" and "beginning to understand" in paragraph 4, the narrator's tone at the end of the passage is best described as

(1) The London Underground, affectionately known as the "Tube," is more than just a transportation system; it is an icon of the city itself, a sprawling subterranean network that has shaped London's development for over 150 years. Its creation was a monumental feat of 19th-century engineering, born out of the necessity to solve the city's crippling traffic congestion. The story of its construction is a testament to Victorian ingenuity and perseverance in the face of unprecedented challenges.

(2) By the mid-1800s, London was choking on its own success. The Industrial Revolution had caused the city's population to swell, and its narrow, winding streets, designed for horse-drawn carriages, were hopelessly gridlocked. Charles Pearson, a city solicitor, relentlessly championed the idea of an underground railway. Though initially met with skepticism and ridicule—critics feared buildings would collapse and passengers would be asphyxiated—Pearson's vision eventually gained traction. In 1863, the Metropolitan Railway opened the world's first underground line, connecting Paddington to Farringdon Street.

(3) The initial construction method, known as "cut-and-cover," was brutally disruptive. Workers would dig a massive trench along a roadway, build a brick tunnel inside it, and then restore the street on top. This process displaced residents, paralyzed surface traffic for months, and created enormous piles of earth and debris. The steam locomotives used on these early lines also posed a problem, filling the tunnels with smoke and soot, which required large ventilation shafts to be opened to the surface.

(4) The advent of the "deep-level" tube lines at the end of the 19th century revolutionized the system. Using a circular shield invented by James Henry Greathead, engineers could now tunnel deep beneath the city without disturbing the streets above. The switch to electric traction eliminated the smoke problem, making travel cleaner and more comfortable. This technological leap allowed for a rapid expansion of the network, with lines radiating out from the city center and fueling the growth of London's suburbs.

(5) Today, the Underground serves over a billion passengers a year, its iconic roundel and map recognized worldwide. It is a living piece of history, with stations that retain their original Victorian tilework alongside modern, state-of-the-art extensions. The system continues to evolve, facing the modern challenges of overcrowding and aging infrastructure, yet it remains the lifeblood of the city, a symbol of London's resilience and constant reinvention.

The author calls the Underground's construction "a testament to Victorian ingenuity" in paragraph 1 but describes the cut-and-cover method as "brutally disruptive" in paragraph 3. Together these phrases create a tone that is

(1) In 1999, social psychologists David Dunning and Justin Kruger published a study that gave a name to a cognitive bias many have observed in daily life. The Dunning-Kruger effect describes a phenomenon in which individuals with low ability at a task overestimate their own ability. Conversely, those with high ability tend to underestimate their competence relative to others. This seeming paradox reveals a fascinating quirk in human self-assessment: the skills required to be competent at something are often the very same skills needed to recognize competence—or a lack thereof.

(2) The original study involved testing undergraduate students in areas like humor, logic, and grammar. After completing the tests, students were asked to estimate how well they performed. Consistently, students who scored in the bottom quartile ranked their own performance far above average, often believing they had done better than the majority of their peers. Their lack of knowledge in a given area prevented them from recognizing their own errors and accurately gauging their performance.

(3) On the other side of the spectrum, top performers displayed a different kind of miscalibration. While they accurately assessed their own performance in absolute terms, they tended to underestimate how well they did compared to others. Because the tasks felt relatively easy to them, they incorrectly assumed the tasks must be easy for everyone else as well. This is a form of false-consensus effect, where experts mistakenly believe their own level of skill is more common than it actually is.

(4) The Dunning-Kruger effect is not a matter of ego or arrogance, but rather a metacognitive deficit. It is a blind spot in our ability to reflect on our own thinking. For the unskilled, this means they lack the framework to see their own shortcomings. Improvement is possible, but it requires gaining the very expertise they lack. As Dunning and Kruger noted, improving the skills of the participants in a subject also improved their ability to recognize the limits of their knowledge.

(5) Recognizing this bias has practical implications in education, business, and personal development. It suggests that simply providing feedback is not always enough; individuals must also be taught the skills to understand and act on that feedback. It also serves as a humbling reminder that confidence is an unreliable indicator of expertise. True wisdom may begin with the Socratic realization that one knows nothing, or at least, the recognition that our self-perception is inherently flawed.

Which choice best describes the author's tone toward the low-scoring students described in paragraphs 2 and 4?

(1) The attic was Elara's sanctuary, a dusty, sun-drenched kingdom smelling of cedar and old paper. Up here, under the steep-sloping roof, the world outside—the drone of her parents' arguments, the relentless ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall—seemed to fade into a distant hum. A single round window, like a ship's porthole, looked out over the tangle of oak branches in the backyard, framing a small, perfect circle of sky.

(2) It was her grandmother who had first shown her the way, unlocking the small, stiff door at the top of the narrow stairs. "Every house has a heart," she'd whispered, her voice raspy like dry leaves, "and this is ours." She had left Elara there with a carton of her old books, their pages brittle and yellowed, filled with tales of forgotten queens and star-faring adventurers. The books became Elara's companions, their stories weaving themselves into the dust motes dancing in the shafts of light.

(3) Today, however, the usual comfort of the space felt elusive. A letter lay on the rough-hewn floorboards beside her, its crisp, official-looking paper a stark intruder in her haven of aged things. It was an acceptance letter from a music conservatory three states away, a place she had only dreamed of. It represented a future, a path leading far away from the familiar scent of cedar and the comfort of her books. The very weight of it felt immense, a promise and a burden all at once.

(4) She picked it up, tracing the embossed seal with her fingertip. Downstairs, a door slammed, and the muffled sound of a raised voice reached her. It was the same argument, the same tired words circling each other like weary vultures. The conservatory would be an escape, a chance to build something of her own, separate from the crumbling foundation of her family's home. Yet, the thought of leaving the attic, of closing the door on this quiet, dusty heart of the house, felt like a betrayal.

(5) Looking out the porthole window, she watched a lone crow land on an oak limb, its dark eye seeming to stare right at her. The world beyond the window was vast and unknown, just like the future the letter offered. For the first time, the attic felt less like a sanctuary and more like a cage, its comforting familiarity now a barrier to the person she might become.

Which choice best describes how the tone shifts from paragraph 1 to paragraph 5?

(1) The city air tasted like metal and exhaust, a stark contrast to the scent of pine and damp earth that had been the backdrop to my entire life. My new school was a fortress of red brick, three stories high, looming over a street crowded with cars and unfamiliar faces. Inside, the hallways were a roaring river of people, and I was a stone, motionless and silent, getting battered by the current. Everyone seemed to have a place to be, a friend to greet, a locker to slam. I clutched the wrinkled schedule in my hand, its crisp corners now softened by my nervous grip. Room 204: English. It felt a world away.

(2) I had imagined this moment for weeks. In my daydreams, I was confident, striding through the halls with a purpose. Someone would recognize a book I was carrying or a pin on my bag, and a friendship would spark. Reality was a cold splash of water. The book in my bag felt heavy and pretentious, and the pin, a small silver bird my grandmother had given me, seemed childish. I was an outsider, marked by my new shoes that squeaked on the polished floor and my bewildered expression that was a magnet for fleeting, curious glances.

(3) I found Room 204 and slipped into a desk at the back, hoping to become part of the wallpaper. The teacher, Mr. Harrison, had a kind face, but his welcoming speech about "new beginnings" and "finding your voice" felt like it was broadcast from another galaxy. My voice was trapped somewhere in my throat, tangled in a knot of anxiety. He asked us to write a short paragraph about a meaningful memory. My mind, which usually overflowed with stories from my summers by the lake, went completely blank. The page stared back at me, a vast, white desert.

(4) A girl with bright green hair and a cascade of silver bracelets sat down in the desk next to mine. She didn't look at me, but I heard her pen scratching furiously against her paper. After a few minutes, she paused, sighed dramatically, and then turned to me. "Mind if I borrow your brain? Mine seems to have gone on vacation." Her smile was wide and genuine. I was so startled that a small laugh escaped me. "I think mine went with it," I managed to say. The knot in my throat loosened, just a little. Maybe this new world wasn't a world away, but just a few words.

The girl asks, "Mind if I borrow your brain? Mine seems to have gone on vacation." How does the narrator's description of the girl's smile in paragraph 4 help establish the tone of her question?

(1) The attic was Elara's sanctuary, a dusty, sun-drenched kingdom smelling of cedar and old paper. Up here, under the steep-sloping roof, the world outside—the drone of her parents' arguments, the relentless ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall—seemed to fade into a distant hum. A single round window, like a ship's porthole, looked out over the tangle of oak branches in the backyard, framing a small, perfect circle of sky.

(2) It was her grandmother who had first shown her the way, unlocking the small, stiff door at the top of the narrow stairs. "Every house has a heart," she'd whispered, her voice raspy like dry leaves, "and this is ours." She had left Elara there with a carton of her old books, their pages brittle and yellowed, filled with tales of forgotten queens and star-faring adventurers. The books became Elara's companions, their stories weaving themselves into the dust motes dancing in the shafts of light.

(3) Today, however, the usual comfort of the space felt elusive. A letter lay on the rough-hewn floorboards beside her, its crisp, official-looking paper a stark intruder in her haven of aged things. It was an acceptance letter from a music conservatory three states away, a place she had only dreamed of. It represented a future, a path leading far away from the familiar scent of cedar and the comfort of her books. The very weight of it felt immense, a promise and a burden all at once.

(4) She picked it up, tracing the embossed seal with her fingertip. Downstairs, a door slammed, and the muffled sound of a raised voice reached her. It was the same argument, the same tired words circling each other like weary vultures. The conservatory would be an escape, a chance to build something of her own, separate from the crumbling foundation of her family's home. Yet, the thought of leaving the attic, of closing the door on this quiet, dusty heart of the house, felt like a betrayal.

(5) Looking out the porthole window, she watched a lone crow land on an oak limb, its dark eye seeming to stare right at her. The world beyond the window was vast and unknown, just like the future the letter offered. For the first time, the attic felt less like a sanctuary and more like a cage, its comforting familiarity now a barrier to the person she might become.

In paragraph 4, the narrator describes the argument downstairs as "the same tired words circling each other like weary vultures." This description conveys Elara's feeling about the argument as one of

(1) The term "fast fashion" describes a business model that emerged in the late 20th century, characterized by the rapid production of inexpensive clothing in response to the latest trends. Where traditional fashion houses once operated on a seasonal calendar, releasing new collections a few times per year, fast-fashion retailers can move a design from the runway to the store shelf in a matter of weeks. This acceleration is made possible by complex global supply chains and a focus on low-cost materials, primarily synthetic fabrics like polyester and nylon, derived from fossil fuels.

(2) The appeal to consumers is clear: trendy clothing at remarkably low prices. This accessibility has democratized fashion, allowing more people to participate in current styles. However, this model carries significant hidden costs. The emphasis on speed and low cost often leads to poor working conditions in garment factories, primarily located in developing nations. Furthermore, the business model is built on disposability. With new styles arriving constantly and prices being so low, clothing is increasingly treated as a single-use item, worn a few times and then discarded.

(3) The environmental impact of this cycle is staggering. The fashion industry is now one of the world's largest polluters. The production of synthetic fabrics is energy-intensive and releases microplastics when washed. The dyes and finishing chemicals used can pollute local water sources. Perhaps most alarmingly, the sheer volume of discarded clothing is overwhelming landfills. An estimated 85% of all textiles end up in dumps each year, where synthetic materials can take hundreds of years to decompose.

(4) In response, a counter-movement promoting "slow fashion" has gained traction. This philosophy advocates for buying fewer, higher-quality items made from sustainable materials. It encourages consumers to value craftsmanship, timeless design, and ethical production. Proponents argue that by investing in durable clothing and caring for it properly, individuals can reduce waste, support fair labor practices, and cultivate a more personal and lasting style. The choice, they contend, is between a fleeting trend and a sustainable future.

Considering both "democratized fashion" in paragraph 2 and "staggering" in paragraph 3, which choice best describes the author's tone toward fast fashion?

(1) The old suitcase sat open on my bed, a hollow mouth waiting to be filled. For a week, I had circled it, picking up a book only to put it down, folding a shirt and then unfolding it. Moving to the city was supposed to be an adventure, the thrilling next chapter Liam had so enthusiastically described. He spoke of bustling streets, endless opportunities, and a life vibrant with energy. He couldn't understand my hesitation. "It's just a place, Elara," he'd said, his voice laced with a gentle impatience that was becoming all too familiar. (2) But for me, it wasn't "just a place." It was the absence of this place: the scent of rain on dry soil, the silhouette of the oak tree against the sunset, the low hum of the cicadas that had been the soundtrack to every summer of my life. These were the things I was packing away, not just my clothes and books. I walked to the window and looked out at the rolling fields, now washed in the soft gold of late afternoon. Mrs. Gable's dog, Buster, was chasing a butterfly in her yard, a small, familiar drama. (3) Liam saw a dead-end town; I saw a tapestry of moments. He saw quiet; I heard peace. He saw a beginning in the city, but all I could feel was the weight of this ending. I picked up a small, smooth stone from my windowsill, one I had found by the creek when I was ten. Its cool weight was a comfort in my palm. How could I explain that leaving felt like tearing a page out of my own story? I placed the stone carefully in a side pocket of the suitcase. It was a small, silent rebellion, a piece of home I refused to leave behind.

Taken together, the phrases "picking up a book only to put it down" (paragraph 1) and "a small, silent rebellion" (paragraph 3) reveal that the narrator's attitude toward Liam's plan is

(1) My father believed that a river could teach you everything you needed to know. Not just about fishing, but about patience, about the patterns of the world, and about respecting something more powerful than yourself. We spent most of my childhood summers on the banks of the Clearwater River, a ribbon of cold, fast water that tumbled out of the mountains. He never sat me down for grand lessons; instead, he taught by example, by the quiet way he read the current and chose his spot.

(2) I was, by nature, an impatient child. I wanted the fish to bite on the first cast. I would thrash my line in the water, switch lures every few minutes, and sigh dramatically when nothing happened. My father would watch me from the corner of his eye, a small, knowing smile on his face. He never scolded. He would simply continue his own calm, methodical casting, his movements economical and fluid, until, inevitably, his rod would bend with the weight of a trout.

(3) One blistering August afternoon, after hours of fruitless casting on my part, I threw my rod down in the dirt. "It's useless," I declared. "There are no fish in this whole stupid river." My father reeled in his line and sat on a smooth, sun-warmed boulder beside me. He didn't speak for a long time. He just watched the water, the way eddies formed and disappeared behind rocks, the way the light dappled through the overhanging cottonwood leaves.

(4) "You're looking for the fish," he said finally, his voice quiet. "But you're not seeing the river." He pointed with his chin. "See that seam where the fast water meets the slow? That's where a trout will rest, waiting for food to drift by. See that deep, shaded pool under the bank? That's where they hide from the afternoon sun." He wasn't giving me fishing tips; he was giving me a new way to see. He was teaching me to read the river's language.

(5) I didn't catch a fish that day. But the lesson stuck. I learned to watch, to be still, to understand that results were not a product of frantic effort but of quiet observation and understanding. Years later, as an adult facing problems far more complex than a stubborn trout, I find myself returning to the river's lesson. I try to stop thrashing and instead look for the underlying currents, the hidden patterns, the language of the situation. My father was right; the river had taught me everything.

In paragraph 2, the narrator recalls being a child who would "thrash my line in the water" and "sigh dramatically when nothing happened." These word choices give the paragraph a tone that is best described as

(1) In the 15th and 16th centuries, spices like cloves, nutmeg, and black pepper were commodities of extraordinary value, in some cases worth more than their weight in gold. These spices, native to remote islands in Asia, were not merely flavor enhancers; they were essential for preserving food in an era before refrigeration, masking the taste of salted or slightly spoiled meats, and were also prized for their use in medicines and perfumes. The immense demand in Europe, coupled with the perilous overland trade routes controlled by various middlemen, made spices astronomically expensive. (2) The quest to find a direct sea route to the "Spice Islands" (the Moluccas in modern-day Indonesia) was a primary driver of the Age of Exploration. European monarchs and merchants were eager to bypass the traditional land routes, which were long, dangerous, and subject to heavy taxes by the Venetian and Ottoman empires. Visionaries like Christopher Columbus and Vasco da Gama proposed daring voyages into uncharted waters. While Columbus famously miscalculated and landed in the Americas, Vasco da Gama successfully rounded Africa's Cape of Good Hope in 1498, establishing a direct maritime link to India and, subsequently, to the sources of the spice trade. (3) Da Gama's voyage fundamentally altered global trade and power dynamics. The Portuguese quickly established a monopoly over the sea-based spice trade, building fortified trading posts throughout the Indian Ocean. This broke the centuries-old Venetian dominance and shifted the center of European commerce from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic. The immense wealth generated fueled further exploration and colonization, but it also brought about intense conflict as other European powers, such as the Dutch and English, sought to challenge Portugal's control and claim their own share of the lucrative trade. The world, in a sense, was redrawn by the pursuit of these small, dried seeds and barks.

The final sentence of paragraph 3 states, "The world, in a sense, was redrawn by the pursuit of these small, dried seeds and barks." The word choice in this sentence creates a tone that is

(1) Among the most resilient organisms known to science is a microscopic creature that looks like a water-borne gummy bear. Officially known as the tardigrade, but more affectionately as the "water bear" or "moss piglet," this tiny invertebrate can survive conditions that would be instantly fatal to nearly every other life form on Earth. From the crushing pressures of the deep sea to the vacuum of outer space, the tardigrade's ability to endure has fascinated scientists for centuries.

(2) The key to the tardigrade's incredible survivability lies in a state of suspended animation called cryptobiosis. When faced with extreme environmental stress, such as dehydration or freezing, the tardigrade curls into a desiccated ball called a "tun." In this state, it replaces almost all the water in its cells with protective sugars and proteins. Its metabolic activity drops to less than 0.01% of normal, essentially pausing life until conditions become favorable again.

(3) Tardigrades have been found in virtually every environment on the planet, from Antarctic ice and boiling hot springs to the leaf litter in a suburban backyard. Their distribution is so widespread because they are small enough to be transported by wind, water, and on the bodies of other animals. Once they arrive in a new location, their ability to enter cryptobiosis allows them to wait, sometimes for decades, until a suitable moist environment appears.

(4) The implications of studying tardigrades are significant. Understanding the mechanisms of cryptobiosis could have profound applications in human medicine, such as improving the preservation of organs for transplantation or creating vaccines that do not require refrigeration. Furthermore, their ability to withstand high levels of radiation has drawn the interest of astrobiologists, who study the possibility of life existing beyond Earth. The tardigrade proves that life can persist in environments we once considered completely inhospitable.

(5) While their toughness is legendary, it is important to note that tardigrades are not invincible. They are most vulnerable when they are in their active, hydrated state. In this form, they are susceptible to predators like nematodes and other tardigrades, and they can be killed by sudden environmental shifts before they have time to enter their protective tun state. Their survival is a remarkable act of adaptation, but it is a strategy, not an inherent invulnerability.

From paragraph 1 to paragraph 5, the author's tone toward the tardigrade shifts. Which choice best describes this shift?

Excerpt from "Winter Wheat" by Mildred Walker

(1) I love Dad's way of talking that makes him seem different from other ranchers. He's lived here twenty-three years, but he still says "back East where I come from." He's the one who gets excited when I do about spring coming or a serial running in the magazine we're both reading, but it's what Mom says that I depend on. When Mom used to say "Don't worry" about my pet chicken or dog or new calf, it always got well. Dad is always talking of going some place, not now, but next year, maybe. Mom seems to think of nothing farther away than today or perhaps yesterday or tomorrow morning.

(2) Mom folded the ironing board and put it inside their bedroom that was just off the kitchen. She carried in the freshly ironed clothes. Dad went back to his paper. When Mom came back she took beans from the cupboard to soak for tomorrow. Dad always said Mom could make all the dishes he'd had back in Vermont as well as though she were a New Englander herself, instead of a Russian. All of a sudden, I realized that tomorrow when those beans would be ready to eat I'd be going away. It gave me a funny feeling.

(3) "I'll be taking the train tomorrow night," I said aloud, more to hear it myself.

(4) "We can drive you into town in the afternoon," Dad said, dropping his paper on the floor.

(5) "There's no need to go to town; she can catch the train at Gotham just as well. We haven't nothing to take us into town for," Mom said.

(6) "Well, we don't have to decide tonight," Dad said, but I knew he wanted to go into Clark City. It wouldn't be so flat as just seeing me go off on the train from Gotham. My going away was hard on both of them; they were so different—and I was part of them both. It made me uncomfortable to think of leaving them.

(7) While I was getting ready for bed in my room that's off the front room, I saw how it would be if I left from town. We'd go in right after dinner and go around to the stores, Dad going one way and Mom and I another. Dad would probably have his hair cut at the barbershop and stop in the bank and meet someone he knew to talk to. Then we'd meet at the big store on the corner and go to the cafeteria for supper. The train stops ten minutes or so at the station in town and there are other people and excitement and you have time to wave from the platform and then again from your window by your seat. We went to the station in Clark City to see the Goodals off when they went back to Iowa.

(8) If I left from Gotham, we'd just drive down in the truck and wait till the train came. It only stops long enough for you to get on and you hardly have time to taste the flavor of going away.

(9) I sat on the bed in my pyjamas with my arms around my knees. I couldn't keep from thinking of that time Dad went back East. I tried to, and then I just sat still and looked straight at it. Sometimes that's better than working so hard to keep from looking at what's in your mind.

(10) Dad went all the way back to Vermont. ... It was in November and it was already dark when the train came through Gotham. Even now, I could feel how cold and dark it was. I held Mom's hand. Dad was so dressed-up he seemed strange.... We stood there without saying anything until Dad told Mom to remember to call Mr. Bardich, our neighbor, if the cow didn't calve tomorrow.

(11) "I'll manage," Mom snapped back.

(12) "I wish you could go, Anna," Dad said to Mom, "and we could take Ellen." ...

(13) "Good-by, Anna Petrovna," he said, looking at Mom. I had never heard him call her by two names before.

(14) "Good-by," Mom said, standing still, without smiling.

(15) Then he was gone and the crossroads were darker than ever. The train light shone on the high window in the top of the grain elevator for a moment and then that too was dark. We got into our old Ford and Mom drove back to the house. My throat ached all the way. The name Dad had called Mom kept saying itself in my ears: "Anna Petrovna, Anna Petrovna." ...

(16) Our house seemed lonely when we came back to it. It seemed to be hiding under the coulee. I went with Mom to put the truck in the barn that was bigger than the house. I think Mom was prouder of our barn than the house, anyway. We walked back to look at the cow that was going to calve. She was just a big light blob in the dark, waiting. I had thought she was exciting this morning, but now she seemed sad, too.

(17) The wind blew when we walked across the open space to the house and I couldn't help shivering with the cold. Inside the house it was warm, but empty.

(18) "Bring your nightgown in here and I heat you some milk," Mom said.

(19) I drank the milk sitting on a stool in front of the stove. It tasted good, but the lonely ache in my throat was still there. I picked up my clothes and hung them neatly behind the stove and put my cup on the sink board. Mom was fixing oatmeal for tomorrow morning.

(20) "Good night, Mom," I said almost timidly, standing beside her. She seemed wrapped around in a kind of strangeness. Then she turned around and drew me to her. The front of her dress was warm from the stove. I felt the comfortable heat through my gown. She laid her hand against my face and it felt rough and hard but firm. I dared ask her something I wanted to know.

(21) "Mom, was that really your name—what Dad called you?"

(22) Her voice sounded surprised. "Why, Yelena, you know that; Anna Petrovna. You know I am born in Russia, in Seletskoe."

(23) "Yes, but I didn't know your other name," I said.

(24) "Anna Petrovna Webb." She pronounced it slowly. "Once I think what a funny name Ben Webb is!" She laughed. Her laugh was warm and low like our kitchen, and comfortable. The house seemed natural and right again....

(25) But now that I am grown, I feel the wall of strangeness between them, more than when I was a child. I wondered how they would get along without me.

The narrator's tone changes between the end of paragraph 24 and paragraph 25. Which choice best captures that change?

Excerpt from "Snoozing While Soaring"

1 Certain types of birds soar for hundreds of miles, over land, over sea—and never stop to rest. That kind of endurance seems impossible to us, since we as people need time to rest and sleep. Researchers set out to learn how birds could fly for such long distances without restorative rest. They found that for some birds, settling in for a good night's rest is not always a necessity. 2 In 2013 Felix Liechti and his research colleagues at the Swiss Ornithological Institute published results of a study about the flight habits of Alpine swifts, small birds that migrate annually between Europe and Africa. Liechti and his team fitted the birds with small electronic tags that recorded the birds' acceleration and their pitch, or angle relative to the ground. The data revealed that the birds remained completely airborne during their time in Africa, a period of over 200 days. Since all animals require sleep, the researchers inferred that the birds slept from time to time on their long journey. However, since the electronic tags recorded only movement such as gliding or flying, and not brain waves, the question of whether birds sleep during flight remained unanswered. 3 Researcher Niels Rattenborg from the Max Planck Institute for Ornithology also delved into this question. In a 2006 article Rattenborg explained that it was theoretically possible that birds could undergo a certain type of sleep while flying. Like mammals, Rattenborg explained, birds experience different types of sleep, including slow-wave sleep (SWS). Rattenborg argued that SWS during flight is plausible because SWS can happen in one hemisphere of the brain at a time, leaving half of the brain essentially awake while the other half sleeps. The eye associated with the "awake" hemisphere can still function, allowing a bird to see where it is going. Rattenborg decided that electroencephalogram (EEG) recordings of birds' brain waves would ultimately be necessary to determine whether a bird can actually sleep in flight. 4 Eventually, Rattenborg and his team were able to create an experiment to prove this theory by studying frigatebirds from the Galápagos Islands. These enormous birds are good subjects for avian-sleep research because they fly far out to sea to hunt fish. However, unlike many seabirds, they cannot land on the water to rest because the physical build of their body—long wings, poorly webbed feet, and minimal feather waterproofing—makes them unable to take off again from the surface of the water. Rattenborg concluded that they must remain in flight for up to two months at a time. 5 In an article from 2016, Rattenborg outlined the team's research methods and conclusions. The team humanely implanted EEGs on the skulls of several frigatebirds. After analyzing the EEG readings of the birds while in flight, the team determined that the frigatebirds slow-wave slept for about ten seconds at a time at points when the birds were gliding upward via warm air currents, typically the safest part of the flight. While in flight the birds slept for only 45 minutes a day, which is just enough rest for the birds to function during these long flights. They later recovered from the stress of going with very little sleep when they rested for approximately twelve hours each day back on land. 6 Using EEG recordings, Niels Rattenborg solved the puzzle of when birds sleep while traveling long distances. His evidence proved that his theory was correct, and the birds proved themselves to be the ultimate multitaskers as they manage sleep and flight at the same time.

How does the author's tone in paragraph 6 differ from the tone in paragraph 2?

(1) Deep in the damp, decaying leaf litter of forests across the globe, a subtle, eerie light emanates from the ground. This is not a trick of the eyes, but the work of bioluminescent fungi. More than 100 species of fungi are known to possess this strange ability to glow in the dark, a phenomenon known as foxfire. While bioluminescence is more famously associated with marine life like anglerfish and fireflies on land, the steady, quiet glow of these mushrooms plays a unique and still partially mysterious role in their forest ecosystems.

(2) The light is a product of a chemical reaction. A compound called luciferin, when combined with oxygen and an enzyme called luciferase, releases energy in the form of a faint, greenish light. This process is remarkably energy-efficient, converting almost all the reaction's energy into light rather than heat. Unlike the intermittent flashes of a firefly, the glow of foxfire is continuous, powered by the fungus's metabolic processes as it breaks down organic matter, such as wood and leaves, for nutrients.

(3) For decades, scientists have debated the evolutionary purpose of this glow. Why would a stationary organism expend energy to produce light? Early theories suggested it was merely a useless byproduct of metabolism. However, recent research points to more concrete advantages. One leading hypothesis is that the light attracts nocturnal insects. As these insects crawl over the mushroom, they can pick up and disperse the fungus's spores, similar to how bees pollinate flowers. This would be especially advantageous for fungi living on the forest floor, where wind dispersal of spores can be ineffective.

(4) Another compelling theory, supported by studies on the "ghost mushroom" (Omphalotus nidiformis), is that the light serves as a warning signal. The glow may deter nocturnal animals from eating the fungi, signaling that they are toxic or unpalatable. Many glowing fungi are indeed poisonous to vertebrates. In this way, the light would function as a form of aposematism—an advertisement of defense, much like the bright colors of a poison dart frog. It is also possible that both theories are correct, with the glow serving different functions for different species or even at different times. The silent, steady light of the forest floor remains a subject of active scientific inquiry, a testament to the complex and often hidden interactions within nature.

In paragraph 1, the author uses the words "eerie" and "strange" but also states, "This is not a trick of the eyes". What tone do these choices create together?

Excerpt from "Winter Wheat" by Mildred Walker

(10) Dad went all the way back to Vermont. ... It was in November and it was already dark when the train came through Gotham. Even now, I could feel how cold and dark it was. I held Mom's hand. Dad was so dressed-up he seemed strange .... We stood there without saying anything until Dad told Mom to remember to call Mr. Bardich, our neighbor, if the cow didn't calve tomorrow. (11) "I'll manage," Mom snapped back.

In paragraph 11, the author's use of the word "snapped" suggests that the mother's tone is

Excerpt from "Snoozing While Soaring"

(4) Eventually, Rattenborg and his team were able to create an experiment to prove this theory by studying frigatebirds from the Galápagos Islands. These enormous birds are good subjects for avian-sleep research because they fly far out to sea to hunt fish. However, unlike many seabirds, they cannot land on the water to rest because the physical build of their body—long wings, poorly webbed feet, and minimal feather waterproofing—makes them unable to take off again from the surface of the water. Rattenborg concluded that they must remain in flight for up to two months at a time.

In paragraph 4, the description of the frigatebirds' "poorly webbed feet, and minimal feather waterproofing" serves to create a sense of their

Excerpt from "Winter Wheat" by Mildred Walker

(8) If I left from Gotham, we'd just drive down in the truck and wait till the train came. It only stops long enough for you to get on and you hardly have time to taste the flavor of going away.

The phrase "hardly have time to taste the flavor of going away" in paragraph 8 suggests a tone of

Massachusetts: Lowell National Historical Park

(3) The city's female workforce was significant in the history of Lowell. From the early to mid-1800s, women left the constricted lifestyle of small rural towns and rural areas for independent industrial city life. Most were young single Yankee girls, who were tired of the limited opportunities offered by their domestic work.

The author's use of the phrase "constricted lifestyle" in paragraph 3 conveys a tone that is

Excerpt from "Scribe Like an Egyptian" by Hilary Wilson

(4) But education was not available to all. Government departments and major temples supported schools, where boys commenced their training at six or seven, sometimes earlier... Boys from poorer families could only hope to be educated with support from a wealthier relative or patron, or through apprenticeship to an older scribe, perhaps the local clerk or land agent, who would teach them the basics of the scribe's craft.

In paragraph 4, the phrase "could only hope" conveys a sense of