SHSAT English Language Arts Quiz: Vocabulary From Context Clues

(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 describes the father this way: "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." As used here, "economical" most nearly means

(1) The Atacama Desert, a plateau in South America, is widely considered the driest nonpolar desert in the world. Stretching along the coast of Chile, its landscape is often compared to that of Mars. The extreme aridity is primarily caused by a double rain shadow effect. To the east, the towering Andes Mountains block precipitation from the Amazon basin, while to the west, the Chilean Coast Range prevents moisture from the Pacific Ocean from reaching the desert interior. Furthermore, a cold offshore ocean current called the Humboldt Current creates a coastal inversion layer of cool air, which inhibits the formation of rain-producing clouds. (2) For years, scientists believed that complex life could not survive in the Atacama's hyper-arid core. It was thought that the combination of intense ultraviolet (UV) radiation, high soil salinity, and near-total lack of water made the environment sterile. However, recent discoveries have challenged this assumption. Researchers have found pockets of microbial life, such as bacteria and archaea, living within rocks (endoliths) and deep beneath the salty soil. These resilient organisms have developed unique strategies to conserve water and protect themselves from UV radiation, offering clues as to how life might exist on other planets. (3) The same conditions that make the Atacama inhospitable to most life forms make it one of the premier locations on Earth for astronomical observation. The high altitude, clear skies, and lack of light pollution create exceptionally transparent atmospheric conditions. Major international observatories, such as the Atacama Large Millimeter/submillimeter Array (ALMA), are situated here. These telescopes can peer deep into the universe, studying the birth of stars and galaxies with a clarity that is impossible to achieve in most other parts of the world. The Atacama, therefore, serves as a natural laboratory for studying both the limits of life on Earth and the vastness of the cosmos beyond.

Paragraph 2 states, "It was thought that the combination of intense ultraviolet (UV) radiation, high soil salinity, and near-total lack of water made the environment sterile." Which meaning of "sterile" does the paragraph support?

(1) The city hummed with a rhythm Leo was still trying to learn. Back home, the loudest sounds were the wind in the pines and the distant lowing of cattle. Here, the symphony was one of sirens, the rumble of subway trains beneath his feet, and a thousand overlapping conversations in languages he didn't recognize. His uncle, Mark, navigated the crowded sidewalks with an effortless grace, weaving through pedestrians as if he were part of the current. "You'll get used to it," Mark had promised, clapping him on the shoulder. "Give it a week, and you won't even notice the noise." (2) Leo wasn't so sure. He felt like a ship in a bottle, carefully placed in a scene where he didn't quite fit. Everything was vertical—the buildings scraping the sky, the impossibly tall cranes, even the ambitions of the people who rushed past him, their eyes fixed on some unseen destination. At a street corner, a vendor was roasting chestnuts, and the smoky, sweet smell was a sudden, welcome anchor in the sensory overload. It was a scent he knew, a small piece of familiarity in the vast, overwhelming newness. (3) Mark pointed to a towering glass structure. "That's my office building. We're almost there." Leo tilted his head back, his neck craning to see the top, which seemed to disappear into the low-hanging clouds. He thought of his father's workshop, a low-slung wooden building with wide-open doors and the scent of sawdust. The contrast was dizzying. Mark was offering him an opportunity, a summer internship that everyone said he'd be foolish to refuse. But as he stood there, dwarfed by the sheer scale of it all, Leo wondered if he was built for a world of such heights.

In paragraph 3, "Leo wondered if he was built for a world of such heights." As used in this sentence, "built for" most nearly means

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.

Near the end of paragraph 24, the narrator says, "The house seemed natural and right again" after Mom laughs. Which meaning of "natural" fits this context?

(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.

Paragraph 1 says that the father "taught by example, by the quiet way he read the current and chose his spot." As used here, "read" most nearly means

Massachusetts: Lowell National Historical Park

(1) During the first half of the 19th century, Lowell, Massachusetts, quickly transformed itself from a farm town to a bustling industrial city. In time, Lowell became a model of industry, gaining global recognition for its state-of-the-art technology, innovative canal and dam system, mill architecture, boardinghouses, churches, and ethnic neighborhoods. Young Yankee women, immigrant families, and European tourists all flocked to Lowell to find work at one of the many textile mills, or visit the industrious city that was becoming a popular tourist destination. As one Scottish traveler observed during his visit to America, "Niagara and Lowell are the two objects I will longest remember in my American journey, the one the glory of American scenery, the other of American industry." Today, Lowell National Historical Park welcomes visitors to enjoy the sights of Lowell and learn about the history of one of America's most significant industrial cities.

(2) The Boston merchants who founded Lowell in 1821 and named it after Francis Cabot Lowell chose to locate the town along Massachusetts's Merrimack River to take advantage of the kinetic energy offered by the Pawtucket waterfalls. Over six miles of canals powered the waterwheels of Lowell's mills, whose massive five- and six-story brick buildings dominated the city's landscape. ... By the 1850s, 40 textile mills employing over 10,000 workers stretched for about a mile along the river. ...

(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. Women found that Lowell's mills offered monthly wages for their services and provided them room and board. Although these women gained economic independence in Lowell, the mill boardinghouse keepers constantly supervised their social activities, for which they hardly had any time, considering their daily 12- to 14-hour work schedules. At the end of the day, the factory bell signaled the "mill girls" to return to their boardinghouses. They were expected to adhere to the strict code of conduct respecting curfew and attending church.

(4) Yankee "mill girls" continued to dominate the Lowell workforce until the 1840s, when the city began to find it difficult to compete with the growing industrial development in other New England communities. As profits fell, the mill industry cut wages. These wage cuts, deteriorating working conditions, and long workdays led the "mill girls" to protest and organize strikes. When their demands went unheard, the women left Lowell, and immigrant groups replaced them in the workforce. Despite the low wages and unhealthy work conditions, immigrants were eager to find work.

(5) The immigrants replacing the Yankee "mill girls" during the 1840s were predominantly Irish Catholics, who traveled to America during the Great Potato Famine. Although Lowell received an influx of Irish families during this time, the Irish were a part of the city's history from its birth, and before the "mill girls" arrived, they built Lowell's historic canals, mills, and boardinghouses. Initially, Lowell's Protestant community was slow to welcome Irish immigrants, but the hostility between Yankee Protestants and Irish Catholics eventually disappeared. Irish immigrants dominated the industrial scene until the Civil War, when other immigrant groups began to work in the city mills.

(6) Like the Irish, the French-Canadians, Greeks, Poles, Portuguese, Russian Jews, and Armenians who came to work in Lowell's mills faced long work hours, low wages, and poor living conditions in the city's crowded tenements. By the time Lowell's industry declined, the city had become an ethnic melting pot, where each group claimed its own distinct neighborhood, like the Irish immigrants' "New Dublin" or "Acre," and the French-Canadians' "Little Canada." The city officially began to close down its mills in the 1920s and '30s after Lowell's outdated mills could no longer compete against the state-of-the-art cotton mills in other communities and working conditions continued to decline as Lowell's companies stopped reinvesting in their mills. ... Despite a brief resurgence during World War II, the city shut down its last surviving mill by the mid-1950s.

Read this sentence from paragraph 5: "Irish immigrants dominated the industrial scene until the Civil War, when other immigrant groups began to work in the city mills." As used in this sentence, "dominated" most nearly means

(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.

In paragraph 4, the narrator answers the girl's joke, and the reply is followed by the words "I managed to say." In this context, "managed" most nearly means

Excerpt from "Scribe Like an Egyptian" by Hilary Wilson

(1) In ancient Egypt, literacy was the key to success. However, contrary to popular belief, not all Egyptian scribes understood hieroglyphs. Many relied instead on the simpler hieratic script for the multitude of everyday documents generated by the Egyptian bureaucracy.

(2) Hieroglyphs—"the Words of God"—compose a writing system with more than 1,000 distinct characters, the meanings of which were lost for 1,500 years before they were deciphered by Jean-François Champollion in 1822. Including both ideograms (which convey a whole word or idea, either concrete or abstract, in a single sign) and phonograms (representing either an alphabetic sound or a group of consonants), [the writing system] was used in formal inscriptions on tomb and temple walls as well as on elaborate funerary papyri. For everyday purposes, however, scribes used a shorthand version of the hieroglyphic script known as hieratic, which was quicker to write and more economical of space. The two writings existed side by side for at least 2,500 years.

(3) Scraps of ancient hieratic writing, mostly penned by student scribes on limestone flakes called ostraca, suggest that no matter how humble his origins, an educated Egyptian could achieve almost anything. Horemheb (d.1292 B.C.) is a good example. Born of middle-ranking parents, his scribal training led to an army career. From Scribe of Recruits, during the reign of Akhenaten (1353–1336 B.C.), Horemheb rose through the military ranks and, by the rule of Tutankhamun (1332–1323 B.C.), he was commander in chief of the Egyptian forces. As a close adviser of the young Pharaoh, Horemheb was appointed "Deputy of the King throughout the Two Lands," and might have expected to succeed to the throne should the king die childless. He had to wait a few years, but eventually Horemheb achieved the pinnacle of his career by becoming the last king of the 18th Dynasty, making his mark by instituting dramatic reforms to the organisation of the army, the judiciary and administration in general. The lasting success of these changes owed much to his scribal background...

(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. To these boarding establishments ... family or household servants delivered the students' food and drink rations daily for several years, during which time the student was not contributing to the family's income. 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. This limited the scope for employment but such "on the job" training allowed apprentices to help out at home while learning....

(5) Scribal education began with the elementary principles of the hieratic script. The lowliest scribes, who trained for just five or six years, probably learned only the rudiments of the hieroglyphic script. Students were set exemplar documents and extracts from popular texts to copy, to practice their hieratic handwriting on basic-format letters, reports and contracts, while absorbing the good advice contained in the texts. Surviving examples of copy-work sometimes include tutors' corrections added in red. Some significant Egyptian literary works survive almost exclusively from student copies.

(6) A schoolboy "dictionary" of hieroglyphs with their hieratic equivalents shows that a knowledge of more than 450 signs was required for everyday writing purposes. Lessons in record-keeping and filing and labelling enabled any half-competent scribe to perform that most essential of all scribal functions: the making and updating of lists. For professions such as those of government official, priest or lawyer, a scribe would train for several more years, increasing his vocabulary to perhaps a thousand or more signs. Those with the best handwriting or drawing skills might follow the craft of creating beautifully illustrated copies of funerary texts, commonly called Books of the Dead. Others could become draughtsmen, artists or architects. Doctors compiled their own collections of medication recipes, treatments and associated incantations, many copied from texts found in the House of Life, the temple library. Lawyers had to be familiar with the corpus of civil and religious laws and precedents found in the official records, which were administered by archivists. Egypt's bureaucratic society depended on the skills of an army of scribes of all ranks from filing clerk to tax assessor. For young Egyptians, "be a scribe" was the best of career advice.

The author claims in paragraph 3: "Scraps of ancient hieratic writing, mostly penned by student scribes on limestone flakes called ostraca, suggest that no matter how humble his origins, an educated Egyptian could achieve almost anything." Based on the paragraph, "humble" most nearly means

Excerpt from "Do Them No Harm!" by Zoa L. Swayne

(1) In the moon of Ta-Yum, the hottest days of summer, when salmon spawn in the little streams and huckleberries ripen in the high mountains, people from many villages of the Chopunnish Nation gathered in the Oyaip Prairie for the work and festivities of their annual camas harvest.

(2) From far and near The People came....

(3) Should a stranger enter their homeland and ask, "Where are you from?" the reply was always, "We are Nee-mee-poo, The People who live here in this place."

(4) It was a time of Lawtiwa-mah-ton—a time of being friends together—when The People came for this last chance to enjoy being together before the Cold Moons kept them close to their fires. The visiting and trading, the foot racing and horse racing, and the gambling and stick games would be remembered and talked about long after they had forgotten the drudgery of digging and roasting camas, picking berries, or drying meat and fish. Lawtiwa-mah-ton! It was good to be friends together.

(5) As was their custom since wahk-kee-ma, a time far back beyond the memory of man, they set up their camps in the same locations their parents and grandparents had occupied before them. Red Bear's people, from Kamiah, made their camp near the trail that came out of the mountains. Their neighbors in Kamiah Valley, The People from Tee-e-lap-a-lo, had their camp close by. Across the wide meadow, by the great roasting pits, the camps of the Te-wap-poo and Ask-kah-poo were located. The tepees and ish-nash, brush shelters, of other groups nestled in their accustomed areas in and among the pines in such numbers that they encircled the entire meadow land.

(6) Red Bear's people had traveled all summer with neighboring bands, gathering and preparing roots, picking and drying berries, drying and smoking meat and fish for their winter food supply. Now they were at the Oyaip camp. The women worked hard to dig and cure as many bags of roots as they could during the warm, sunny days, for the sharp night air brought warnings that WARM was going and COLD was coming.

(7) Everyone helped in some way. Most of the men fished or hunted for meat. While many of the women dug and roasted camas, other women and older children picked and dried berries.

(8) And the younger children played. They played at hunting. They played with the babies. They played with their horses and puppies. They learned how to live through their play.

(9) This sun, happiness, peace, and quiet blessed the Red Bear camp. All were busy with their daily tasks, until sudden cries came from the children playing by the trail.

(10) —"People coming! People coming! People coming on the trail from the high mountains!" they called as they ran to their elders, who looked sharply at the figures of approaching horsemen.

(11) Were they friends or enemies? Did they bring good news or bad?

(12) "Who can it be? What brings them here?" were the questions in every mind.

(13) "Could they be the four hunters who had gone to Buffalo Country two summers past? Would they have news of the families who had gone long ago to Buffalo Country and never returned?"

(14) It was customary for a hunting party to be gone for more than one season.

(15) —"Looks like hunters," the older men agreed. ... "Maybe our four hunters..."

(16) —"Looks like five people—not four," others observed.

(17) Excitement grew as the riders came close enough to be recognized.

(18) "A-a-a-a-a, they are our four hunters! But who is the fifth person?" they asked.

(19) "Looks like a woman. Who is she?"

(20) The hunters rode up to the welcoming crowd, proud to show off the loads of meat, hides, and other trophies of their hunt. They paraded around the encampment for all to see how strong their Hunting Power had been—what great hunters they, themselves, were.

(21) Red Bear's people rejoiced at their hunters' success. Good hunters brought good to everybody. The meat meant plenty of food and the hides meant soft-tanned robes to give comfort through the Cold Moons. But it was the sight of the frail figure of the woman that aroused their curiosity. Who was she? Where had she come from?

(22) Now they could see! She was the daughter of the family gone so long ago! The girl-child who had left came back now—a grown woman.

(23) "Wat-ku-ese!" the women cried. "Gone-from-Home-then-Come-Back. Wat-ku-ese!" And Wat-ku-ese was her name from that time on.

(24) Gentle arms lifted Wat-ku-ese from her horse. The women brought her food and made a place for her to rest. For many suns they cared for her until she became stronger.

(25) One evening Wat-ku-ese told her story for all to hear.

In paragraph 6, the author writes, "The women worked hard to dig and cure as many bags of roots as they could during the warm, sunny days, for the sharp night air brought warnings that WARM was going and COLD was coming." What does "cure" mean in this sentence?

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.

Paragraph 6 includes this sentence: "It wouldn't be so flat as just seeing me go off on the train from Gotham." In context, the word "flat" means

(1) The English language we speak today sounds vastly different from the English of the Middle Ages. A native of 14th-century London would find modern English almost incomprehensible, not just because of changes in vocabulary, but primarily due to a radical transformation in pronunciation. The single largest cause of this difference is a linguistic phenomenon known as the Great Vowel Shift, a series of changes that occurred in the pronunciation of long vowels in English between roughly 1400 and 1700.

(2) Before the shift, the long vowels in Middle English were pronounced much like their counterparts in modern continental European languages. For example, the word "house" was pronounced more like the modern "hoos," and "mouse" like "moos." The word "five" sounded like "feef," and "name" was pronounced with a long "ah" sound, as in "nahm." During the Great Vowel Shift, these long vowels systematically moved higher and further forward in the mouth.

(3) The exact cause of the Great Vowel Shift is still a topic of debate among historical linguists. One prominent theory suggests that it began in the south of England as a reaction to the large influx of French loanwords after the Norman Conquest. The English aristocracy, wanting to distinguish their speech from that of the French-speaking elite, may have begun to alter their vowel pronunciations. Another theory links the shift to mass migration within England after the Black Death, which led to a mixing of dialects and the eventual dominance of the East Midlands dialect, which contained the seeds of this change.

(4) This profound phonetic change had a major consequence for English spelling. Printing was standardized in England during the 15th century by William Caxton, right in the middle of the Great Vowel Shift. As a result, English spelling was largely fixed based on Middle English pronunciations, while the sounds of the words continued to change. This is why modern English has so many words where the spelling does not seem to correspond to the pronunciation—for example, "boot," "boat," and "bite" all have different vowel sounds but use letter combinations that were once more phonetically consistent.

(5) The Great Vowel Shift is a crucial event in the history of English, marking a key transition point from Middle English to Early Modern English. It helps explain not only the oddities of our spelling system but also why Shakespeare's plays, when read with their original pronunciation, can sound so different to a modern audience. It is a powerful reminder that language is not a static entity but a constantly evolving system, shaped by complex social and historical forces.

In paragraph 4, the author states, "As a result, English spelling was largely fixed based on Middle English pronunciations, while the sounds of the words continued to change." As it is used here, "fixed" means

(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.

In paragraph 2, "Charles Pearson, a city solicitor, relentlessly championed the idea of an underground railway." Which choice gives the meaning of "championed" as it is used in this sentence?

(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.

Paragraph 3 says, "However, recent research points to more concrete advantages." What does "concrete" mean in this sentence?

(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.

In paragraph 4, the author writes, "The Dunning-Kruger effect is not a matter of ego or arrogance, but rather a metacognitive deficit." The word "deficit" most nearly means

(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.

Paragraph 3 describes the acceptance letter this way: "The very weight of it felt immense, a promise and a burden all at once." In this sentence, "weight" refers to

The ancient philosopher's teachings were often enigmatic, forcing his students to ponder the deeper meanings of his paradoxical statements rather than accept simple answers.

In the sentence, the word "enigmatic" most nearly means

The lawyer's perfunctory review of the documents missed several critical errors, a mistake that would later prove costly for her client.

The word "perfunctory" in the sentence most nearly means

The artist was known for his gregarious nature; he was often the center of attention at social gatherings, surrounded by an admiring group of friends and colleagues.

In the sentence, the word "gregarious" most nearly means

The politician tried to placate the angry crowd by promising to investigate their concerns, hoping to soothe their tempers and prevent a protest.

As used in the sentence, the word "placate" most nearly means

The new CEO's plan to revitalize the company was audacious, involving risks that made many of the more conservative board members nervous.

In the sentence, the word "audacious" is best understood to mean