English Reading Comprehension

What is the central idea of the passage?

Directions: Answer the given question based on the following passage:

Some centuries before the Christian era, a Jew merchant, largely engaged in business on the Gold Coast, and reported to have made one of the largest fortunes of his time (held also in repute for much practical sagacity), left among his ledgers some general maxims concerning wealth, which have been preserved, strangely enough, even to our own days. They were held in considerable respect by the most active traders of the middle ages, especially by the Venetians, who even went so far in their admiration as to place a statue of the old Jew on the angle of one of their principle public buildings.
Of late years these writings have fallen into disrepute, being opposed in every particular to the spirit of modern commerce. Nevertheless we can reproduce a passage or two from them here, partly because they may interest the reader by their novelty; and chiefly because they will show him that it is possible for a very practical and acquisitive tradesman to hold, through a not unsuccessful career, that principle of distinction between well-gotten and ill-gotten wealth, which we must examine more completely in this.
He says, for instance, in one place: “the getting of treasures by a lying tongue is a vanity tossed to and fro of them that seek death:” adding in another, with the same meaning (he has a curious way of doubling his sayings): “treasures of wickedness profit nothing: but justice delivers from death.” Both these passages are notable for their assertion of death as the only real issue and sum of attainment by any unjust scheme of wealth. If we read, instead of ‘lying tongue’, ‘lying label, title, pretence, or advertisement,’ we shall more clearly perceive the bearing of the words on modern business.
The seeking of death is a grand expression of the true course of men’s toil in such business. We usually speak as if death pursued us, and we fled from him; but that is only so in rare instances. Ordinarily, he makes himself—makes himself beautiful—all-glorious; not like the King’s daughter, all-glorious within, but outwardly: his clothing of wrought gold. We pursue him frantically all our days, he flying or hiding from us. Our crowning success at three-score and ten is utterly and perfectly to seize, and hold him in his eternal integrity—robes, ashes, and sting.
Again the merchant says, “He that oppresses the poor to increase his riches, shall surely come to want.” And again more strongly: “Rob not the poor because he is poor; neither oppress the afflicted in the place of business. For, god shall spoil the soul of those that spoiled them.”
This ‘robbing the poor because he is poor,’ is especially the mercantile form of theft, consisting in taking advantage of a man’s necessities in order to obtain his labour or property at a reduced price. The ordinary highwayman’s opposite form of robbery—of the rich, because he is rich—does not appear to occur so often to the old merchant’s mind; probably because, being less profitable and more dangerous than the robbery of the poor, it is rarely practised by persons of discretion. (from Unto This Last)

The writer seems to suggest that what the Jew said ages ago is still relevant in as much as

Directions: Answer the given question based on the following passage:

Some centuries before the Christian era, a Jew merchant, largely engaged in business on the Gold Coast, and reported to have made one of the largest fortunes of his time (held also in repute for much practical sagacity), left among his ledgers some general maxims concerning wealth, which have been preserved, strangely enough, even to our own days. They were held in considerable respect by the most active traders of the middle ages, especially by the Venetians, who even went so far in their admiration as to place a statue of the old Jew on the angle of one of their principle public buildings.
Of late years these writings have fallen into disrepute, being opposed in every particular to the spirit of modern commerce. Nevertheless we can reproduce a passage or two from them here, partly because they may interest the reader by their novelty; and chiefly because they will show him that it is possible for a very practical and acquisitive tradesman to hold, through a not unsuccessful career, that principle of distinction between well-gotten and ill-gotten wealth, which we must examine more completely in this.
He says, for instance, in one place: “the getting of treasures by a lying tongue is a vanity tossed to and fro of them that seek death:” adding in another, with the same meaning (he has a curious way of doubling his sayings): “treasures of wickedness profit nothing: but justice delivers from death.” Both these passages are notable for their assertion of death as the only real issue and sum of attainment by any unjust scheme of wealth. If we read, instead of ‘lying tongue’, ‘lying label, title, pretence, or advertisement,’ we shall more clearly perceive the bearing of the words on modern business.
The seeking of death is a grand expression of the true course of men’s toil in such business. We usually speak as if death pursued us, and we fled from him; but that is only so in rare instances. Ordinarily, he makes himself—makes himself beautiful—all-glorious; not like the King’s daughter, all-glorious within, but outwardly: his clothing of wrought gold. We pursue him frantically all our days, he flying or hiding from us. Our crowning success at three-score and ten is utterly and perfectly to seize, and hold him in his eternal integrity—robes, ashes, and sting.
Again the merchant says, “He that oppresses the poor to increase his riches, shall surely come to want.” And again more strongly: “Rob not the poor because he is poor; neither oppress the afflicted in the place of business. For, god shall spoil the soul of those that spoiled them.”
This ‘robbing the poor because he is poor,’ is especially the mercantile form of theft, consisting in taking advantage of a man’s necessities in order to obtain his labour or property at a reduced price. The ordinary highwayman’s opposite form of robbery—of the rich, because he is rich—does not appear to occur so often to the old merchant’s mind; probably because, being less profitable and more dangerous than the robbery of the poor, it is rarely practised by persons of discretion. (from Unto This Last)

Which of the following can definitely not be inferred from the passage?

Directions: Answer the given question based on the following passage:

Some centuries before the Christian era, a Jew merchant, largely engaged in business on the Gold Coast, and reported to have made one of the largest fortunes of his time (held also in repute for much practical sagacity), left among his ledgers some general maxims concerning wealth, which have been preserved, strangely enough, even to our own days. They were held in considerable respect by the most active traders of the middle ages, especially by the Venetians, who even went so far in their admiration as to place a statue of the old Jew on the angle of one of their principle public buildings.
Of late years these writings have fallen into disrepute, being opposed in every particular to the spirit of modern commerce. Nevertheless we can reproduce a passage or two from them here, partly because they may interest the reader by their novelty; and chiefly because they will show him that it is possible for a very practical and acquisitive tradesman to hold, through a not unsuccessful career, that principle of distinction between well-gotten and ill-gotten wealth, which we must examine more completely in this.
He says, for instance, in one place: “the getting of treasures by a lying tongue is a vanity tossed to and fro of them that seek death:” adding in another, with the same meaning (he has a curious way of doubling his sayings): “treasures of wickedness profit nothing: but justice delivers from death.” Both these passages are notable for their assertion of death as the only real issue and sum of attainment by any unjust scheme of wealth. If we read, instead of ‘lying tongue’, ‘lying label, title, pretence, or advertisement,’ we shall more clearly perceive the bearing of the words on modern business.
The seeking of death is a grand expression of the true course of men’s toil in such business. We usually speak as if death pursued us, and we fled from him; but that is only so in rare instances. Ordinarily, he makes himself—makes himself beautiful—all-glorious; not like the King’s daughter, all-glorious within, but outwardly: his clothing of wrought gold. We pursue him frantically all our days, he flying or hiding from us. Our crowning success at three-score and ten is utterly and perfectly to seize, and hold him in his eternal integrity—robes, ashes, and sting.
Again the merchant says, “He that oppresses the poor to increase his riches, shall surely come to want.” And again more strongly: “Rob not the poor because he is poor; neither oppress the afflicted in the place of business. For, god shall spoil the soul of those that spoiled them.”
This ‘robbing the poor because he is poor,’ is especially the mercantile form of theft, consisting in taking advantage of a man’s necessities in order to obtain his labour or property at a reduced price. The ordinary highwayman’s opposite form of robbery—of the rich, because he is rich—does not appear to occur so often to the old merchant’s mind; probably because, being less profitable and more dangerous than the robbery of the poor, it is rarely practised by persons of discretion. (from Unto This Last)

Why does the author call 'robbing the poor because he is poor' the mercantile form of theft?

Directions: Answer the given question based on the following passage:

Some centuries before the Christian era, a Jew merchant, largely engaged in business on the Gold Coast, and reported to have made one of the largest fortunes of his time (held also in repute for much practical sagacity), left among his ledgers some general maxims concerning wealth, which have been preserved, strangely enough, even to our own days. They were held in considerable respect by the most active traders of the middle ages, especially by the Venetians, who even went so far in their admiration as to place a statue of the old Jew on the angle of one of their principle public buildings.
Of late years these writings have fallen into disrepute, being opposed in every particular to the spirit of modern commerce. Nevertheless we can reproduce a passage or two from them here, partly because they may interest the reader by their novelty; and chiefly because they will show him that it is possible for a very practical and acquisitive tradesman to hold, through a not unsuccessful career, that principle of distinction between well-gotten and ill-gotten wealth, which we must examine more completely in this.
He says, for instance, in one place: “the getting of treasures by a lying tongue is a vanity tossed to and fro of them that seek death:” adding in another, with the same meaning (he has a curious way of doubling his sayings): “treasures of wickedness profit nothing: but justice delivers from death.” Both these passages are notable for their assertion of death as the only real issue and sum of attainment by any unjust scheme of wealth. If we read, instead of ‘lying tongue’, ‘lying label, title, pretence, or advertisement,’ we shall more clearly perceive the bearing of the words on modern business.
The seeking of death is a grand expression of the true course of men’s toil in such business. We usually speak as if death pursued us, and we fled from him; but that is only so in rare instances. Ordinarily, he makes himself—makes himself beautiful—all-glorious; not like the King’s daughter, all-glorious within, but outwardly: his clothing of wrought gold. We pursue him frantically all our days, he flying or hiding from us. Our crowning success at three-score and ten is utterly and perfectly to seize, and hold him in his eternal integrity—robes, ashes, and sting.
Again the merchant says, “He that oppresses the poor to increase his riches, shall surely come to want.” And again more strongly: “Rob not the poor because he is poor; neither oppress the afflicted in the place of business. For, god shall spoil the soul of those that spoiled them.”
This ‘robbing the poor because he is poor,’ is especially the mercantile form of theft, consisting in taking advantage of a man’s necessities in order to obtain his labour or property at a reduced price. The ordinary highwayman’s opposite form of robbery—of the rich, because he is rich—does not appear to occur so often to the old merchant’s mind; probably because, being less profitable and more dangerous than the robbery of the poor, it is rarely practised by persons of discretion. (from Unto This Last)

The author has used the symbol of bird and described it as ‘twice-born’. How does it help him build on his theme?

Directions: Answer the given question based on the following passage:

In the Sanskrit language, the bird is described as ‘twice-born’—once in its limited shell and then finally in the freedom of the unbounded sky. Those of our community who believe in the liberation of man’s limited self in the freedom of the spirit retain the same epithet for themselves. In all departments of life man shows this dualism—his existence within the range of obvious facts and his transcendence of it in a realm of deeper meaning.
Having this instinct inherent in his mind which ever suggests to him the crossing of the border, he has never accepted what is apparent as final, and his incessant struggle has been to break through the shell of his limitations. In this attempt, he often goes against the instincts of his vital nature, and even exults in his defiance of the extreme penal laws of the biological kingdom. The best wealth of his civilisation has been achieved by his following the guidance of this instinct in his ceaseless adventure of the endless further. His achievement of truth goes far beyond his needs and the realisation of his self strives across the frontier of its individual interest. This proves to him his infirmity and makes his religion real to him by his own manifestation in truth and goodness. Only for man can there be religion, because his evolution is from efficiency in nature towards the perfection of spirit.
According to some interpretations of the Vedanta doctrine, Brahman is the absolute Truth, the impersonal. It, in which there can be no distinction of this and that, the good and the evil, the beautiful and its opposite, having no other quality except its ineffable blissfulness in the eternal solitude of its consciousness utterly devoid of all things and all thoughts. But, as religion can only have its significance in this phenomenal world comprehended by human self, this absolute conception of Brahman is outside the subject of discussion. What, however, is tried out instead is the fact that whatever name may have been given to the divine Reality, it has found its highest place in the history of religion owning to its human character, giving meaning to the idea of sin and sanctity, and offering an eternal background to all the ideals of perfection which have their harmony with man’s own nature.
A man through the age-long tradition of yoga can transcend the utmost bounds of his humanity and find himself in a pure state of consciousness of his undivided unity with Parabrahman. There is none who has the right to contradict this belief, for it is a matter of direct experience and not logic. It is widely known that there are individuals who have the power to attain temporarily the state of Samadhi, the complete merging of the self in the infinite, a state which is indescribable. While accepting their testimony as true, let us at the same time have faith in the testimony of others who have felt a profound love, which is the intense feeling of union, for a Being who comprehends in himself all things that are human in knowledge, will and action. And he is God, who is not merely a sum total of facts, but the goal that lies immensely beyond all that is comprised in the past and the present. (from The Religion of Man by Rabindra Nath Tagore)

Which of the following statements is not true as per the passage?

Directions: Answer the given question based on the following passage:

Those who scorn the idea that spooks and spectres prowl and shimmer through the world do so because no one has so far caught a ghost in a bottle, because they are sceptical by habit, or because they resist the notion that death may not be final.

For many the word "ghost" conjures up an anonymous white-robed figure, a spirit who has come back from the grave to haunt the living. But in the annals of ghostdom, spectral beings come in a variety of forms and shapes, and some never put in an appearance at all, although they make their presence felt. Ghosts also differ in behaviour- they may be aimless, purposeful, playful, angelic, and even demonic.

There are three lines of explanation for ghostly phenomena: the spiritual, mechanical, and psychological. The most firmly established is the spiritual thesis, which holds that ghosts are intelligent beings. The first version of this idea is that ghosts are the spirits of dead humans. They continue to resemble their earthly forms in appearance and dress and are found re-enacting things they did in the past, bound to their haunting grounds by guilt, remorse, desire, or habit. They may be malevolent, kindly, or indifferent toward human beings. People who take this view of ghosts regard them as marking time in a spiritual halfway house between this world and heaven, purgatory, or hell.

According to another version of the spiritual view, a ghost's resemblance to a formerly living person or animal is actually a masquerade adopted for its own purpose, the real appearance of ghosts being quite different. Some ghosts, for instance, appear as vaporous columns or clouds of light.

In the third view of ghosts as a spiritual phenomenon, these apparitions are not beings in either of the senses described above. Instead, they are illusions created by powerful classes of angelic or demonic beings for the purpose of helping or harming those who see them. Miracles are an example of intervention by angelic or enlightened powers, while most poltergeist episodes are held to be demonic.

The mechanical interpretation is that ghosts are images without substance, somehow recorded in an etherise medium and visible under certain conditions to those of a certain case of mind. This idea accords well with some frequently observed phenomena - the way some ghosts have of disappearing into thin air. It does not explain those cases where the ghost interacts intelligently with those who see it.

In the psychological view of the phenomenon, ghosts reveal a spectrum of powerful but not yet understood capacities of the human mind. In these terms, some ghosts are the product of telepathic powers, as when a relative or friend appears to another at the time of death: others - poltergeist phenomena - suggest unwitting and uncontrolled psychokinetic abilities. And some- the appearance of phantom doubles-suggest that out-of-body experiences may sometimes be manifest to others.

In fact, most believers in ghosts are probably willing to accept all of these thesis as helping to explain a complex and varied phenomenon. Sceptics, on the other hand resorting to the dry but sturdy arguments to what they consider to be common sense, are apt to maintain that stories of ghosts are lies, hallucinations, or earnest reports of misperceptions. But the most convincing evidence of the existence of spectres still seems to be their appearance on the scene.

The poet says that the shinning star is all of the following, except _________________.

What is the tone of the poem?

This essay is more like story of a soldier who vividly records historical events while

Directions: Answer the given question based on the following passage:

An English soldier whose fortunes, for most of the war, were not out of the common, left England and landed in France by the same ports as Falstaff and Henry V on their journey to Agincourt. He disembarked on the quay where Burne-Jones and Morris, walking there in their youth, had vowed themselves to the careers by which they were to tint the mind of educated England for a generation. He first marched up into the line across the country of Dumas’s Three Musketeers, passing the belfry of Bethune and tramping the road to Cambrin, which the son of Athons had ridden to join the staff of Conde. Dulled for a time by the effect of combustion, his hunger for seeing the sights revived in a tent in the park of Versailles, near the Petit Trianon, where countless bunches of mistletoe sat still, like pheasants, on the boughs of trees that had been young with Marie-Antoinette. When convalescent, he sojourned under canvas for two winter months upon the sands where Napoleon had mustered his grand armada of flat-bottomed craft for the projected descent upon England. Restored for a season to his own friends in the line, he was presently sent travelling again, this time by trench fever. He came to his wits, warm and at rest, in a marvellous tent lined with silk and double-walled, the gift of an Indian Prince to an Emperor.  Beneficent and inscrutable powers bore him away to a regal city where Joan of Arc had been burnt and King John had murdered Prince Arthur. When he could walk on a deck, genies carried him down to a quay and put him on board a black ship, to glide for a whole sunny April day down the unwinding coils of a river, so divinely puissant and so fringed with diverse delights to the eye, that a lifetime’s loyalty to our queenly Thames was for some dizzy moments seriously imperiled. Falling early to sleep, the serene infant sleep of health reborn, he awoke to the sound of water lapping quietly under opened potholes—Southampton. Water rippling and shining, fringed with inviolate trees, the unshelled houses gleaming white and red among them: England ten times herself, intoxicatingly unforeign. And the English trains, smooth movers along well-wheeled tracks through cuttings vivacious with the English primrose, to drop the impersonally conducted tourist in a new dwelling-place of wonder, with Plymouth Sound below his window and Drake’s bowling-green above his chimneys.
To charm him next there came a month of guarding on the Firth of Forth, of living in a half-dismantled ancient fort, a fort of Walter Scott, with Edinburgh Castle lifting to the skies above the great smoke in the south, and the first Highland hills to the north-west stretched out pensive in the long midsummer sunsets that always had the gaunt queer lines of the Forth Bridge laid down on them monstrously black; and once the great fleet streaming out in slow procession from its guarded haunt above the bridge, and returning a day or two later, diminished and bringing its wounded, some ships in tow, some with their funnels knocked awry, and moving slowly, as with pain; some with a first-aid dressing of red-painted bedding stuffed into holes in their sides; and then the first leave men coming chuckling ashore at the pier and telling the soldiers off duty how they had knocked Fritz at Jutland; their voices are audible still, and the laughter mingling in the summer night with a plashing of oars and elfish summer lightning while the sentry searchlight, grave, alert and steady on its post, wheels to and fro across the gateway of the Firth.
The spectacle of many battles followed—defeat and victory, always in illustrious places; the Somme with its sultry months of slaughter-house smell and flies and frustration; Arras, petering out in futile attrition after its first wondrous morning of tempest, rain and wasted valour, when the battle, seen from above, wrote itself clear in legible letters of flame on the blackboard of a moonless last hour of night; Messines, where all the British mines, exploding together in the flight’s first moment, shook the little hill from which our soldier looked down upon the fight as if it were a little boat on a choppy sea; and Flanders, Cambrai, St Quentin and all the great days of the three months of triumph.  (from The Right Place by CE Montague)

As an essay it will be categorized as

Directions: Answer the given question based on the following passage:

An English soldier whose fortunes, for most of the war, were not out of the common, left England and landed in France by the same ports as Falstaff and Henry V on their journey to Agincourt. He disembarked on the quay where Burne-Jones and Morris, walking there in their youth, had vowed themselves to the careers by which they were to tint the mind of educated England for a generation. He first marched up into the line across the country of Dumas’s Three Musketeers, passing the belfry of Bethune and tramping the road to Cambrin, which the son of Athons had ridden to join the staff of Conde. Dulled for a time by the effect of combustion, his hunger for seeing the sights revived in a tent in the park of Versailles, near the Petit Trianon, where countless bunches of mistletoe sat still, like pheasants, on the boughs of trees that had been young with Marie-Antoinette. When convalescent, he sojourned under canvas for two winter months upon the sands where Napoleon had mustered his grand armada of flat-bottomed craft for the projected descent upon England. Restored for a season to his own friends in the line, he was presently sent travelling again, this time by trench fever. He came to his wits, warm and at rest, in a marvellous tent lined with silk and double-walled, the gift of an Indian Prince to an Emperor.  Beneficent and inscrutable powers bore him away to a regal city where Joan of Arc had been burnt and King John had murdered Prince Arthur. When he could walk on a deck, genies carried him down to a quay and put him on board a black ship, to glide for a whole sunny April day down the unwinding coils of a river, so divinely puissant and so fringed with diverse delights to the eye, that a lifetime’s loyalty to our queenly Thames was for some dizzy moments seriously imperiled. Falling early to sleep, the serene infant sleep of health reborn, he awoke to the sound of water lapping quietly under opened potholes—Southampton. Water rippling and shining, fringed with inviolate trees, the unshelled houses gleaming white and red among them: England ten times herself, intoxicatingly unforeign. And the English trains, smooth movers along well-wheeled tracks through cuttings vivacious with the English primrose, to drop the impersonally conducted tourist in a new dwelling-place of wonder, with Plymouth Sound below his window and Drake’s bowling-green above his chimneys.
To charm him next there came a month of guarding on the Firth of Forth, of living in a half-dismantled ancient fort, a fort of Walter Scott, with Edinburgh Castle lifting to the skies above the great smoke in the south, and the first Highland hills to the north-west stretched out pensive in the long midsummer sunsets that always had the gaunt queer lines of the Forth Bridge laid down on them monstrously black; and once the great fleet streaming out in slow procession from its guarded haunt above the bridge, and returning a day or two later, diminished and bringing its wounded, some ships in tow, some with their funnels knocked awry, and moving slowly, as with pain; some with a first-aid dressing of red-painted bedding stuffed into holes in their sides; and then the first leave men coming chuckling ashore at the pier and telling the soldiers off duty how they had knocked Fritz at Jutland; their voices are audible still, and the laughter mingling in the summer night with a plashing of oars and elfish summer lightning while the sentry searchlight, grave, alert and steady on its post, wheels to and fro across the gateway of the Firth.
The spectacle of many battles followed—defeat and victory, always in illustrious places; the Somme with its sultry months of slaughter-house smell and flies and frustration; Arras, petering out in futile attrition after its first wondrous morning of tempest, rain and wasted valour, when the battle, seen from above, wrote itself clear in legible letters of flame on the blackboard of a moonless last hour of night; Messines, where all the British mines, exploding together in the flight’s first moment, shook the little hill from which our soldier looked down upon the fight as if it were a little boat on a choppy sea; and Flanders, Cambrai, St Quentin and all the great days of the three months of triumph.  (from The Right Place by CE Montague)

This passage which comes in the form of an essay can be categorized as

Directions: Answer the given question based on the following passage:

The cat was made for love and warmth and softness. These bring out all her best qualities. She is nearest perfection sleeping in a fluffy coil by the fire, secure of the same warmth in one human heart. We must let sleeping dogs lie, but we can bury our face in a sleeping cat and she stirs only to purr. No waking thoughts were ever more innocent. She is as near as heaven as we can get on earth, blissful, quiet, content. She alone of animals knows how to luxuriate in perfect rest. As she lies in a bath of firelight, listening to the flames, breathing her low contented hum, she does not have to consider getting out and drying herself, but lays her mind to rock on a stream of gentle truthfulness. And when this beautiful petted cat awakes with a wide yawn, and stretches herself bit by bit as if to bring her wandering spirit back by some elaborate conjuror’s trick, she wakes to the life for which she is perfectly fitted. The cat needs human affection. It is not like a rabbit, pleased to eat and frisk in lonely nature and the farther from human notice the better, nor like a sparrow or a mouse, attracted to the haunts of man by crumbs. The wild domestic cat that dodges round corners or bolts up trees, whose claw is against every man and whom every dog chases, is not the natural un-reclaimed cat, but a poor outcast from its natural heritage. Deprived of its security in man’s love the cat becomes almost a nerve-shattered maniac; and yet a little affection will turn it into the fluffy darling.
Not instinct, but experience, makes animals afraid. The young thrush comes within a yard as we sit chatting on the garden seat. Old birds trust us less, except in a land of Buddha. The scared cat is circumstantial evidence of our brutality. Even cats and dogs have no natural antipathy. They get the reputation for it because their habits in the streets are complementary; the cat runs and the dog chases. Not once in a thousand dogs would know what to do with the cat if he caught her. When a cat strikes an attitude in his path, the dog draws round her a polite circle. In a state of nature they would live in perfect amity. A kitten and a puppy greet each other with unguarded trust. Dogs usually become catters only through thoughtlessness or the sporting instinct of their owners. Though always ready to chase anything that runs, they have much kindlier nature than men. A retriever puppy will watch a rabbit hop leisurely across the lawn within ten yards of him, who never saw one dart along the road without giving a chase. An Irish terrier was seen the other day playing with a mouse, and, till the little creature bit his too inquisitive nose, no instinct prompted him to kill it. The same terrier chased the flying beech leaves as if he would catch Autumn before he stopped. If dogs and cats are born with an ultimate hunting instinct, as many blue-eyed babies will ultimately have brown eyes, they certainly start life innocent.
Although cats do not learn tricks invented by their frivolous owners, they adapt themselves very quickly to strange circumstances. Cats imported into Jamaica cleared the country of vermin so effectively that they soon left nothing to eat but insects, and on these, an occasional appetizer in their natural diet, they now live. (The Cat by Katherine M. Wilson)

What, according to the passage, could turn a nerve-shattering maniac into a fluffy darling?

Directions: Answer the given question based on the following passage:

The cat was made for love and warmth and softness. These bring out all her best qualities. She is nearest perfection sleeping in a fluffy coil by the fire, secure of the same warmth in one human heart. We must let sleeping dogs lie, but we can bury our face in a sleeping cat and she stirs only to purr. No waking thoughts were ever more innocent. She is as near as heaven as we can get on earth, blissful, quiet, content. She alone of animals knows how to luxuriate in perfect rest. As she lies in a bath of firelight, listening to the flames, breathing her low contented hum, she does not have to consider getting out and drying herself, but lays her mind to rock on a stream of gentle truthfulness. And when this beautiful petted cat awakes with a wide yawn, and stretches herself bit by bit as if to bring her wandering spirit back by some elaborate conjuror’s trick, she wakes to the life for which she is perfectly fitted. The cat needs human affection. It is not like a rabbit, pleased to eat and frisk in lonely nature and the farther from human notice the better, nor like a sparrow or a mouse, attracted to the haunts of man by crumbs. The wild domestic cat that dodges round corners or bolts up trees, whose claw is against every man and whom every dog chases, is not the natural un-reclaimed cat, but a poor outcast from its natural heritage. Deprived of its security in man’s love the cat becomes almost a nerve-shattered maniac; and yet a little affection will turn it into the fluffy darling.
Not instinct, but experience, makes animals afraid. The young thrush comes within a yard as we sit chatting on the garden seat. Old birds trust us less, except in a land of Buddha. The scared cat is circumstantial evidence of our brutality. Even cats and dogs have no natural antipathy. They get the reputation for it because their habits in the streets are complementary; the cat runs and the dog chases. Not once in a thousand dogs would know what to do with the cat if he caught her. When a cat strikes an attitude in his path, the dog draws round her a polite circle. In a state of nature they would live in perfect amity. A kitten and a puppy greet each other with unguarded trust. Dogs usually become catters only through thoughtlessness or the sporting instinct of their owners. Though always ready to chase anything that runs, they have much kindlier nature than men. A retriever puppy will watch a rabbit hop leisurely across the lawn within ten yards of him, who never saw one dart along the road without giving a chase. An Irish terrier was seen the other day playing with a mouse, and, till the little creature bit his too inquisitive nose, no instinct prompted him to kill it. The same terrier chased the flying beech leaves as if he would catch Autumn before he stopped. If dogs and cats are born with an ultimate hunting instinct, as many blue-eyed babies will ultimately have brown eyes, they certainly start life innocent.
Although cats do not learn tricks invented by their frivolous owners, they adapt themselves very quickly to strange circumstances. Cats imported into Jamaica cleared the country of vermin so effectively that they soon left nothing to eat but insects, and on these, an occasional appetizer in their natural diet, they now live. (The Cat by Katherine M. Wilson)

What lends support to the author's assertion in the passage that dogs are not the natural enemies of cats?

Directions: Answer the given question based on the following passage:

The cat was made for love and warmth and softness. These bring out all her best qualities. She is nearest perfection sleeping in a fluffy coil by the fire, secure of the same warmth in one human heart. We must let sleeping dogs lie, but we can bury our face in a sleeping cat and she stirs only to purr. No waking thoughts were ever more innocent. She is as near as heaven as we can get on earth, blissful, quiet, content. She alone of animals knows how to luxuriate in perfect rest. As she lies in a bath of firelight, listening to the flames, breathing her low contented hum, she does not have to consider getting out and drying herself, but lays her mind to rock on a stream of gentle truthfulness. And when this beautiful petted cat awakes with a wide yawn, and stretches herself bit by bit as if to bring her wandering spirit back by some elaborate conjuror’s trick, she wakes to the life for which she is perfectly fitted. The cat needs human affection. It is not like a rabbit, pleased to eat and frisk in lonely nature and the farther from human notice the better, nor like a sparrow or a mouse, attracted to the haunts of man by crumbs. The wild domestic cat that dodges round corners or bolts up trees, whose claw is against every man and whom every dog chases, is not the natural un-reclaimed cat, but a poor outcast from its natural heritage. Deprived of its security in man’s love the cat becomes almost a nerve-shattered maniac; and yet a little affection will turn it into the fluffy darling.
Not instinct, but experience, makes animals afraid. The young thrush comes within a yard as we sit chatting on the garden seat. Old birds trust us less, except in a land of Buddha. The scared cat is circumstantial evidence of our brutality. Even cats and dogs have no natural antipathy. They get the reputation for it because their habits in the streets are complementary; the cat runs and the dog chases. Not once in a thousand dogs would know what to do with the cat if he caught her. When a cat strikes an attitude in his path, the dog draws round her a polite circle. In a state of nature they would live in perfect amity. A kitten and a puppy greet each other with unguarded trust. Dogs usually become catters only through thoughtlessness or the sporting instinct of their owners. Though always ready to chase anything that runs, they have much kindlier nature than men. A retriever puppy will watch a rabbit hop leisurely across the lawn within ten yards of him, who never saw one dart along the road without giving a chase. An Irish terrier was seen the other day playing with a mouse, and, till the little creature bit his too inquisitive nose, no instinct prompted him to kill it. The same terrier chased the flying beech leaves as if he would catch Autumn before he stopped. If dogs and cats are born with an ultimate hunting instinct, as many blue-eyed babies will ultimately have brown eyes, they certainly start life innocent.
Although cats do not learn tricks invented by their frivolous owners, they adapt themselves very quickly to strange circumstances. Cats imported into Jamaica cleared the country of vermin so effectively that they soon left nothing to eat but insects, and on these, an occasional appetizer in their natural diet, they now live. (The Cat by Katherine M. Wilson)

Why does the author say that the scared cat is circumstantial evidence of our brutality?

Directions: Answer the given question based on the following passage:

The cat was made for love and warmth and softness. These bring out all her best qualities. She is nearest perfection sleeping in a fluffy coil by the fire, secure of the same warmth in one human heart. We must let sleeping dogs lie, but we can bury our face in a sleeping cat and she stirs only to purr. No waking thoughts were ever more innocent. She is as near as heaven as we can get on earth, blissful, quiet, content. She alone of animals knows how to luxuriate in perfect rest. As she lies in a bath of firelight, listening to the flames, breathing her low contented hum, she does not have to consider getting out and drying herself, but lays her mind to rock on a stream of gentle truthfulness. And when this beautiful petted cat awakes with a wide yawn, and stretches herself bit by bit as if to bring her wandering spirit back by some elaborate conjuror’s trick, she wakes to the life for which she is perfectly fitted. The cat needs human affection. It is not like a rabbit, pleased to eat and frisk in lonely nature and the farther from human notice the better, nor like a sparrow or a mouse, attracted to the haunts of man by crumbs. The wild domestic cat that dodges round corners or bolts up trees, whose claw is against every man and whom every dog chases, is not the natural un-reclaimed cat, but a poor outcast from its natural heritage. Deprived of its security in man’s love the cat becomes almost a nerve-shattered maniac; and yet a little affection will turn it into the fluffy darling.
Not instinct, but experience, makes animals afraid. The young thrush comes within a yard as we sit chatting on the garden seat. Old birds trust us less, except in a land of Buddha. The scared cat is circumstantial evidence of our brutality. Even cats and dogs have no natural antipathy. They get the reputation for it because their habits in the streets are complementary; the cat runs and the dog chases. Not once in a thousand dogs would know what to do with the cat if he caught her. When a cat strikes an attitude in his path, the dog draws round her a polite circle. In a state of nature they would live in perfect amity. A kitten and a puppy greet each other with unguarded trust. Dogs usually become catters only through thoughtlessness or the sporting instinct of their owners. Though always ready to chase anything that runs, they have much kindlier nature than men. A retriever puppy will watch a rabbit hop leisurely across the lawn within ten yards of him, who never saw one dart along the road without giving a chase. An Irish terrier was seen the other day playing with a mouse, and, till the little creature bit his too inquisitive nose, no instinct prompted him to kill it. The same terrier chased the flying beech leaves as if he would catch Autumn before he stopped. If dogs and cats are born with an ultimate hunting instinct, as many blue-eyed babies will ultimately have brown eyes, they certainly start life innocent.
Although cats do not learn tricks invented by their frivolous owners, they adapt themselves very quickly to strange circumstances. Cats imported into Jamaica cleared the country of vermin so effectively that they soon left nothing to eat but insects, and on these, an occasional appetizer in their natural diet, they now live. (The Cat by Katherine M. Wilson)

What is the author trying to convey in the passage?

Directions: Read the following passage and answer the question.
Unlike a long, very long, spiral staircase inside a lighthouse, the top of which, though invisibly lost in the mists of darkness is present, or perhaps a mountain much higher than the highest, but still having a discernable acme, the journey of consciousness does not stop at any level. Like exploring an underwater maze of caves, deep under the sea, in almost pitch darkness, the human soul transcends the boundaries and barriers of time and space. There is no life-line to haul oneself back to safety if lost or paralyzed with fear, the sense of spatial reasoning is in abeyance, the eyes are nearly blind due to the pitch darkness, and yet one must feel one’s way forward by using the truncated senses to the best of one’s ability. The darkness holds unknown fears - real, and those conjured by one’s senses, unseen challenges and pitfalls as well as good and nasty surprises within its bosom and yet the journey must go on because to stop and give up means getting stuck at the same spot for eternity. According to many scientists and philosophers, time and space are the only two anchors that give us a sense of progress, direction and spatial reasoning and if both of these are removed, as they have been suggested by thinkers and visionaries alike to be the props created by humans, then nothing is left. Our world is perhaps the creation of our mind and death erases our mind like a hard drive wiped clean of all data, till the time comes for it to start storing data again on the next plane of consciousness. It is like giving up the familiar comfort of a familiar landing and venturing out in the dark unknown again. Time is relative, we live in different time zones, there is day in one part of the world while another is shrouded by the darkness of the night. The time spent waiting for a lover makes every second seem like an eternity while the same time rushes past when the deadline for some important task approaches.