The author of Passage 1 qualifies his judgment of the prairie by

Directions: The passage below is followed by a question based on its content. Answer the question on the basis of what is stated or implied in the passage.

These passages present two perspectives of the prairie, the grasslands that covered much of the central plains of the United States during the nineteenth century.

Passage 1

We came upon the Prairie at sunset. It would be difficult to say why, or how – though it was possibly from having heard and read so much about it – but the effect on me was disappointment. Towards the setting sun, there lay stretched out before my view a vast expanse of level ground, unbroken (save by one thin line of trees, which scarcely amounted to a scratch upon the great blank) until it met the glowing sky, wherein it seemed to dip, mingling with its rich colors and mellowing in its distant blue. There it lay, a tranquil sea or lake without water, if such a simile be admissible, with the day going down upon it: a few birds wheeling here and there, solitude and silence reigning paramount around, but the grass was not yet high; there were bare–black patches on the ground and the wild flowers that the eye could see were poor and scanty. Great as the picture was, its very flatness and extent, which left nothing to the imagination, tamed it down and cramped its interest. I felt little of that sense of freedom and exhilaration that the open landscape of a Scottish moor, or even the rolling hills of our English downlands, inspires. It was lonely and wild, but oppressive in its barren monotony. I felt that in traversing the Prairies, I could never abandon myself to the scene, forgetful of all else, as I should instinctively were heather moorland beneath my feet. On the Prairie I should often glance towards the distant and frequently receding line of the horizon, and wish it gained and passed. It is not a scene to be forgotten, but it is scarcely one, I think (at all events, as I saw it), to remember with much pleasure or to covet the looking–on again, in after years.

Passage 2

In herding the cattle on horseback, we children came to know all the open prairie round about and found it very beautiful. On the uplands, a short, light–green grass grew, intermixed with various resinous weeds, while in the lowland grazing grounds luxuriant patches of blue joint, wild oats, and other tall forage plants waved in the wind. Along the streams, cattails and tiger lilies nodded above thick mats of wide–bladed marsh grass.
Almost without realizing it, I came to know the character of every weed, every flower, every living thing big enough to be seen from the back of a horse. Nothing could be more generous, more joyous, than these natural meadows in summer. The flash and ripple and glimmer of the tall sunflowers, the chirp and gurgle of red–winged blackbirds swaying on the willow, the meadow larks piping from grassy bogs, the peep of the prairie chick and the wailing call of plover on the flowery green slopes of the uplands made it all an ecstatic world to me. It was a wide world with a big, big sky that gave alluring hints of the still more glorious unknown wilderness beyond.
Sometimes we wandered away to the meadows along the creek, gathering bouquets of pinks, sweet williams, tiger lilies, and lady's slippers. The sun flamed across the splendid serial waves of the grasses and the perfumes of a hundred spicy plants rose in the shimmering midday air. At such times the mere joy of living filled our hearts with wordless satisfaction.
On a long ridge to the north and west, the soil, too wet and cold to cultivate easily, remained for several years. Scattered over these clay lands stood small wooded groves that we called "tow–heads." They stood out like islands in the waving seas of grasses. Against these dark green masses, breakers of blue joint radiantly rolled. To the east ran the river; plum trees and crab apples bloomed along its banks. In June, immense crops of wild strawberries appeared in the natural meadows. Their delicious odor rose to us as we rode our way, tempting us to dismount.
On the bare upland ridges lay huge antlers, bleached and bare, in countless numbers, telling of the herds of elk and bison that had once fed in these vast savannas. On sunny April days, the mother fox lay out with her young on southward sloping swells. Often we met a prairie wolf, finding in it the spirit of the wilderness. To us it seemed that just over the next long swell toward the sunset the shaggy brown bison still fed in myriads, and in our hearts was a longing to ride away into the "sunset regions" of our pioneer songs.

One aspect of Passage 2 that might make it difficult to appreciate it is the author's apparent assumption that readers will

Directions: The passage below is followed by a question based on its content. Answer the question on the basis of what is stated or implied in the passage.

These passages present two perspectives of the prairie, the grasslands that covered much of the central plains of the United States during the nineteenth century.

Passage 1

We came upon the Prairie at sunset. It would be difficult to say why, or how – though it was possibly from having heard and read so much about it – but the effect on me was disappointment. Towards the setting sun, there lay stretched out before my view a vast expanse of level ground, unbroken (save by one thin line of trees, which scarcely amounted to a scratch upon the great blank) until it met the glowing sky, wherein it seemed to dip, mingling with its rich colors and mellowing in its distant blue. There it lay, a tranquil sea or lake without water, if such a simile be admissible, with the day going down upon it: a few birds wheeling here and there, solitude and silence reigning paramount around, but the grass was not yet high; there were bare–black patches on the ground and the wild flowers that the eye could see were poor and scanty. Great as the picture was, its very flatness and extent, which left nothing to the imagination, tamed it down and cramped its interest. I felt little of that sense of freedom and exhilaration that the open landscape of a Scottish moor, or even the rolling hills of our English downlands, inspires. It was lonely and wild, but oppressive in its barren monotony. I felt that in traversing the Prairies, I could never abandon myself to the scene, forgetful of all else, as I should instinctively were heather moorland beneath my feet. On the Prairie I should often glance towards the distant and frequently receding line of the horizon, and wish it gained and passed. It is not a scene to be forgotten, but it is scarcely one, I think (at all events, as I saw it), to remember with much pleasure or to covet the looking–on again, in after years.

Passage 2

In herding the cattle on horseback, we children came to know all the open prairie round about and found it very beautiful. On the uplands, a short, light–green grass grew, intermixed with various resinous weeds, while in the lowland grazing grounds luxuriant patches of blue joint, wild oats, and other tall forage plants waved in the wind. Along the streams, cattails and tiger lilies nodded above thick mats of wide–bladed marsh grass.
Almost without realizing it, I came to know the character of every weed, every flower, every living thing big enough to be seen from the back of a horse. Nothing could be more generous, more joyous, than these natural meadows in summer. The flash and ripple and glimmer of the tall sunflowers, the chirp and gurgle of red–winged blackbirds swaying on the willow, the meadow larks piping from grassy bogs, the peep of the prairie chick and the wailing call of plover on the flowery green slopes of the uplands made it all an ecstatic world to me. It was a wide world with a big, big sky that gave alluring hints of the still more glorious unknown wilderness beyond.
Sometimes we wandered away to the meadows along the creek, gathering bouquets of pinks, sweet williams, tiger lilies, and lady's slippers. The sun flamed across the splendid serial waves of the grasses and the perfumes of a hundred spicy plants rose in the shimmering midday air. At such times the mere joy of living filled our hearts with wordless satisfaction.
On a long ridge to the north and west, the soil, too wet and cold to cultivate easily, remained for several years. Scattered over these clay lands stood small wooded groves that we called "tow–heads." They stood out like islands in the waving seas of grasses. Against these dark green masses, breakers of blue joint radiantly rolled. To the east ran the river; plum trees and crab apples bloomed along its banks. In June, immense crops of wild strawberries appeared in the natural meadows. Their delicious odor rose to us as we rode our way, tempting us to dismount.
On the bare upland ridges lay huge antlers, bleached and bare, in countless numbers, telling of the herds of elk and bison that had once fed in these vast savannas. On sunny April days, the mother fox lay out with her young on southward sloping swells. Often we met a prairie wolf, finding in it the spirit of the wilderness. To us it seemed that just over the next long swell toward the sunset the shaggy brown bison still fed in myriads, and in our hearts was a longing to ride away into the "sunset regions" of our pioneer songs.

In Passage 1, the word 'tamed' most nearly means

Directions: The passage below is followed by a question based on its content. Answer the question on the basis of what is stated or implied in the passage.

These passages present two perspectives of the prairie, the grasslands that covered much of the central plains of the United States during the nineteenth century.

Passage 1

We came upon the Prairie at sunset. It would be difficult to say why, or how – though it was possibly from having heard and read so much about it – but the effect on me was disappointment. Towards the setting sun, there lay stretched out before my view a vast expanse of level ground, unbroken (save by one thin line of trees, which scarcely amounted to a scratch upon the great blank) until it met the glowing sky, wherein it seemed to dip, mingling with its rich colors and mellowing in its distant blue. There it lay, a tranquil sea or lake without water, if such a simile be admissible, with the day going down upon it: a few birds wheeling here and there, solitude and silence reigning paramount around, but the grass was not yet high; there were bare–black patches on the ground and the wild flowers that the eye could see were poor and scanty. Great as the picture was, its very flatness and extent, which left nothing to the imagination, tamed it down and cramped its interest. I felt little of that sense of freedom and exhilaration that the open landscape of a Scottish moor, or even the rolling hills of our English downlands, inspires. It was lonely and wild, but oppressive in its barren monotony. I felt that in traversing the Prairies, I could never abandon myself to the scene, forgetful of all else, as I should instinctively were heather moorland beneath my feet. On the Prairie I should often glance towards the distant and frequently receding line of the horizon, and wish it gained and passed. It is not a scene to be forgotten, but it is scarcely one, I think (at all events, as I saw it), to remember with much pleasure or to covet the looking–on again, in after years.

Passage 2

In herding the cattle on horseback, we children came to know all the open prairie round about and found it very beautiful. On the uplands, a short, light–green grass grew, intermixed with various resinous weeds, while in the lowland grazing grounds luxuriant patches of blue joint, wild oats, and other tall forage plants waved in the wind. Along the streams, cattails and tiger lilies nodded above thick mats of wide–bladed marsh grass.
Almost without realizing it, I came to know the character of every weed, every flower, every living thing big enough to be seen from the back of a horse. Nothing could be more generous, more joyous, than these natural meadows in summer. The flash and ripple and glimmer of the tall sunflowers, the chirp and gurgle of red–winged blackbirds swaying on the willow, the meadow larks piping from grassy bogs, the peep of the prairie chick and the wailing call of plover on the flowery green slopes of the uplands made it all an ecstatic world to me. It was a wide world with a big, big sky that gave alluring hints of the still more glorious unknown wilderness beyond.
Sometimes we wandered away to the meadows along the creek, gathering bouquets of pinks, sweet williams, tiger lilies, and lady's slippers. The sun flamed across the splendid serial waves of the grasses and the perfumes of a hundred spicy plants rose in the shimmering midday air. At such times the mere joy of living filled our hearts with wordless satisfaction.
On a long ridge to the north and west, the soil, too wet and cold to cultivate easily, remained for several years. Scattered over these clay lands stood small wooded groves that we called "tow–heads." They stood out like islands in the waving seas of grasses. Against these dark green masses, breakers of blue joint radiantly rolled. To the east ran the river; plum trees and crab apples bloomed along its banks. In June, immense crops of wild strawberries appeared in the natural meadows. Their delicious odor rose to us as we rode our way, tempting us to dismount.
On the bare upland ridges lay huge antlers, bleached and bare, in countless numbers, telling of the herds of elk and bison that had once fed in these vast savannas. On sunny April days, the mother fox lay out with her young on southward sloping swells. Often we met a prairie wolf, finding in it the spirit of the wilderness. To us it seemed that just over the next long swell toward the sunset the shaggy brown bison still fed in myriads, and in our hearts was a longing to ride away into the "sunset regions" of our pioneer songs.

The contrast between the two passages reflects primarily the biases of a

Directions: The passage below is followed by a question based on its content. Answer the question on the basis of what is stated or implied in the passage.

These passages present two perspectives of the prairie, the grasslands that covered much of the central plains of the United States during the nineteenth century.

Passage 1

We came upon the Prairie at sunset. It would be difficult to say why, or how – though it was possibly from having heard and read so much about it – but the effect on me was disappointment. Towards the setting sun, there lay stretched out before my view a vast expanse of level ground, unbroken (save by one thin line of trees, which scarcely amounted to a scratch upon the great blank) until it met the glowing sky, wherein it seemed to dip, mingling with its rich colors and mellowing in its distant blue. There it lay, a tranquil sea or lake without water, if such a simile be admissible, with the day going down upon it: a few birds wheeling here and there, solitude and silence reigning paramount around, but the grass was not yet high; there were bare–black patches on the ground and the wild flowers that the eye could see were poor and scanty. Great as the picture was, its very flatness and extent, which left nothing to the imagination, tamed it down and cramped its interest. I felt little of that sense of freedom and exhilaration that the open landscape of a Scottish moor, or even the rolling hills of our English downlands, inspires. It was lonely and wild, but oppressive in its barren monotony. I felt that in traversing the Prairies, I could never abandon myself to the scene, forgetful of all else, as I should instinctively were heather moorland beneath my feet. On the Prairie I should often glance towards the distant and frequently receding line of the horizon, and wish it gained and passed. It is not a scene to be forgotten, but it is scarcely one, I think (at all events, as I saw it), to remember with much pleasure or to covet the looking–on again, in after years.

Passage 2

In herding the cattle on horseback, we children came to know all the open prairie round about and found it very beautiful. On the uplands, a short, light–green grass grew, intermixed with various resinous weeds, while in the lowland grazing grounds luxuriant patches of blue joint, wild oats, and other tall forage plants waved in the wind. Along the streams, cattails and tiger lilies nodded above thick mats of wide–bladed marsh grass.
Almost without realizing it, I came to know the character of every weed, every flower, every living thing big enough to be seen from the back of a horse. Nothing could be more generous, more joyous, than these natural meadows in summer. The flash and ripple and glimmer of the tall sunflowers, the chirp and gurgle of red–winged blackbirds swaying on the willow, the meadow larks piping from grassy bogs, the peep of the prairie chick and the wailing call of plover on the flowery green slopes of the uplands made it all an ecstatic world to me. It was a wide world with a big, big sky that gave alluring hints of the still more glorious unknown wilderness beyond.
Sometimes we wandered away to the meadows along the creek, gathering bouquets of pinks, sweet williams, tiger lilies, and lady's slippers. The sun flamed across the splendid serial waves of the grasses and the perfumes of a hundred spicy plants rose in the shimmering midday air. At such times the mere joy of living filled our hearts with wordless satisfaction.
On a long ridge to the north and west, the soil, too wet and cold to cultivate easily, remained for several years. Scattered over these clay lands stood small wooded groves that we called "tow–heads." They stood out like islands in the waving seas of grasses. Against these dark green masses, breakers of blue joint radiantly rolled. To the east ran the river; plum trees and crab apples bloomed along its banks. In June, immense crops of wild strawberries appeared in the natural meadows. Their delicious odor rose to us as we rode our way, tempting us to dismount.
On the bare upland ridges lay huge antlers, bleached and bare, in countless numbers, telling of the herds of elk and bison that had once fed in these vast savannas. On sunny April days, the mother fox lay out with her young on southward sloping swells. Often we met a prairie wolf, finding in it the spirit of the wilderness. To us it seemed that just over the next long swell toward the sunset the shaggy brown bison still fed in myriads, and in our hearts was a longing to ride away into the "sunset regions" of our pioneer songs.

In creating an impression of the prairie for the reader, the author of Passage 1 makes use of

Directions: The passage below is followed by a question based on its content. Answer the question on the basis of what is stated or implied in the passage.

These passages present two perspectives of the prairie, the grasslands that covered much of the central plains of the United States during the nineteenth century.

Passage 1

We came upon the Prairie at sunset. It would be difficult to say why, or how – though it was possibly from having heard and read so much about it – but the effect on me was disappointment. Towards the setting sun, there lay stretched out before my view a vast expanse of level ground, unbroken (save by one thin line of trees, which scarcely amounted to a scratch upon the great blank) until it met the glowing sky, wherein it seemed to dip, mingling with its rich colors and mellowing in its distant blue. There it lay, a tranquil sea or lake without water, if such a simile be admissible, with the day going down upon it: a few birds wheeling here and there, solitude and silence reigning paramount around, but the grass was not yet high; there were bare–black patches on the ground and the wild flowers that the eye could see were poor and scanty. Great as the picture was, its very flatness and extent, which left nothing to the imagination, tamed it down and cramped its interest. I felt little of that sense of freedom and exhilaration that the open landscape of a Scottish moor, or even the rolling hills of our English downlands, inspires. It was lonely and wild, but oppressive in its barren monotony. I felt that in traversing the Prairies, I could never abandon myself to the scene, forgetful of all else, as I should instinctively were heather moorland beneath my feet. On the Prairie I should often glance towards the distant and frequently receding line of the horizon, and wish it gained and passed. It is not a scene to be forgotten, but it is scarcely one, I think (at all events, as I saw it), to remember with much pleasure or to covet the looking–on again, in after years.

Passage 2

In herding the cattle on horseback, we children came to know all the open prairie round about and found it very beautiful. On the uplands, a short, light–green grass grew, intermixed with various resinous weeds, while in the lowland grazing grounds luxuriant patches of blue joint, wild oats, and other tall forage plants waved in the wind. Along the streams, cattails and tiger lilies nodded above thick mats of wide–bladed marsh grass.
Almost without realizing it, I came to know the character of every weed, every flower, every living thing big enough to be seen from the back of a horse. Nothing could be more generous, more joyous, than these natural meadows in summer. The flash and ripple and glimmer of the tall sunflowers, the chirp and gurgle of red–winged blackbirds swaying on the willow, the meadow larks piping from grassy bogs, the peep of the prairie chick and the wailing call of plover on the flowery green slopes of the uplands made it all an ecstatic world to me. It was a wide world with a big, big sky that gave alluring hints of the still more glorious unknown wilderness beyond.
Sometimes we wandered away to the meadows along the creek, gathering bouquets of pinks, sweet williams, tiger lilies, and lady's slippers. The sun flamed across the splendid serial waves of the grasses and the perfumes of a hundred spicy plants rose in the shimmering midday air. At such times the mere joy of living filled our hearts with wordless satisfaction.
On a long ridge to the north and west, the soil, too wet and cold to cultivate easily, remained for several years. Scattered over these clay lands stood small wooded groves that we called "tow–heads." They stood out like islands in the waving seas of grasses. Against these dark green masses, breakers of blue joint radiantly rolled. To the east ran the river; plum trees and crab apples bloomed along its banks. In June, immense crops of wild strawberries appeared in the natural meadows. Their delicious odor rose to us as we rode our way, tempting us to dismount.
On the bare upland ridges lay huge antlers, bleached and bare, in countless numbers, telling of the herds of elk and bison that had once fed in these vast savannas. On sunny April days, the mother fox lay out with her young on southward sloping swells. Often we met a prairie wolf, finding in it the spirit of the wilderness. To us it seemed that just over the next long swell toward the sunset the shaggy brown bison still fed in myriads, and in our hearts was a longing to ride away into the "sunset regions" of our pioneer songs.

In Passage 2, the author's references to things beyond his direct experience indicate the

Directions: The passage below is followed by a question based on its content. Answer the question on the basis of what is stated or implied in the passage.

These passages present two perspectives of the prairie, the grasslands that covered much of the central plains of the United States during the nineteenth century.

Passage 1

We came upon the Prairie at sunset. It would be difficult to say why, or how – though it was possibly from having heard and read so much about it – but the effect on me was disappointment. Towards the setting sun, there lay stretched out before my view a vast expanse of level ground, unbroken (save by one thin line of trees, which scarcely amounted to a scratch upon the great blank) until it met the glowing sky, wherein it seemed to dip, mingling with its rich colors and mellowing in its distant blue. There it lay, a tranquil sea or lake without water, if such a simile be admissible, with the day going down upon it: a few birds wheeling here and there, solitude and silence reigning paramount around, but the grass was not yet high; there were bare–black patches on the ground and the wild flowers that the eye could see were poor and scanty. Great as the picture was, its very flatness and extent, which left nothing to the imagination, tamed it down and cramped its interest. I felt little of that sense of freedom and exhilaration that the open landscape of a Scottish moor, or even the rolling hills of our English downlands, inspires. It was lonely and wild, but oppressive in its barren monotony. I felt that in traversing the Prairies, I could never abandon myself to the scene, forgetful of all else, as I should instinctively were heather moorland beneath my feet. On the Prairie I should often glance towards the distant and frequently receding line of the horizon, and wish it gained and passed. It is not a scene to be forgotten, but it is scarcely one, I think (at all events, as I saw it), to remember with much pleasure or to covet the looking–on again, in after years.

Passage 2

In herding the cattle on horseback, we children came to know all the open prairie round about and found it very beautiful. On the uplands, a short, light–green grass grew, intermixed with various resinous weeds, while in the lowland grazing grounds luxuriant patches of blue joint, wild oats, and other tall forage plants waved in the wind. Along the streams, cattails and tiger lilies nodded above thick mats of wide–bladed marsh grass.
Almost without realizing it, I came to know the character of every weed, every flower, every living thing big enough to be seen from the back of a horse. Nothing could be more generous, more joyous, than these natural meadows in summer. The flash and ripple and glimmer of the tall sunflowers, the chirp and gurgle of red–winged blackbirds swaying on the willow, the meadow larks piping from grassy bogs, the peep of the prairie chick and the wailing call of plover on the flowery green slopes of the uplands made it all an ecstatic world to me. It was a wide world with a big, big sky that gave alluring hints of the still more glorious unknown wilderness beyond.
Sometimes we wandered away to the meadows along the creek, gathering bouquets of pinks, sweet williams, tiger lilies, and lady's slippers. The sun flamed across the splendid serial waves of the grasses and the perfumes of a hundred spicy plants rose in the shimmering midday air. At such times the mere joy of living filled our hearts with wordless satisfaction.
On a long ridge to the north and west, the soil, too wet and cold to cultivate easily, remained for several years. Scattered over these clay lands stood small wooded groves that we called "tow–heads." They stood out like islands in the waving seas of grasses. Against these dark green masses, breakers of blue joint radiantly rolled. To the east ran the river; plum trees and crab apples bloomed along its banks. In June, immense crops of wild strawberries appeared in the natural meadows. Their delicious odor rose to us as we rode our way, tempting us to dismount.
On the bare upland ridges lay huge antlers, bleached and bare, in countless numbers, telling of the herds of elk and bison that had once fed in these vast savannas. On sunny April days, the mother fox lay out with her young on southward sloping swells. Often we met a prairie wolf, finding in it the spirit of the wilderness. To us it seemed that just over the next long swell toward the sunset the shaggy brown bison still fed in myriads, and in our hearts was a longing to ride away into the "sunset regions" of our pioneer songs.

Both authors indicate that the experience of a beautiful landscape involves

Directions: The passage below is followed by a question based on its content. Answer the question on the basis of what is stated or implied in the passage.

These passages present two perspectives of the prairie, the grasslands that covered much of the central plains of the United States during the nineteenth century.

Passage 1

We came upon the Prairie at sunset. It would be difficult to say why, or how – though it was possibly from having heard and read so much about it – but the effect on me was disappointment. Towards the setting sun, there lay stretched out before my view a vast expanse of level ground, unbroken (save by one thin line of trees, which scarcely amounted to a scratch upon the great blank) until it met the glowing sky, wherein it seemed to dip, mingling with its rich colors and mellowing in its distant blue. There it lay, a tranquil sea or lake without water, if such a simile be admissible, with the day going down upon it: a few birds wheeling here and there, solitude and silence reigning paramount around, but the grass was not yet high; there were bare–black patches on the ground and the wild flowers that the eye could see were poor and scanty. Great as the picture was, its very flatness and extent, which left nothing to the imagination, tamed it down and cramped its interest. I felt little of that sense of freedom and exhilaration that the open landscape of a Scottish moor, or even the rolling hills of our English downlands, inspires. It was lonely and wild, but oppressive in its barren monotony. I felt that in traversing the Prairies, I could never abandon myself to the scene, forgetful of all else, as I should instinctively were heather moorland beneath my feet. On the Prairie I should often glance towards the distant and frequently receding line of the horizon, and wish it gained and passed. It is not a scene to be forgotten, but it is scarcely one, I think (at all events, as I saw it), to remember with much pleasure or to covet the looking–on again, in after years.

Passage 2

In herding the cattle on horseback, we children came to know all the open prairie round about and found it very beautiful. On the uplands, a short, light–green grass grew, intermixed with various resinous weeds, while in the lowland grazing grounds luxuriant patches of blue joint, wild oats, and other tall forage plants waved in the wind. Along the streams, cattails and tiger lilies nodded above thick mats of wide–bladed marsh grass.
Almost without realizing it, I came to know the character of every weed, every flower, every living thing big enough to be seen from the back of a horse. Nothing could be more generous, more joyous, than these natural meadows in summer. The flash and ripple and glimmer of the tall sunflowers, the chirp and gurgle of red–winged blackbirds swaying on the willow, the meadow larks piping from grassy bogs, the peep of the prairie chick and the wailing call of plover on the flowery green slopes of the uplands made it all an ecstatic world to me. It was a wide world with a big, big sky that gave alluring hints of the still more glorious unknown wilderness beyond.
Sometimes we wandered away to the meadows along the creek, gathering bouquets of pinks, sweet williams, tiger lilies, and lady's slippers. The sun flamed across the splendid serial waves of the grasses and the perfumes of a hundred spicy plants rose in the shimmering midday air. At such times the mere joy of living filled our hearts with wordless satisfaction.
On a long ridge to the north and west, the soil, too wet and cold to cultivate easily, remained for several years. Scattered over these clay lands stood small wooded groves that we called "tow–heads." They stood out like islands in the waving seas of grasses. Against these dark green masses, breakers of blue joint radiantly rolled. To the east ran the river; plum trees and crab apples bloomed along its banks. In June, immense crops of wild strawberries appeared in the natural meadows. Their delicious odor rose to us as we rode our way, tempting us to dismount.
On the bare upland ridges lay huge antlers, bleached and bare, in countless numbers, telling of the herds of elk and bison that had once fed in these vast savannas. On sunny April days, the mother fox lay out with her young on southward sloping swells. Often we met a prairie wolf, finding in it the spirit of the wilderness. To us it seemed that just over the next long swell toward the sunset the shaggy brown bison still fed in myriads, and in our hearts was a longing to ride away into the "sunset regions" of our pioneer songs.

Even the most macho convict does not tattoo his whole body all at once because

Directions: Read the following passsage and answer the given question.

Arkady Bronnikov pulls out a fistful of black and white photos from his overstuffed valise and, like a proud parent, passes them around.
This one's my favourite. The work on him is really artistic, Mr. Bronnikov says admiringly of the snapshot in his hand.
The photograph shows a Russian convict bald, and naked to the waist. To the delight of Mr. Bronnikov, the man's torso is covered with tattoos.
As Russia's leading expert on tattoo iconography, Mr. Bronnikov can tell the prisoner's story from looking at the designs on his body. The huge spider in a web that is drawn on his skull reveals, in prison tattoo code, that he is a drug addict. Also, he is a repeat offender: The onion domes of a Russian church fan across his shoulder blades, each of the seven cupolas representing a different stay in prison. Above the church, across the back of his neck, the convict has stencilled, in Russian, "Not just anyone can hold his head this high".
He's the pakhan, the king of thieves in his prison, Mr. Bronnikov explains.
For nearly 30 years, Mr. Bronnikov, a criminologist, has analysed the language of tattoos among Soviet convicts. As a colonel in the secretive Interior Ministry, Mr. Bronnikov had access to thousands of prisoners in remote labour camps. Nearly everybody who does time gets tattooed (women, too, but less elaborately). Most are tattooed voluntarily. Forcibly tattooed are the so-called insulted men who have been raped in prison.
Across Russia and in the other former Soviet republics, convicts use the same symbols. The images document the prisoner's crimes, sentences and, most importantly, his position in the rigid hierarchy that runs convict life and, in some cases, the prisons, themselves.
The more tattoos a convict gets, the more sentences he has served, the more respect he gets in prison, says the 66-year old Mr. Bronnikov. The tattoos show that he isn't afraid of pain.
When Mr. Bronikov began as a criminologist in the late 1950s, he was struck by the blue and black symbols turning up on suspects and, occasionally, on an unidentified corpse. As a hobby, he started collecting photographs of such tattoos. The avocation quickly became a subject of scholarship.
Working in the Perm region, Mr. Bronnikov was virtually surrounded by thugs. This Ural province is the penal capital of the former Soviet Union, with more than 30 labour camps and a convict population exceeding 100,000. As a lecturer at the regional police academy, Mr. Bronnikov persuaded his students, many of them prison wardens, to provide him with photos of the best tattoos in their camps.
Mr. Bronnikov now has more than 20,000 photos and has published books on what they mean. He has helped solve criminal cases around the country by studying tattoos to identify culprits and corpses. In the mid 1970s, Mr. Bronnikov assisted in the search for a child molester in the Volga town of Yeshevsk. One of the man's victims recalled markings on the criminal's hands and chest that suggested to police he was an ex-convict. A young girl's description and the telltale tattoos got the suspect nabbed quickly and then convicted.
Although 17^th century Russian courts favoured branding and tattooing the faces of criminals, Soviet prisoners began to tattoo one another in the 1950s. Discreet symbols on the chest and shoulder have evolved into elabourate murals, with prisoners sporting hundreds of drawings on their bodies.
Interned in Correctional Labour Colony 29 on the outskirts of Prem, Andrei Mysnik is serving a 15 year sentence for killing a policeman in Leningrad in 1981. As an old-timer in the zone, the vast network of labour camps, Mr. Mysnik has an impressive array of tattoos.
He opens his fist and points to two rows of tattoos etched across his knuckles. The beetle is a good luck charm in burglary, the 30-year old Mr. Mysnik's speciality. The black and white diamond indicates that Mr. Mysnik has spend half his life in prison. As he looks down to explain the images, the words do not wake become visible; they are tattooed on his eyelids.
Mr. Mysnik's favourite tattoo extends across his slender back: a prehistoric scene, with pterodactyls and tar pits and, in the middle, a dinosaur biting another on the neck. "This is the criminal world to me", Mr. Mysnik says. One way or the other, you get nailed.
Still, the pain does deter even the most macho convict from covering his body, all at once, with meaningful pictures. Tattoos are created by instilling pigment in the skin with thousands of needle pricks. In the camps, the process can take anywhere from a few hours to a few years, depending on the artist and his ambition, says Mr. Bronnikov. Because of prison conditions, tattoo artists have to improvise with materials and equipment. For instance, they will draw a picture on a wooden plank, place needles along the lines of the design, cover the needles with ink and stamp the whole tableau on the prisoner's body. Another method is to slice the image onto the skin with a razor and daub that cut with indelible ink.

As per textual evidence, Mr. Bronnikov is all of the following, except

Directions: Read the following passsage and answer the given question.

Arkady Bronnikov pulls out a fistful of black and white photos from his overstuffed valise and, like a proud parent, passes them around.
This one's my favourite. The work on him is really artistic, Mr. Bronnikov says admiringly of the snapshot in his hand.
The photograph shows a Russian convict bald, and naked to the waist. To the delight of Mr. Bronnikov, the man's torso is covered with tattoos.
As Russia's leading expert on tattoo iconography, Mr. Bronnikov can tell the prisoner's story from looking at the designs on his body. The huge spider in a web that is drawn on his skull reveals, in prison tattoo code, that he is a drug addict. Also, he is a repeat offender: The onion domes of a Russian church fan across his shoulder blades, each of the seven cupolas representing a different stay in prison. Above the church, across the back of his neck, the convict has stencilled, in Russian, "Not just anyone can hold his head this high".
He's the pakhan, the king of thieves in his prison, Mr. Bronnikov explains.
For nearly 30 years, Mr. Bronnikov, a criminologist, has analysed the language of tattoos among Soviet convicts. As a colonel in the secretive Interior Ministry, Mr. Bronnikov had access to thousands of prisoners in remote labour camps. Nearly everybody who does time gets tattooed (women, too, but less elaborately). Most are tattooed voluntarily. Forcibly tattooed are the so-called insulted men who have been raped in prison.
Across Russia and in the other former Soviet republics, convicts use the same symbols. The images document the prisoner's crimes, sentences and, most importantly, his position in the rigid hierarchy that runs convict life and, in some cases, the prisons, themselves.
The more tattoos a convict gets, the more sentences he has served, the more respect he gets in prison, says the 66-year old Mr. Bronnikov. The tattoos show that he isn't afraid of pain.
When Mr. Bronikov began as a criminologist in the late 1950s, he was struck by the blue and black symbols turning up on suspects and, occasionally, on an unidentified corpse. As a hobby, he started collecting photographs of such tattoos. The avocation quickly became a subject of scholarship.
Working in the Perm region, Mr. Bronnikov was virtually surrounded by thugs. This Ural province is the penal capital of the former Soviet Union, with more than 30 labour camps and a convict population exceeding 100,000. As a lecturer at the regional police academy, Mr. Bronnikov persuaded his students, many of them prison wardens, to provide him with photos of the best tattoos in their camps.
Mr. Bronnikov now has more than 20,000 photos and has published books on what they mean. He has helped solve criminal cases around the country by studying tattoos to identify culprits and corpses. In the mid 1970s, Mr. Bronnikov assisted in the search for a child molester in the Volga town of Yeshevsk. One of the man's victims recalled markings on the criminal's hands and chest that suggested to police he was an ex-convict. A young girl's description and the telltale tattoos got the suspect nabbed quickly and then convicted.
Although 17^th century Russian courts favoured branding and tattooing the faces of criminals, Soviet prisoners began to tattoo one another in the 1950s. Discreet symbols on the chest and shoulder have evolved into elabourate murals, with prisoners sporting hundreds of drawings on their bodies.
Interned in Correctional Labour Colony 29 on the outskirts of Prem, Andrei Mysnik is serving a 15 year sentence for killing a policeman in Leningrad in 1981. As an old-timer in the zone, the vast network of labour camps, Mr. Mysnik has an impressive array of tattoos.
He opens his fist and points to two rows of tattoos etched across his knuckles. The beetle is a good luck charm in burglary, the 30-year old Mr. Mysnik's speciality. The black and white diamond indicates that Mr. Mysnik has spend half his life in prison. As he looks down to explain the images, the words do not wake become visible; they are tattooed on his eyelids.
Mr. Mysnik's favourite tattoo extends across his slender back: a prehistoric scene, with pterodactyls and tar pits and, in the middle, a dinosaur biting another on the neck. "This is the criminal world to me", Mr. Mysnik says. One way or the other, you get nailed.
Still, the pain does deter even the most macho convict from covering his body, all at once, with meaningful pictures. Tattoos are created by instilling pigment in the skin with thousands of needle pricks. In the camps, the process can take anywhere from a few hours to a few years, depending on the artist and his ambition, says Mr. Bronnikov. Because of prison conditions, tattoo artists have to improvise with materials and equipment. For instance, they will draw a picture on a wooden plank, place needles along the lines of the design, cover the needles with ink and stamp the whole tableau on the prisoner's body. Another method is to slice the image onto the skin with a razor and daub that cut with indelible ink.

Which of the following is false with reference to Andrei Mysnik?

Directions: Read the following passsage and answer the given question.

Arkady Bronnikov pulls out a fistful of black and white photos from his overstuffed valise and, like a proud parent, passes them around.
This one's my favourite. The work on him is really artistic, Mr. Bronnikov says admiringly of the snapshot in his hand.
The photograph shows a Russian convict bald, and naked to the waist. To the delight of Mr. Bronnikov, the man's torso is covered with tattoos.
As Russia's leading expert on tattoo iconography, Mr. Bronnikov can tell the prisoner's story from looking at the designs on his body. The huge spider in a web that is drawn on his skull reveals, in prison tattoo code, that he is a drug addict. Also, he is a repeat offender: The onion domes of a Russian church fan across his shoulder blades, each of the seven cupolas representing a different stay in prison. Above the church, across the back of his neck, the convict has stencilled, in Russian, "Not just anyone can hold his head this high".
He's the pakhan, the king of thieves in his prison, Mr. Bronnikov explains.
For nearly 30 years, Mr. Bronnikov, a criminologist, has analysed the language of tattoos among Soviet convicts. As a colonel in the secretive Interior Ministry, Mr. Bronnikov had access to thousands of prisoners in remote labour camps. Nearly everybody who does time gets tattooed (women, too, but less elaborately). Most are tattooed voluntarily. Forcibly tattooed are the so-called insulted men who have been raped in prison.
Across Russia and in the other former Soviet republics, convicts use the same symbols. The images document the prisoner's crimes, sentences and, most importantly, his position in the rigid hierarchy that runs convict life and, in some cases, the prisons, themselves.
The more tattoos a convict gets, the more sentences he has served, the more respect he gets in prison, says the 66-year old Mr. Bronnikov. The tattoos show that he isn't afraid of pain.
When Mr. Bronikov began as a criminologist in the late 1950s, he was struck by the blue and black symbols turning up on suspects and, occasionally, on an unidentified corpse. As a hobby, he started collecting photographs of such tattoos. The avocation quickly became a subject of scholarship.
Working in the Perm region, Mr. Bronnikov was virtually surrounded by thugs. This Ural province is the penal capital of the former Soviet Union, with more than 30 labour camps and a convict population exceeding 100,000. As a lecturer at the regional police academy, Mr. Bronnikov persuaded his students, many of them prison wardens, to provide him with photos of the best tattoos in their camps.
Mr. Bronnikov now has more than 20,000 photos and has published books on what they mean. He has helped solve criminal cases around the country by studying tattoos to identify culprits and corpses. In the mid 1970s, Mr. Bronnikov assisted in the search for a child molester in the Volga town of Yeshevsk. One of the man's victims recalled markings on the criminal's hands and chest that suggested to police he was an ex-convict. A young girl's description and the telltale tattoos got the suspect nabbed quickly and then convicted.
Although 17^th century Russian courts favoured branding and tattooing the faces of criminals, Soviet prisoners began to tattoo one another in the 1950s. Discreet symbols on the chest and shoulder have evolved into elabourate murals, with prisoners sporting hundreds of drawings on their bodies.
Interned in Correctional Labour Colony 29 on the outskirts of Prem, Andrei Mysnik is serving a 15 year sentence for killing a policeman in Leningrad in 1981. As an old-timer in the zone, the vast network of labour camps, Mr. Mysnik has an impressive array of tattoos.
He opens his fist and points to two rows of tattoos etched across his knuckles. The beetle is a good luck charm in burglary, the 30-year old Mr. Mysnik's speciality. The black and white diamond indicates that Mr. Mysnik has spend half his life in prison. As he looks down to explain the images, the words do not wake become visible; they are tattooed on his eyelids.
Mr. Mysnik's favourite tattoo extends across his slender back: a prehistoric scene, with pterodactyls and tar pits and, in the middle, a dinosaur biting another on the neck. "This is the criminal world to me", Mr. Mysnik says. One way or the other, you get nailed.
Still, the pain does deter even the most macho convict from covering his body, all at once, with meaningful pictures. Tattoos are created by instilling pigment in the skin with thousands of needle pricks. In the camps, the process can take anywhere from a few hours to a few years, depending on the artist and his ambition, says Mr. Bronnikov. Because of prison conditions, tattoo artists have to improvise with materials and equipment. For instance, they will draw a picture on a wooden plank, place needles along the lines of the design, cover the needles with ink and stamp the whole tableau on the prisoner's body. Another method is to slice the image onto the skin with a razor and daub that cut with indelible ink.

Directions: In the following items each passage consists of six sentences. The first and the sixth sentence are given in the beginning. The middle four sentences in each have been removed and jumbled up. There are labeled P, Q, R and S. You are required to find out of the proper sequence of the four sentences.

S₁ : No one knows when tea was first discovered, or how it came to be such a popular drink. S₆ : It was called Cha's Ching which, translated, means Tea Scripture. P : By the eight century A.D. most Chinese were drinking tea, both because they liked it as a beverage and for its medicinal value. Q : Tea was so popular that one of th most distinguished poets of the 'T' ang dynasty, a man called Lu Yu, even wrote a holy scripture about it. R : The beverage is generally accepted to have originated in China hundreds of years ago. S : Records going back to the fourth century A.D. refer to tea.

Directions: Read the passage and answer the question.

Who slumped forward with a dull thud?

Directions: In this Section you have six short passages. After each passage you will find several questions based pm the passage. First, read Passage- I, and answer the questions based on it then go on the other passages.
PASSAGE-IV

Directions: Read the passage and answer the question.

What did the prisoner suffer the most during imprisonment?

Directions: In this Section you have six short passages. After each passage you will find several questions based pm the passage. First, read Passage- I, and answer the questions based on it then go on the other passages.
PASSAGE-IV

Directions: Read the passage and answer the question.

How many seconds did it take for the prisoner to regain his freedom?

Directions: In this Section you have six short passages. After each passage you will find several questions based pm the passage. First, read Passage- I, and answer the questions based on it then go on the other passages.
PASSAGE-IV