Session 1

Directions

In this part of the test, you are going to read an article, a story, and an essay, and answer questions about what you have read. You may look back at the reading selections as often as you like.

Now turn the page and begin.

Directions:

Here is an article about Election Day in a small town in Illinois. Read "It’s Election Day in Vinegar Hill." Then do numbers 1 through 8.

It’s Election Day in Vinegar Hill
by Bonnie Geisert

The moon, seen through the trees, is still out as Vinegar Hill Town Hall opens for voting.

Fields of hay and corn surround the Vinegar Hill Town Hall, located in the former one-room Pleasant View School in Illinois. The lights from the farms and distant towns are visible on the horizon as the election judges, usually farm women, arrive at 5:30 am to prepare the hall for the election.

The judges bring with them a sealed metal case containing the ballots, a black supply case filled with official election documents, and a cardboard box with vote-recording machines. All of these items were obtained from the county courthouse, seven miles away.

The judges post a POLLING PLACE sign, a NO SMOKING sign, and instructions for voters in the building. The township supervisor has previously installed two canvas voting booths in the center of the room, lined the walls with folding chairs, and placed two long wooden tables at the front of the room where voters receive their ballots from the judges.

The judges check to make sure the manual vote-recording machines are working. One judge administers the oath to the others, then takes the oath from a fellow judge. By 6:00 am, they are ready to announce, "The polls are now open, "even though no one is waiting to cast his or her ballot. Most of the one hundred nine registered voters in the twenty-one-square-mile precinct are dairy, beef, and hog farmers, still at home completing the morning’s chores. In a presidential election, about eighty percent of the Vinegar Hill voters will exercise their right to vote. About twenty-fine present will vote in other elections.

Vinegar Hill election judges must repeat the following oath: "I do solemnly swear that I will support the Constitution of the united States, and the Constitution of the State of Illinois: that I will faithfully discharge the duties of the office of election judge according to the best of my ability."

This is what a voting booth looks like.

The judges have officiated over several elections-one judge since 1962. In a friendly wager, each estimates the number of people who will vote. During the March 1996 general primary election, the guesses were 24, 25, 30, 31, and 33. The actual turnout was 28, including 1 absentee voter.

Voters arrive throughout the day.. Sometimes there is a "rush" during the noon hour, a natural break for farmers. When each voter enters a booth, he or she inserts the ballot into the machine and punches the stylus (a sharp, pointed instrument) through the desired choices. When finished, the voter hands the ballot to a judge. The judge then places it in the ballot box after making sure his or her initials are on the ballot.

At 6:30 p.m., a judge announces, "The polls will close in one-half hour," At 7:00 p.m., the polls close.

After closing the doors, the judges open the varnished wooden ballot box and check the ballots to make sure that the vote-counting machine at the county courthouse can read the ballots. After filling out the required forms, the judges place the completed ballots and documentation in the ballot transfer case and seal the case. They pack the vote-recording machines in their cardboard box and place all the other materials in the election supply case. Then they turn down the thermostat, shut off the lights, and leave the Town Hall between 7:30 and 8:00pm.

One judge from each party accompanies the cases to the courthouse, where the voters are counted by machine in a matter of seconds. The judges are paid $65 for the day plus $15 for attending a training session, $5 for picking up election materials, and $5 for returning them. The driver receives 30 cents per mile.

Directions

Here is a story from India about a tiger and the family who raises it. Read "The Day Grandfather Tickled a Tiger." Then do numbers 9 through 18.

a true story by Ruskin Bond

Timothy, our tiger cub, was found by my grandfather on a hunting expedition in the Terai jungles near Dehra, in northern India. Because Grandfather lived in Dehra and knew the jungles well, he was persuaded to accompany the hunting party.

Grandfather, strolling down the forest path some distance from the main party, discovered a little abandoned tiger about eighteen inches long, hidden among the roots of a banyan tree. After the expedition ended, Grandfather took the tiger home to Dehra, where Grandmother gave him the name Timothy.

Timothy’s favorite place in the house was the living room. He would snuggle down comfortably on the sofa, reclining there with serene dignity and snarling only when anyone tried to take his place. One of his chief amusements was to stalk whoever was playing with him, and so, when I went to live with my grandparents, I became one of the tiger’s pets. With a crafty look in his eyes, and his body in a deep crouch, he would creep closer and closer to me, suddenly making a dash for my feet. Then, rolling his back and kicking with delight, he would pretend to bite my ankles.

By this time he was the size of a full-grown golden retriever, and when I took him for walks in Dehra, people on the road would give us a wide berth. At night he slept in the quarters of our cook, Mahmoud. "One of these days," Grandmother declared, "we are going to find Timothy sitting on Mahmoud’s bed and no sign of Mahmoud!"

When Timothy was about six months old, his stalking became more serious and he had to be chained up more frequently. Even the household started to mistrust him and, when he began to trail Mahmoud around the house with what looked like villainous intent, Grandfather decided it was time to transfer Timothy to a zoo.

The nearest zoo was at Lucknow, some two hundred miles away. Grandfather reserved a first-class compartment on the train for himself and Timothy and set forth. The Lucknow zoo authorities were only too pleased to receive a well-fed and fairly civilized tiger.

Grandfather has no opportunity to see how Timothy was getting on in his new home until about six months later, when he and Grandmother visited relatives in Lucknow. Grandfather went to the zoo and directly to Timothy’s cage. The tiger was there, crouched in a corner, full-grown, his magnificent striped coat gleaming with health.

"Hello, Timothy, " Grandfather said.

Climbing the railing, he put his arms through the bars of the cage. Timothy approached, and allowed Grandfather to put both arms about his head. Grandfather stroked the tiger’s forehead and tickled his ears. Each time Timothy growled, Grandfather gave him a smack across the mouth, which had been his way of keeping the tiger quiet when he lived with us.

Timothy licked Grandfather’s hand. Then he showed nervousness, springing away when a leopard in the next cage snarled at him, but Grandfather shooed the leopard off and Timothy returned to licking his hands. Every now and then the leopard would rush at the bars, and Timothy would again slink back to a neutral corner.

A number of people had gathered to watch the reunion, when a keeper pushed his way through the crowd and asked Grandfather what he was doing. "I’m talking to Timothy, " said Grandfather. "Weren’t you here when I gave him to the zoo six months ago?"

"I haven’t been here very long, " said a surprised keeper. "Please continue you conversation. I have never been able to touch that tiger myself. I find him very bad-tempered."

Grandfather had been stroking and slapping Timothy for about five minutes when he noticed another keeper observing him with some alarm. Grandfather recognized him as the keeper who had been there when he had delivered Timothy to the zoo. "You remember me, " said Grandfather. "Why don’t you transfer Timothy to a different cage, away from this stupid leopard?"

"But-sir, " stammered the keeper. "It is not your tiger."

" I realize that he is no longer mine," said Grandfather testily. "But at lest take my suggestion."

"I remember your tiger very well. " said the keeper. "He died two months ago."

"Died!" exclaimed Grandfather.

"Yes, sir, of pneumonia. This tiger was trapped in the hills only last month, and he is very dangerous!"

The tiger was still licking Grandfather’s arms and apparently enjoying it more all he time. Grandfather withdrew his hands form the cage in a motion that seemed to take an age. With his face near the tiger’s he mumbled, "Goodnight, Timothy." Then, giving the keeper a scornful look, Grandfather walked briskly out of the zoo.

Directions

Here is an essay Charles Osgood’s Files. Now read "The Hard Part."

Then do Numbers 19 through 25.

by Charles Osgood

I have been asked to deliver commencement addresses at two different educational institutions this year. One is a full-fledged university in upstate New York, and the other is a grammar school¹ about a block and a half from my house in New Jersey. I have thought about delivering exactly the same address to both graduating classes, even though the average age of one class will be twenty-one, and the average age of the other will be eleven. That is because what I want to say will be just as understandable to one group as it will to the other. What I want to say will be something like this:

It has been a very long time since I was twenty-one years old, and an even longer time since I was eleven, but I can remember both ages pretty well. When I was eleven, I was quite worried, because everybody told me that junior high school ² was going to be quite a bit more difficult than grammar school had been. From the seventh grade on, I had been warned, life would be real and earnest.

It turned out that junior high wasn’t so tough after all, but I knew full will, because everybody told me, that high school would be quite another matter. Much more would be expected of me in high school, I was sure, and I was plenty worried about it, too. But it turned out to be nowhere near as bad as I had feared.

However, there was no question that college would be difficult in the extreme. Colleges and universities would separate the men form the boys, and the women form the girls, I was informed. Well, I don’t know about that, but at my college they did separate the boys form the girls and the men form the women. But the work still didn’t seem as oppressive as advertised.

Still ahead of me lay other prospects: The military, which would straighten me out in a hurry, graduate school, which would be murderously difficult, or something called the "real world." In the "real world, " you would have to go out and get a real job and do actual work.

In the army, it turned out, I was assigned to the U.S. Army Band. It was a dirty job, but somebody had to do it. Since then I have been working in the broadcasting business. At the local station they said it would be much harder work at the network. In radio they said it would be far more demanding in television. Turns out all of it is interesting work with hardly any heavy lifting or drudgery involved. In other words, I never did have to get a "real" job or do "actual" work.

When I was single, everybody said life gets tough after you get married. Then they told me having kids and family responsibilities and owning a home and paying taxes would wear me down. Hasn’t happened yet.

Life is earnest, life is real,
Up to the very end.
And the hard part, everybody says,
Is just around the bend.
But here’s a little secret that I want to share with you.
What is true for other people, need not be the case for you.
When they tell you that the hard part starts in just a little while,
Look worried, if you want to, but inside of you, just smile.

¹grammar school; elementary school
²junior high school; middle school

22. According to other people, what purpose would college serve for the author?

Stop

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