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Dwnload Full New Perspectives On Microsoft Access 2013 Comprehensive 1st Edition Adamski Test Bank PDF
Dwnload Full New Perspectives On Microsoft Access 2013 Comprehensive 1st Edition Adamski Test Bank PDF
https://testbankfan.com/download/new-perspectives-on-microsoft-access-2013-compr
ehensive-1st-edition-adamski-test-bank/
2. To toggle between navigation mode and editing mode press the F2 keyboard shortcut.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: True
3. Hiding a field in Datasheet view removes the field from the current table.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: False
4. When a question is asked of a database using a select query, the answer is returned as a datasheet.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: True
5. It is more efficient to use the Query Wizard for common, informational queries than to design your own query.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: False
6. Changes made to a field in a query datasheet updates the same field in the table on which the query is based.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: True
9. Logical operators must be used in order to combine two or more conditions in a query.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: True
12. The process of rearranging records in a specified order or sequence is referred to as sorting. ____________________
ANSWER: True
13. Access may base queries on one or more tables or queries. ____________________
ANSWER: True
14. A sort field is unique if more than one record can have the same value for the sort field. __________________
ANSWER: False - nonunique
15. In the accompanying figure, the sort order for the VisitDate field is descending. ____________________
ANSWER: True
16. The most simple technique to use for filtering records is Filter By Form. ____________________
ANSWER: False - Filter By Selection
17. Access database objects are divided into categories on the Navigation Pane. ____________________
ANSWER: True
18. Arithmetic operations are performed on selected records in a database using Statistical functions.
____________________
ANSWER: False - aggregate
19. In the accompanying figure, a criterion is set for a field in the Visit table. ____________________
ANSWER: False - Billing
20. Expression Builder is found in the Query Setup group on the DESIGN tab. ____________________
ANSWER: True
21. Results of a query may be viewed at any time by clicking the ____ button in the Results group on the Ribbon.
a. Run b. Append
c. Show d. Design
ANSWER: a
22. The query type that gives Access an example of the information being requested and retrieves information based
precisely on matching the example is which type of query?
a. crosstab b. append
c. query by example (QBE) d. update
ANSWER: c
23. The process of adding, modifying and deleting records in a database to keep the records current and accurate is
referred to as ____ a database.
a. reconstructing b. maintaining
c. developing d. editing
ANSWER: b
24. Which record modification mode is used to insert or delete characters in a field value based on the location of the
insertion point?
a. navigation mode b. design mode
c. editing mode d. selection mode
ANSWER: c
25. Which keyboard shortcut selects the first field value in the first record when in Navigation Mode?
a. Tab b. Home + Up Arrow
c. Up Arrow d. Ctrl+Home
ANSWER: d
26. The ____ command removes the display of one or more fields in Datasheet view.
a. Hide Fields b. Unhide Fields
I have found out within the last few days why so few men are to be
seen in my rounds. The settlements here scarcely deserve the name
of villages—they are too straggling for that; it is only now and then
that from one hut one can catch a distant glimpse of another. The
view is also obstructed by the fields of manioc, whose branches,
though very spreading, are not easily seen through on account of the
thickly-growing, succulent green foliage. This and the bazi pea are,
now that the maize and millet have been gathered in, the only crops
left standing in the fields. Thus it may happen that one has to trust
entirely to the trodden paths leading from one hut to another, to be
sure of missing none, or to the guidance of the sounds inseparable
from every human settlement. There is no lack of such noises at
Masasi, and in fact I follow them almost every day. Walking about
the country with Nils Knudsen, I hear what sounds like a jovial
company over their morning drink—voices becoming louder and
louder, and shouting all together regardless of parliamentary rules. A
sudden turn of the path brings us face to face with a drinking-party,
and a very merry one, indeed, to judge by the humour of the guests
and the number and dimensions of the pombe pots which have been
wholly or partially emptied. The silence which follows our
appearance is like that produced by a stone thrown into a pool where
frogs are croaking. Only when we ask, “Pombe nzuri?” (“Is the beer
good?”) a chorus of hoarse throats shouts back the answer—“Nzuri
kabisa, bwana!” (“Very good indeed, sir!”)
As to this pombe—well, we Germans fail to appreciate our
privileges till we have ungratefully turned our backs on our own
country. At Mtua, our second camp out from Lindi, a huge earthen
jar of the East African brew was brought as a respectful offering to us
three Europeans. At that time I failed to appreciate the dirty-looking
drab liquid; not so our men, who finished up the six gallons or so in a
twinkling. In Masasi, again, the wife of the Nyasa chief Masekera
Matola—an extremely nice, middle-aged woman—insisted on
sending Knudsen and me a similar gigantic jar soon after our arrival.
We felt that it was out of the question to refuse or throw away the
gift, and so prepared for the ordeal with grim determination. First I
dipped one of my two tumblers into the turbid mass, and brought it
up filled with a liquid in colour not unlike our Lichtenhain beer, but
of a very different consistency. A compact mass of meal filled the
glass almost to the top, leaving about a finger’s breadth of real, clear
“Lichtenhainer.” “This will never do!” I growled, and shouted to
Kibwana for a clean handkerchief. He produced one, after a
seemingly endless search, but my attempts to use it as a filter were
fruitless—not a drop would run through. “No use, the stuff is too
closely woven. Lete sanda, Kibwana” (“Bring a piece of the shroud!”)
This order sounds startling enough, but does not denote any
exceptional callousness on my part. Sanda is the Swahili name for
the cheap, unbleached and highly-dressed calico (also called bafta)
which, as a matter of fact, is generally used by the natives to wrap a
corpse for burial. The material is consequently much in demand, and
travellers into the interior will do well to carry a bale of it with them.
When the dressing is washed out, it is little better than a network of
threads, and might fairly be expected to serve the purpose of a filter.
I found, however, that I could not strain the pombe through it—a
few scanty drops ran down and that was all. After trying my tea and
coffee-strainers, equally in vain, I gave up in despair, and drank the
stuff as it stood. I found that it had a slight taste of flour, but was
otherwise not by any means bad, and indeed quite reminiscent of my
student days at Jena—in fact, I think I could get used to it in time.
The men of Masasi seem to have got only too well used to it. I am far
from grudging the worthy elders their social glass after the hard work
of the harvest, but it is very hard that my studies should suffer from
this perpetual conviviality. It is impossible to drum up any
considerable number of men to be cross-examined on their tribal
affinities, usages and customs. Moreover, the few who can reconcile
it with their engagements and inclinations to separate themselves for
a time from their itinerant drinking-bouts are not disposed to be very
particular about the truth. Even when, the other day, I sent for a
band of these jolly topers to show me their methods of
basketmaking, the result was very unsatisfactory—they did some
plaiting in my presence, but they were quite incapable of giving in
detail the native names of their materials and implements—the
morning drink had been too copious.
It is well known that it is the custom of most, if not all, African
tribes to make a part of their supply of cereals into beer after an
abundant harvest, and consume it wholesale in this form. This, more
than anything else, has probably given rise to the opinion that the
native always wastes his substance in time of plenty, and is nearly
starved afterwards in consequence. It is true that our black friends
cannot be pronounced free from a certain degree of “divine
carelessness”—a touch, to call it no more, of Micawberism—but it
would not be fair to condemn them on the strength of a single
indication. I have already laid stress on the difficulty which the
native cultivator has of storing his seed-corn through the winter. It
would be still more difficult to preserve the much greater quantities
of foodstuffs gathered in at the harvest in a condition fit for use
through some eight or nine months. That he tries to do so is seen by
the numerous granaries surrounding every homestead of any
importance, but that he does not invariably succeed, and therefore
prefers to dispose of that part of his crops which would otherwise be
wasted in a manner combining the useful and the agreeable, is
proved by the morning and evening beer-drinks already referred to,
which, with all their loud merriment, are harmless enough. They
differ, by the bye, from the drinking in European public-houses, in
that they are held at each man’s house in turn, so that every one is
host on one occasion and guest on another—a highly satisfactory
arrangement on the whole.
My difficulties are due to other causes besides the chronically
bemused state of the men. In the first place, there are the troubles
connected with photography. In Europe the amateur is only too
thankful for bright sunshine, and even should the light be a little
more powerful than necessary, there is plenty of shade to be had
from trees and houses. In Africa we have nothing of the sort—the
trees are neither high nor shady, the bushes are not green, and the
houses are never more than twelve feet high at the ridge-pole. To this
is added the sun’s position in the sky at a height which affects one
with a sense of uncanniness, from nine in the morning till after three
in the afternoon, and an intensity of light which is best appreciated
by trying to match the skins of the natives against the colours in Von
Luschan’s scale. No medium between glittering light and deep black
shadow—how is one, under such circumstances, to produce artistic
plates full of atmosphere and feeling?
For a dark-room I have been trying to use the Masasi boma. This is
the only stone building in the whole district and has been
constructed for storing food so as to prevent the recurrence of famine
among the natives, and, still more, to make the garrison independent
of outside supplies in the event of another rising. It has only one
story, but the walls are solidly built, with mere loopholes for
windows; and the flat roof of beaten clay is very strong. In this
marvel of architecture are already stacked uncounted bags
containing millet from the new crop, and mountains of raw cotton. I
have made use of both these products, stopping all crevices with the
cotton, and taking the bags of grain to sit on, and also as a support
for my table, hitherto the essential part of a cotton-press which
stands forsaken in the compound, mourning over the shipwreck it
has made of its existence. Finally, I have closed the door with a
combination of thick straw mats made by my carriers, and some
blankets from my bed. In this way, I can develop at a pinch even in
the daytime, but, after working a short time in this apartment, the
atmosphere becomes so stifling that I am glad to escape from it to
another form of activity.
On one of my first strolls here, I came upon
a neat structure which was explained to me as
“tego ya ngunda”—a trap for pigeons. This is
a system of sticks and thin strings, one of
which is fastened to a strong branch bent over
into a half-circle. I have been, from my youth
up, interested in all mechanical contrivances,
and am still more so in a case like this, where
we have an opportunity of gaining an insight
into the earlier evolutional stages of the
RAT TRAP human intellect. I therefore, on my return to
camp, called together all my men and as many
local natives as possible, and addressed the assembly to the effect
that the mzungu was exceedingly anxious to possess all kinds of
traps for all kinds of animals. Then followed the promise of good
prices for good and authentic specimens, and the oration wound up
with “Nendeni na tengenezeni sasa!” (“Now go away and make up
your contraptions!”).
How they hurried off that day, and how eagerly all my men have
been at work ever since! I had hitherto believed all my carriers to be
Wanyamwezi—now I find, through the commentaries which each of
them has to supply with his work, that my thirty men represent a
number of different tribes. Most of them, to be sure, are
Wanyamwezi, but along with them there are some Wasukuma and
Manyema, and even a genuine Mngoni from Runsewe, a
representative of that gallant Zulu tribe who, some decades ago,
penetrated from distant South Africa to the present German
territory, and pushed forward one of its groups—these very Runsewe
Wangoni—as far as the south-western corner of the Victoria Nyanza.
As for the askari, though numbering only thirteen, they belong to no
fewer than twelve different tribes, from those of far Darfur in the
Egyptian Sudan to the Yao in Portuguese East Africa. All these
“faithfuls” have been racking their brains to recall and practise once
more in wood and field the arts of their boyhood, and now they come
and set up, in the open, sunny space beside my palatial abode, the
results of their unwonted intellectual exertions.
The typical cultivator is not credited in literature with much skill
as a hunter and trapper; his modicum of intellect is supposed to be
entirely absorbed by the care of his fields, and none but tribes of the
stamp of the Bushmen, the Pygmies and the Australian aborigines
are assumed by our theoretic wisdom to be capable of dexterously
killing game in forest or steppe, or taking it by skilful stratagem in a
cunningly devised trap. And yet how wide of the mark is this opinion
of the schools! Among the tribes of the district I am studying, the
Makua are counted as good hunters, while at the same time they are
like the rest, in the main, typical hoe-cultivators—i.e., people who,
year after year, keep on tilling, with the primitive hoe, the ground
painfully brought under cultivation. In spite of their agricultural
habits their traps are constructed with wonderful ingenuity. The
form and action of these traps is sufficiently evident from the
accompanying sketches; but in case any reader should be entirely
without the faculty of “technical sight,” I may add for his benefit that
all these murderous implements depend on the same principle.
Those intended for quadrupeds are so arranged that the animal in
walking or running forward strikes against a fine net with his muzzle,
or a thin cord with his foot. The net or the string is thereby pressed
forward, the upper edge of the former glides downwards, but the end
of the string moves a little to one side. In either case this movement
sets free the end of a lever—a small stick which has hitherto, in a way
sufficiently clear from the sketch—kept the trap set. It slips
instantaneously round its support, and in so doing releases the
tension of the tree or bent stick acting as a spring, which in its
upward recoil draws a skilfully fixed noose tight round the neck of
the animal, which is then strangled to death. Traps of similar
construction, but still more cruel, are set for rats and the like, and,
unfortunately, equal cunning and skill are applied to the pursuit of
birds. Perhaps I shall find another opportunity of discussing this side
of native life; it certainly deserves attention, for there is scarcely any
department where the faculty of invention to be found in even the
primitive mind is so clearly shown as in this aspect of the struggle for
existence.
It is not very easy to locate my present abode on the map. Masasi and
its exact latitude and longitude have been known to me for years, but
of this strangely named place,[17] where I drove in my tent-pegs a few
days ago, I never even heard before I had entered the area of the
inland tribes.
One trait is common to all Oriental towns, their beauty at a
distance and the disillusionment in store for those who set foot
within their walls. Knudsen has done nothing but rave about
Chingulungulu ever since we reached Masasi. He declared that its
baraza was the highest achievement of East African architecture,
that it had a plentiful supply of delicious water, abundance of all
kinds of meat, and unequalled fruit and vegetables. He extolled its
population, exclusively composed, according to him, of high-bred
gentlemen and good-looking women, and its well-built, spacious
houses. Finally, its situation, he said, made it a convenient centre for
excursions in all directions over the plain. I have been here too short
a time to bring all the details of this highly coloured picture to the
test of actual fact, but this much I have already ascertained, that
neither place nor people are quite so paradisaical as the enthusiastic
Nils would have me believe.
YAO HOMESTEAD AT CHINGULUNGULU
His name, Kofia tule, was at first a puzzle to me. I knew that kofia
means a cap, but, curiously enough it never occurred to me to look
up tule (which, moreover, I assumed to be a Nyamwezi word) in the
dictionary. That it was supposed to involve a joke of some sort, I
gathered from the general laughter, whenever I asked its meaning. At
last we arrived at the fact that kofia tule means a small, flat cap—in
itself a ridiculous name for a man, but doubly so applied to this black
super-man with the incredibly vacant face.
Kofia tule, then, comes slowly forward, followed by six more
Wanyamwezi, and some local men whom I have engaged as extra
carriers. With him as their mnyampara they are to take my
collections down to the Coast, and get them stored till my return in
the cellars of the District Commissioner’s office at Lindi. The final
instructions are delivered, and then comes the order, “You here, go
to the left,—we are going to the right. March!” Our company takes
some time to get into proper marching order, but at last everything
goes smoothly. A glance northward over the plain assures us that
Kofia tule and his followers have got up the correct safari speed; and
we plunge into the uninhabited virgin pori.
There is something very monotonous and fatiguing about the
march through these open woods. It is already getting on for noon,
and I am half-asleep on my mule, when I catch sight of two black
figures, gun in hand, peeping cautiously round a clump of bushes in
front. Can they be Wangoni?
For some days past we have heard flying rumours that Shabruma,
the notorious leader of the Wangoni in the late rebellion, and the last
of our opponents remaining unsubdued, is planning an attack on
Nakaam, and therefore threatening this very neighbourhood. Just as
I look round for my gun-bearer, a dozen throats raise the joyful shout
of “Mail-carrier!” This is my first experience of the working of the
German Imperial Post in East Africa; I learnt in due course that,
though by no means remunerative to the department, it is as nearly
perfect as any human institution can be. It sounds like an
exaggeration, but it is absolutely true, to say that all mail matter,
even should it be only a single picture post-card, is delivered to the
addressee without delay, wherever he may be within the postal area.
The native runners, of course, have a very different sort of duty to
perform from the few miles daily required of our home functionaries.
With letters and papers packed in a water-tight envelope of oiled
paper and American cloth, and gun on shoulder, the messenger trots
along, full of the importance of his errand, and covers enormous
distances, sometimes, it is said, double the day’s march of an
ordinary caravan. If the road lies through a district rendered unsafe
by lions, leopards, or human enemies, two men are always sent
together. The black figures rapidly approach us, ground arms with
soldierly precision and report in proper form:—Letters from Lindi
for the Bwana mkubwa and the Bwana mdogo—the great and the
little master. As long as Mr. Ewerbeck was with us, it was not easy for
the natives to establish the correct precedence between us. Since they
ranked me as the new captain, they could not possibly call me
Bwana mdogo. Now, however, there is not the slightest difficulty,—
there are only two Europeans, and I being, not only the elder, but
also the leader of the expedition, there is nothing to complicate the
usual gradation of ranks.
CAMP AT MWITI
YAO HUT