Life in the Universe 4th Edition Bennett Test Bank

Life in the Universe 4th Edition Bennett

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Life in the Universe 4th Edition Bennett Test Bank

Life in the Universe, 4e (Bennett)

Chapter 2 The Science of Life in the Universe

1) The possibility of extraterrestrial life was first considered

A) after the invention of the telescope
B) only during the past few decades
C) thousands of years ago during ancient times
D) at the turn of the 20th century
Answer: C

2) Historical evidence suggests that the methods of modern science were originated by the
A) Mayans
B) Egyptians
C) Greeks
D) Babylonians
Answer: C

3) Most ancient cultures believed that the Earth was

A) spherical and moving through space
B) flat and moving through space
C) spherical and motionless
D) flat and motionless
Answer: D

4) The astronomical object in our sky which plays the most fundamental role in our lives is the
A) Sun
B) Moon
C) nearest star
D) most massive planet in our solar system, Jupiter
Answer: A

5) The astronomical object in our sky which is directly connected to the tides is the
A) Sun
B) Moon
C) nearest star
D) most massive planet in our solar system, Jupiter
Answer: B

6) Careful observations of the sky by ancient cultures served the practical purpose of
A) keeping track of time
B) improving night vision
C) religious worship
D) keeping track of the changing position of the Earth around the Sun
Answer: A

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7) The first detailed astronomical observations were made by the
A) Mayans
B) Egyptians
C) Chinese
D) Babylonians
Answer: C

8) The first ancient civilization able to predict eclipses were the

A) Mayans
B) Egyptians
C) Chinese
D) Babylonians
Answer: D

9) The origins of Greek science can be traced back to the philosopher

A) Plato
B) Thales
C) Aristotle
D) Anaximander
Answer: B

10) The Greek approach to understanding the universe relied mostly on

A) observations
B) experiments
C) thought and intuition
D) preconceived ideas
Answer: C

11) Which of the following was NOT a contribution made by the Greeks in the development of
modern science?
A) The willingness to challenging new ideas
B) The use of mathematics to explore new ideas
C) The willingness to discard ideas if they didn't work
D) The willingness to prove preconceived ideas
Answer: D

12) In science, conceptual representations of observed phenomena are referred to as

A) facts
B) hypotheses
C) models
D) beliefs
Answer: C

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13) The circular shape of the Earth's shadow on the Moon during a lunar eclipse suggested to the
Greeks that the Earth was
A) cylindrical in shape
B) at the center of the Universe
C) flat
D) spherical in shape
Answer: D

14) The geocentric model of the Greeks consisted of a

A) flat Earth at the center of the universe surrounded by a dome-shaped sky
B) flat Earth at the center of the universe surrounded by a celestial sphere
C) spherical Earth at the center of the universe surrounded by a dome-shaped sky
D) spherical Earth at the center of the universe surrounded by a celestial sphere
Answer: D

15) Which of the following is NOT a planet visible to the naked eye?
A) Saturn
B) Neptune
C) Mercury
D) Jupiter
Answer: B

16) The seven days of the week are related to the

A) Sun, Moon and five naked eye planets
B) seven brightest stars in the sky
C) seven planets known at the end of the 19th century
D) seven most prominent constellations that the Sun, Moon and planets pass through
Answer: A

17) Most of the time, planets are observed to

A) be stationary with respect to background stars
B) move eastward with respect to background stars
C) move due south with respect to background stars
D) move westward with respect to background stars
Answer: B

18) Apparent retrograde motion occurs when a planet appears to

A) be stationary with respect to background stars
B) move eastward with respect to background stars
C) move due north with respect to background stars
D) move westward with respect to background stars
Answer: D

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Another random document with
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 That dinner in the other end of Mary Hopkins’s tent, was a thing
long to be remembered. Bascom crept meekly in after awhile and
offered himself at least as a guest. But Ma’ Jane remarked dryly, “My
husband not bein’ here, I reckon I can’t take you in—I ain’t makin’ no
new acquaintances.” He went away and ate with Miss Mirandy Barr,
who had corn-beef and cold potatoes for dinner. Somehow
everything was different.
The minister’s sermon on hypocrisy that afternoon was something
terrible to hear, and sounded personal to the last degree. Another
meal at Miss Mirandy Barr’s with a night on a pallet at Sister Clark’s
prepared Bascom to enter upon another day with a chastened spirit,
but there was no relenting on the part of Ma’ Jane. Between
sermons he heard goodly sounds of cooking at her tent and,
wandering near, smelled such odors as tore his very being asunder.
But he was an outcast there, and might not hope to enter. He
listened to the sermons in gloomy silence; his voice was not raised in
the hymns.
But when the long day had worn itself out, and the night service
was going on, he sat looking around on the scene from which it
seemed that he was all at once shut out.
Over there in the brightest light he saw Ma’ Jane, her face lifted,
her hands clasped in her lap. He saw how gray she was getting and
how shabby. That best bonnet of hers had been bought fifteen years
before, and she had washed the ribbon and retrimmed it many times.
While he looked he saw the tears on her face too. The hands she
raised to wipe them were rough and hard; how she must have
worked!
The minister had turned towards him and looked into his eyes.
What he saw there decided him—“Will Brother Bascom Barnard lead
us in prayer?” And Brother Bascom Barnard fell on his knees,
shaken with sobs.
“The Lord forgive us for bein’ miserable fools,” he cried, “an’ give
us a chance to try again an’ see if we can’t do better next time,
Amen!” It was a very complete prayer; after it was over Bascom
found a hand on his arm, and there was Ma’ Jane looking up at him.
 “I’ve got some chicken-pie saved up for you, Bascom,” she
whispered. And they went away toward the tent, arm in arm, walking
where the shadows of the trees lay thickest. “It looks like we’re goin’
to have a great meetin’,” he said, stumbling. “I’m awful glad you got a
chance to come, Ma’ Jane.”

THE CATACOMBS OF PALERMO

J. Ross Browne
Chief among the wonders of Palermo are the Catacombs of the
Capuchin Convent, near to Porta d’Ossuna. It is said to be a place of
great antiquity; many of the bodies have been preserved in it for
centuries, and still retain much of their original freshness. Entering
the ancient and ruinous court of the convent, distant about a mile
from the city, I was conducted by a ghostly-looking monk through
some dark passages to the subterranean apartments of the dead. It
was not my first visit to a place of this kind, but I must confess the
sight was rather startling. It was like a revel of the dead—a horrible,
grinning, ghastly exhibition of skeleton forms, sightless eyes, and
shining teeth, jaws distended, and bony hands outstretched; heads
without bodies, and bodies without heads—the young, the old, the
brave, the once beautiful and gay, all mingled in the ghastly throng. I
walked through long subterranean passages, lined with the dead on
both sides; with a stealthy and measured tread I stepped, for they
seemed to stare at the intrusion, and their skeleton fingers vibrated
as if yearning to grasp the living in their embrace. Long rows of
upright niches are cut into the walls on each side; in every niche a
skeleton form stands erect as in life, habited in a robe of black; the
face, hands, and feet naked, withered, and of an ashy hue; the
grizzled beards still hanging in tufts from the jaws, but matted and
dry. To each corpse is attached a label upon which is written the
name and the date of decease, and a cross or the image of the
Saviour....
Who was the prince here? Who was the great man, or the proud
man, or the rich man? The musty, grinning, ghastly skeleton in the
corner seemed to chuckle at the thought, and say to himself, “Was it
you, there on the right, you ugly, noseless, sightless, disgusting
thing? Was it you that rode in your fine carriage, about a year ago,
and thought yourself so great when you ordered your coachman to
drive over the beggar? Don’t you see he is as handsome as you are
now, and as great a man; you can’t cut him down now, my fine
fellow! And you, there on the left. What a nice figure you are, with
your fleshless shanks and your worm-eaten lips! It was you that
betrayed youth and beauty and innocence, and brought yourself
here at last to keep company with such wretches as I am. Why, there
is not a living thing now, save the maggots, that wouldn’t turn away
in disgust from you. And you, sir, on the opposite side, how proud
you were the last time I saw you; an officer of state, a great man in
power, who could crush all below you, and make the happy wife a
widowed mourner, and bring her little babes to starvation; it was you
who had innocent men seized and thrown into prison. What can you
do now? The meanest wretch that mocks you in this vault of death is
as good as you, as strong, as great, as tall, as broad, as pretty a
piece of mortality, and a great deal nearer to heaven. Oh, you are a
nice set of fellows, all mixing together without ceremony! Where are
your rules of etiquette now; your fashionable ranks, and your
plebeian ranks; your thousands of admiring friends, your throngs of
jeweled visitors? Why, the lowliest of us has as many visitors here,
and as many honest tears shed as you. Ha! Ha! This is a jolly place,
after all; we are all a jolly set of republicans, and old Death is our
President.”—From “Yusef, or the Journey of the Frangi.” Published
by Harper & Brothers and used by their kind permission.

GETTING READY FOR THE TRAIN

By Robert J. Burdette
When they reached the station, Mr. and Mrs. Man gazed in
unspeakable disappointment at the receding train which was just
pulling away from the station at the rate of about a thousand miles a
minute. Their first impulse was to run after it, but as the train was out
of sight and whistling for the next station before they could act upon
this impulse, they remained in the auto and disconsolately turned
homeward.
“It all comes of having to wait for a woman to get ready!”
“I was ready before you were!”
“Great heavens, just listen to that! And I sat out in the car ten
minutes yelling for you to come along until the whole neighborhood
heard me!”
“Yes, and every time I started down the stairs you sent me back
after something you had forgotten.”
Mr. Man groaned. “This is too much to bear when everybody
knows that if I were going to Europe I would just rush in the house,
put on a clean shirt, grab a grip and fly, while you would want at least
six months to get ready in and then dawdle around the whole day of
starting until every train had left town.”
Well, the upshot of the matter was that the Mans put off their visit
to San Diego until the next week, when it was agreed that each one
should get himself or herself ready, get down to the train and go. And
the one who failed to get ready should be left.
The day of the match came around in due time. The train was to
leave at ten-thirty and Mr. Man, after attending to business, came
home at nine forty-five.
“Now, then, only three-quarters of an hour until train time. Fly
around. A fair field and no favors, you know.”
And away they flew. Mr. Man bulged into this room, and rushed
through that, and into one closet after another, with inconceivable
chuckling under his breath all the time to think how cheap Mrs. Man
would feel when he started off alone. He stopped on the way
upstairs to pull off his heavy boots to save time. For the same reason
he pulled off his coat as he ran through the dining-room and hung it
on the corner of the silver closet. Then he jerked off his vest as he
ran through the hall and tossed it on a hook on the hatrack, and by
the time he reached his own room he was ready to plunge into clean
clothes. He pulled out a dresser drawer and began to paw among
the things like a Scotch terrier after a rat. “Elinor, where are my
shirts?”
“In your dresser drawer.”
“Well, but they ain’t. I’ve pulled out every last thing and there isn’t
a thing I’ve ever seen before.”
(Laughing.) “These things scattered around on the floor are all
mine; perhaps you haven’t been looking in your own drawer.”
“I don’t see why you couldn’t put my things out for me, when you
had nothing to do all morning.”
“Because—because, nobody put mine out. A fair field and no
favors, my dear.”
Mr. Man plunged into his shirt. “Gad, no buttons on the neck!”
“Because you have it on wrong side out.”
When his head came through the clock struck ten. “Where’s my
shirt studs?”
“In the shirt you just pulled off.” Mrs. Man put on her gloves while
Mr. Man hunted up and down the room for his cuff buttons.
“Elinor, I believe you must know where those buttons are.”
“I didn’t see them. Didn’t you leave them on the window-sill in the
living-room last night?”
Mr. Man remembered, and down the stairs he flew. He stepped on
one of his boots and was immediately landed at the foot of the stairs
with neatness and dispatch, attended in the transmission with more
bumps than he could count.
“Are you nearly ready, dear?”
The unhappy man groaned. “Can’t you throw me down my other
boot?”
Mrs. Man pitifully kicked it down to him.
“My valise?”
“In your dressing-room.”
 “Packed?”
“I do not know; unless you packed it yourself probably not. I had
hardly time to pack my own.” She was passing out of the gate when
the door opened and he shouted: “Where in the name of goodness
did you put my vest? It has all my money in it.”
“You threw it on the hatrack; good-by, dear.”
Before she reached the corner of the street she was hailed again.
“Elinor! Elinor Man! Did you wear off my coat?”
She paused after signaling the street car to stop, and cried: “You
threw it on the silver-closet,” and the street car engulfed her graceful
form and she was seen no more.
But the neighbors say that they heard Mr. Man charging up and
down the house, rushing out to the front door every now and then
and shrieking up the deserted street after the unconscious Mrs. Man
to know where his hat was and where did she put the valise key, and
that there wasn’t a linen collar in the house.
And when he went away at last he left the front door, the kitchen
door, and side door, all the down-stairs windows and front gate wide
open, and the loungers around the station were somewhat amused,
just as the train was pulling out of sight down in the yards, to see a
flushed, perspiring man with his hat on sideways, his vest
unbuttoned, necktie flying, and his grip flapping open and shut like a
demented shutter on a March night, and a doorkey in his hand, dash
wildly across the platform and halt in the middle of the track, glaring
in dejected, impatient, wrathful mortification at the departing train,
and shaking his fist at the pretty woman who was throwing kisses at
him from the rear platform of the last car.
“A fair field and no favors, my dear!”

A STARTLING ADVENTURE
By J. Ross Browne
 I descended several of these shafts rather to oblige my friend, the
Judge, than to satisfy any curiosity I had on the subject myself. This
thing of being dropped down two hundred feet into the bowels of the
earth in wooden buckets, and hoisted out by blind horses attached to
“whims,” may be very amusing to read about, but I have enjoyed
pleasanter modes of locomotion. There was one shaft in particular
that left an indelible impression upon my mind—so much so, indeed,
that I am astonished every hair in my head is not quite gray. It was in
the San Antonia, a mine in which the Judge held an interest in
connection with a worthy Norwegian by the name of Jansen. As I
had traveled in Norway, Jansen was enthusiastic in his devotion to
my enjoyment—declared he would go down with me himself and
show me everything worth seeing—even to the lower level just
opened. While I was attempting to frame an excuse the honest
Norwegian had lighted a couple of candles, given directions to one of
the “boys” to look out for the old blind horse attached to the “whim”
and now stood ready at the mouth of the shaft to guide me into the
subterranean regions.
“Mr. Jansen,” said I, looking with horror at the rickety wooden
bucket and the flimsy little rope that was to hold us suspended
between the surface of the earth and eternity, “is that rope strong?”
“Well, I think it’s strong enough to hold us,” replied Jansen; “it
carries a ton of ore. We don’t weigh a ton, I guess.”
“But the bucket looks fearfully battered. And who can vouch that
the old horse won’t run away and let us down by the run?”
“Oh, sir, he’s used to it. That horse never runs. You see, he’s fast
asleep now. He sleeps all along on the down turn. It’s the up turn
that gets him.”
“Mr. Jansen,” said I, “all that may be true; but suppose the bucket
should catch and drop us out?”
“Well, sometimes it catches; but nobody’s been hurt bad yet; one
man fell fifteen feet perpendicular. He lit on the top of his head.”
“Wasn’t he killed?”
 “No; he was only stunned a little. There was a buzzing about
among his brains for a few days after; he’s at work down below now,
as well as ever.”
“Mr. Jansen, upon the whole I think I’d rather go down by the
ladder, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Certainly, sir, suit yourself; only the ladder’s sort o’ broke in spots,
and you’ll find it a tolerably hard climb down; how-so-ever, I’ll go
ahead and sing out when I come to bad places.”
With this the Norwegian disappeared. I looked down after him. The
shaft was about four feet square; rough, black and dismal, with a
small, flickering light, apparently a thousand feet below, making the
darkness visible. It was almost perpendicular; the ladders stood
against the near side, perched on ledges or hanging together by
means of chafed and ragged-looking ropes. I regretted that I had not
taken Jansen’s advice and committed myself to the bucket; but it
was now too late. With a hurried glance at the bright world around
me, a thought of home and unhappy conditions of widows and
orphans, as a general thing, I seized the rungs of the ladder and took
the irrevocable dive. Down I crept, rung after rung, ladder after
ladder, in the black darkness, with the solid walls of rock pressing the
air close around me. Sometimes I heard the incoherent muttering of
voices below, but could make nothing of them. Perhaps Jansen was
warning me of breaks in the ladder; perhaps his voice was split up by
the rocks and sounded like many voices; or it might be there were
gnomes whisking about in the dark depths below. Down and still
down I crept, slower and slower, for I was getting tired, and I fancied
there might be poisonous gases in the air. When I had reached the
depth of a thousand feet, as it seemed, but about a hundred and
forty as it was in reality, the thought occurred to me that I was
beginning to get alarmed. In truth I was shaking like a man with the
ague. Suppose I should become nervous and lose my hold on the
ladder? The very idea was enough to make me shaky. There was an
indefinite extent of shaft underneath, black, narrow and scraggy, with
a solid base of rock at the bottom. I did not wonder that it caused a
buzzing of the brain to fall fifteen feet and light on top of the head.
My brain was buzzing already, and I had not fallen yet. But the
prospect to that effect was getting better and better every moment,
for I was now quite out of breath, and had to stop and cling around
the ladder to avoid falling. The longer I stood this way the more
certain it became that I should lose my balance and topple over. With
a desperate effort I proceeded, step after step, clinging desperately
to the frail wood-work as the drowning man clings to a straw, gasping
for breath, the cold sweat streaming down my face, and my jaws
chattering audibly. The breaks in the ladder were getting fearfully
common. Sometimes I found two rungs gone, sometimes six or
seven, and then I had to slide down by the sides till my feet found a
resting-place on another rung or some casual ledge of rock. To
Jansen, or the miners who worked down in the shaft every day, all of
this, of course, was mere pastime. They knew every break and
resting-place; and besides, familiarity with any particular kind of
danger blunts the sense of it. I am confident that I could make the
same trip now without experiencing any unpleasant sensation. By
good fortune I at length reached the bottom of the shaft, where I
found my Norwegian friend and some three or four workmen quietly
awaiting my arrival. A bucket of ore, containing some five or six
hundred pounds, was ready to be hoisted up. It was very nice-
looking ore, and very rich ore, as Jansen assured me; but what did I
care about ore till I got the breath back again into my body?
“Stand from under, sir,” said Jansen, dodging into a hole in the
rocks; “a chunk of ore might fall out, or the bucket might give way.”
Stand from under? Where in the name of sense was a man to
stand in such a hole as this, not more than six or eight feet square at
the base, with a few dark chasms in the neighborhood through which
it was quite possible to be precipitated into the infernal regions?
However, I stood as close to the wall as was possible without
backing clean into it. The bucket of ore having gone up out of sight, I
was now introduced to the ledge upon which the men were at work.
It was about four feet thick, clearly defined, and apparently rich in the
precious metals. In some specimens which I took out myself gold
was visible to the naked eye. The indications of silver were also well
marked. This was at a depth of a hundred and seventy-five feet. At
the bottom of this shaft there was a loose flooring of rafters and
planks.
“If you like,” said Jansen, “we’ll go down here and take a look at
the lower drift. They’ve just struck the ledge about forty feet below.”
“Are the ladders as good as those above, Mr. Jansen?” I inquired.
“Oh, yes, sir; they’re all good; some of the lower ones may be
busted a little with the blastin’; but there’s two men down there.
Guess they got down somehow.”
“To tell you the truth, Mr. Jansen, I’m not curious about the lower
drift. You can show me some specimens of the ore, and that will be
quite satisfactory.”
“Yes, sir, but I’d like you to see the vein where the drift strikes it.
It’s really beautiful.”
A beautiful sight down in this region was worth looking at, so I
succumbed. Jansen lifted up the planks, told the men to cover us
well up as soon as we had disappeared, in order to keep the ore
from the upper shaft from tumbling on our heads, and then, diving
down, politely requested me to follow. I had barely descended a few
steps when the massive rafters and planks were thrown across
overhead and thus all exit to the outer world was cut off. There was
an oppressive sensation in being so completely isolated from the
outside world—barred out, as it were, from the surface of the earth.
Yet how many there are who spend half their lives in such a place for
a pittance of wages which they squander in dissipation! Surely it is
worth four dollars a day to work in these dismal holes.
Bracing my nerves with such thoughts as these, I scrambled down
the rickety ladders till the last rung seemed to have disappeared. I
probed about with a spare leg for a landing place, but could touch
neither top, bottom nor sides. The ladder was apparently suspended
in space like Mohammed’s coffin.
“Come on, sir,” cried the voice of Jansen far down below. “They’re
going to blast.”
 Pleasant, if not picturesque, to be hanging by two arms and one
leg to a ladder, squirming about in search of a foothold, while
somebody below was setting fire to a fuse with the design, no doubt,
of blowing up the entire premises!
“Mr. Jansen,” said I, in a voice of unnatural calmness, while the big
drops of agony stood on my brow, “there’s no difficulty in saying
‘Come on, sir!’ but to do it without an inch more of ladder or anything
else that I can see, requires both time and reflection. How far do you
expect me to drop?”
“Oh, don’t you let go, sir. Just hang on to that rope at the bottom of
the ladder, and let yourself down.”
I hung on as directed and let myself down. It was plain sailing
enough to one who knew the chart. The ladder, it seemed, had been
broken by a blast of rocks; and now there was to be another blast.
We retired into a convenient hole about ten or a dozen paces from
the deposit of Hazard’s powder. The blast went off with a dead
reverberation, causing a concussion in the air that affected one like a
shock of galvanism; and then there was a diabolical smell of
brimstone. Jansen was charmed at the result. A mass of the ledge
was burst clean open. He grasped up the blackened fragments of
quartz, licked them with his tongue, held them up to the candle, and
constantly exclaimed: “There, sir, there! Isn’t it beautiful? Did you
ever see anything like it?—pure gold, almost—here it is!—don’t you
see it?”
I suppose I saw it; at all events I put some specimens in my
pocket, and saw them afterward out in the pure sunlight, where the
smoke was not so dense; and it is due to the great cause of truth to
say that gold was there in glittering specks, as if shaken over it from
a pepper-box.
Having concluded my examination of the mine, I took the bucket
as a medium of exit, being fully satisfied with the ladders. About half-
way up the shaft the iron swing or handle to which the rope was
attached caught in one of the ladders. The rope stretched. I felt it
harden and grow thin in my hands. The bucket began to tip over. It
was pitch dark all around. Jansen was far below, coming up the
ladder. Something seemed to be creaking, cracking, or giving way. I
felt the rough, heavy sides of the bucket press against my legs. A
terrible apprehension seized me that the gear was tangled and
would presently snap. In the pitchy darkness and the confusion of
the moment I could not conjecture what was the matter. I darted out
my hands, seized the ladder and, jerking myself high out of the
bucket, clambered up with the agility of an acrobat. Relieved of my
weight, the iron catch came loose, and up came the bucket banging
and thundering after me with a velocity that was perfectly frightful.
Never was there such a subterranean chase, I verily believe, since
the beginning of the world. To stop a single moment would be certain
destruction, for the bucket was large, heavy and massively bound
with iron, and the space in the shaft was not sufficient to admit of its
passing without crushing me flat against the ladder.
But such a chase could not last long. I felt my strength give way at
every lift. The distance was too great to admit the hope of escape by
climbing. My only chance was to seize the rope above the bucket
and hang on to it. This I did. It was a lucky thought—one of those
thoughts that sometimes flash upon the mind like inspiration in a
moment of peril. A few more revolutions of the “whim” brought me so
near the surface that I could see the bucket only a few yards below
my feet. The noise of the rope over the block above reminded me
that I had better slip down a little to save my hands, which I did in
good style, and was presently landed on the upper crust of the earth,
all safe and sound, though somewhat dazzled by the light and rattled
by my subterranean experiences.—From “Adventures in the Apache
Country,” published by Harper & Brothers, New York, and used by
their kind permission.

HOW CY HOPKINS GOT A SEAT

By Marshall P. Wilder
In one of the country stores where they sell everything from a silk
dress and a tub of butter to a hot drink and a cold meal, a lot of
farmers were sitting around the stove one cold day, when in came
Farmer Evans, who was greeted with:
 “How d’do, Ezry?”
“How d’do boys?” After awhile he continued: “Wa-all, I’ve killed my
hog.”
“That so? How much did he weigh?”
Farmer Evans stroked his chin whiskers meditatively and replied:
“Wa-all, guess.”
“’Bout three hundred,” said one farmer.
“No.”
“Two seventy-five,” ventured another.
“No.”
“I guess about three twenty-five,” said a third.
“No.”
Then all together demanded: “Well, how much did he weigh?”
“Dunno. Hain’t weighed him yet.”
Other men kept dropping in and hugging the stove, for the day
was cold and snowy outside. In came Cy Hopkins, wrapped in a big
overcoat, yet almost frozen to death; but there wasn’t room enough
around that stove to warm his little finger.
But he didn’t get mad about it; he just said to Bill Stebbins who
kept the stove: “Bill, got any raw oysters?”
“Yes, Cy.”
“Well, just open a dozen and feed ’em to my hoss.”
Well, Stebbins never was scared by an order from a man whose
credit was good as Cy’s was, so he opened the oysters and took
them out, an’ the whole crowd followed to see a horse eat oysters.
Then Cy picked out the best seat near the stove and dropped into it
as if he had come to stay, as he had.
Pretty soon the crowd came back, and the storekeeper said: “Why,
Cy, your hoss won’t eat them oysters.”
 “Won’t he? Well, then, bring ’em here an’ I’ll eat ’em myself.”—
From “The Sunny Side of the Street.” Published and copyrighted by
Funk & Wagnalls Co., and used by their kind permission and that of
the author.

AN OVERWORKED RECITER

Once there was a little boy whose name was Robert Reece,
And every Friday afternoon he had to say a piece,
So many poems thus he learned that soon he had a store
Of recitations in his head, and still kept learning more.
And now this is what happened: He was called upon one week,
And totally forgot the piece he was about to speak!
His brain he cudgeled. Not a word remained within his head,
And he spoke at random, and this is what he said:

“My beautiful, my beautiful, who standest proudly by.

It was the schooner Hesperus—the breaking waves dashed high!
Why is the Forum crowded? What means this stir in Rome?
Under the spreading chestnut tree there is no place like home!
When Freedom from her mountain height cried, Twinkle, little star;
Shoot if you must this old gray head, King Henry of Navarre!
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue castled crag of Drachenfels;
My name is Norval, on the Grampian Hills, ring out, wild bells!
If you’re waking call me early, To be or not to be!
The curfew must not ring to-night! Oh, woodman, spare that tree!
Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on! And let who will be clever,
The boy stood on the burning deck, but I go on forever!”

His elocution was superb, his voice and gesture fine;

His schoolmates all applauded as he finished the last line.
“I see it doesn’t matter,” Robert thought, “What words I say,
So long as I declaim with oratorical display!”

—London Tid-Bits.
 SETTLING UNDER DIFFICULTIES
By Robert J. Burdette
Strangers visiting the beautiful city of Burlington have not failed to
notice that one of the handsomest young men they meet is very
bald, and they fall into the usual error of attributing this premature
baldness to dissipation. But such is not the case. This young man,
one of the most exemplary Bible-class scholars in the city, went to a
Baptist sociable out on West Hill one night about two years ago. He
escorted three charming girls, with angelic countenances and human
appetites, out to the refreshment table, let them eat all they wanted,
and then found he had left his pocketbook at home, and a deaf man
that he had never seen before at the cashier’s desk. The young
man, with his face aflame, bent down and said softly,
“I am ashamed to say I have no change with—”
“Hey?” shouted the cashier.
“I regret to say,” the young man repeated on a little louder key,
“that I have unfortunately come away without any change to—”
“Change two?” chirped the old man. “Oh, yes, I can change five if
you want it.”
“No,” the young man explained in a terrible, penetrating whisper,
for half-a-dozen people were crowding up behind him, impatient to
pay their bills and get away, “I don’t want any change, because—”
“Oh, don’t want no change?” the deaf man cried, gleefully.
“’Bleeged to ye, ’bleeged to ye. ’Tain’t often we get such generous
donations. Pass over your bill.”
“No, no,” the young man explained, “I have no funds—”
“Oh, yes, plenty of fun,” the deaf man replied, growing tired of the
conversation and noticing the long line of people waiting with money
in their hands, “but I haven’t got time to talk about it now. Settle and
move on.”
“But,” the young man gasped out, “I have no money—”
 “Go Monday?” queried the deaf cashier. “I don’t care when you go;
you must pay and let these other people come up.”
“I have no money!” the mortified young man shouted, ready to sink
into the earth, while the people all around him, and especially the
three girls he had treated, were giggling and chuckling audibly.
“Owe money?” the cashier said, “of course you do; $2.75.”
“I can’t pay!” the youth screamed, and by turning his pocket inside
out and yelling his poverty to the heavens, he finally made the deaf
man understand. And then he had to shriek his full name three
times, while his ears fairly rang with the half-stifled laughter that was
breaking out all around him; and he had to scream out where he
worked, and roar when he would pay, and he couldn’t get the deaf
man to understand him until some of the church members came up
to see what the uproar was, and recognizing their young friend,
made it all right with the cashier. And the young man went out into
the night and clubbed himself, and shred his locks away until he was
bald as an egg.

SODDING AS A FINE ART

By Robert J. Burdette
One day, early in the spring, Mr. Blosberg, who lives out on Ninth
Street, made up his mind that he would sod his front yard himself,
and when he had formed this public-spirited resolution, he
proceeded to put it into immediate execution. He cut his sod, in
righteous and independent and liberty-loving disregard of the
ridiculous city ordinance in relation thereto, from the patches of
verdure that the cows had permitted to obtain a temporary growth
along the side of the street, and proceeded to beautify his front yard
therewith. Just as he had laid the first sod, Mr. Thwackery, his next
door neighbor, passed by.
“Good land, Blosberg,” he shouted, “you’ll never be able to make
anything of such a sod as that. Why, it’s three inches too thick. That
sod will cake up and dry like a brick. You want to shave at least two
inches and a half off the bottom of it, so the roots of the grass will
grow into the ground and unite the sod with the earth. That sod is
thick enough for a corner stone.”
So Mr. Blosberg took the spade and shaved the sod down until it
was thin and about as pliable as a buckwheat cake, and Mr.
Thwackery pronounced it all right and sure to grow, and passed on.
Just as Mr. Blosberg got it laid down the second time, old Mr.
Templeton, who lived on the next block, came along and leaned on
the fence, intently observing the sodder’s movements.
“Well, now, Blosberg,” he said at length, “I did think you had better
sense than that. Don’t you know a sod will never grow on that hard
ground? You must spade it all up first, and break the dirt up fine and
soft to the depth of at least four inches, or the grass can never take
root in it. Don’t waste your time and sod by putting grass on top of
such a baked brick-floor as that.”
And Mr. Blosberg laid aside the sod and took up the spade and
labored under Mr. Templeton’s directions until the ground was all
properly prepared for the sod, and then Mr. Templeton, telling him
that sod couldn’t die on that ground now if he tried to kill it, went his
way and Mr. Blosberg picked up that precious sod a third time, and
prepared to put it in its place. Before he had fairly poised it over the
spot, however, his hands were arrested by a terrific shout, and
looking up he saw Major Bladgers shaking his cane at him over the
fence.
“Blosberg, you insufferable donkey,” roared the Major, “don’t you
know that you’ll lose every blade of grass you can carry if you put
your sod on that dry ground? There you’ve gone and cut it so thin
that all the roots of the grass are cut and bleeding, and you must
soak that ground with water until it is a perfect pulp, so that the roots
will sink right into it, and draw nutrition from the moist earth. Wet her
down, Blosberg, if you want to see your labor result in anything.”
So Mr. Blosberg put the sod aside again, and went and pumped
water and carried it around in buckets until his back ached like a soft
corn, and when he had finally transformed the front yard into a
morass, the major was satisfied, and assuring Mr. Blosberg that his
sod would grow beautifully now, even if he laid it on upside down,
marched away, and Mr. Blosberg made a fourth effort to put the first
sod in its place. He got it down and was going back after another,
when old Mrs. Tweedlebug checked him in his wild career.
“Lawk, Mr. Blosberg, ye mustn’t go off an’ leave that sod lying that
way. You must take the spade and beat it down hard, till it is all flat
and level, and close to the ground everywhere. You must pound it
hard, or the weeds will all start up under it and crowd out the grass.”
Mr. Blosberg went back, and stooping over the sod hit it a
resounding thwack with his spade that shot great gouts and
splotches of mud all over the parlor windows and half way to the top
of the house, and some of it came flying into his face and on his
clothes, while a miscellaneous shower made it dangerous even for
his adviser, who, with a feeble shriek of disapprobation, went hastily
away, digging raw mud out of her ears. Mr. Blosberg didn’t know how
long to keep on pounding, and he didn’t see Mrs. Tweedlebug go
away, so he stood with his spade poised in the air and his eyes shut
tight, waiting for instructions. And as he waited he was surprised to
hear a new voice accost him. It was the voice of Mr. Thistlepod, the
old agriculturist, of whom Mr. Blosberg bought his apples and butter.
“Hello, Mr. Blosberg!” he shouted, in tones which indicated that he
either believed Mr. Blosberg to be stone deaf or two thousand miles
away.
Mr. Blosberg winked violently to get the soil out of his eyes, and
turned in the direction of the noise to say, “Good evening.”
“Soddin’, hey?” asked Mr. Thistlepod.
“Trying to, sir,” replied Mr. Blosberg, rather cautiously.
“’Spect it will grow, hey?”
Mr. Blosberg, having learned by very recent experience how liable
his plans were to be overthrown, was still non-committal, and replied
that “he hoped so.”
“Wal, if ye hope so, ye mustn’t go to poundin’ yer sod to pieces
with that spade. Ye don’t want to ram it down so dad binged tight and
hard there can’t no air git at the roots. Ye must shake that sod up a
little, so as to loosen it, and then jest press it down with yer foot ontil
it jest teches the ground nicely all around. Sod’s too thin, anyhow.”
So Mr. Blosberg thrust his hands into the nasty mud under his
darling, much abused sod, and spread his fingers wide apart to keep
it from breaking to pieces as he raised it, and finally got it loosened
up and pressed down to Mr. Thistlepod’s satisfaction, who then told
him he didn’t believe he could make that sod grow anyway, and
drove away. Then Mr. Blosberg stepped back to look at that sod,
feeling confident that he had got through with it, when young Mr.
Simpson came along.
“Hello, Blos, old boy; watchu doin’?”
Mr. Blosberg timorously answered that he was sodding a little.
Then Mr. Simpson pressed his lips very tightly together to repress a
smile, and let his cheeks swell and bulge out to the size of toy
balloons with suppressed merriment, and finally burst into a snort of
derisive laughter that made the windows rattle in the houses on the
other side of the street, and he went on, leaving Mr. Blosberg
somewhat nettled and a little discouraged. He stood, with his fingers
spread wide apart, holding his arms out like wings, and wondering
whether he had better go get another sod or go wash his hands,
when a policeman came by, and paused. “Soddin’?” he asked,
sententiously.
“Yes, sir, a little,” replied Mr. Blosberg, respectfully.
“Where’d you get your sod?” inquired the representative of public
order.
Mr. Blosberg dolefully indicated the little bare parallelogram in the
scanty patch of verdure as his base of supplies.
“You’re the man I’ve been lookin’ for,” replied public order. “You
come along with me.”
And Mr. Blosberg went along, and the Police Judge fined him
$11.95, and when Mr. Blosberg got home he found that a cow had
got into his yard during his absence and stepped on that precious
sod five times, and put her foot clear through it every time, so that it
looked like a patch of moss rolled up in a wad, more than a sod. And
then Mr. Blosberg fell on his knees and raised his hands to heaven,
and registered a vow that he would never plant another sod if this
whole fertile world turned into a Sahara for want of his aid.

THE MISFORTUNES OF LITTLE IKE TEMPLIN

In the midst of his supper one day it occurred to little Ike to resort
to the well for a drink of water. In time his mammy grew tired of
stopping her work whenever he grew thirsty to hand him down a
gourd from the pail which rested on the shelf beyond his reach.
Finally she said to him: “Boy, what ails you anyhow? G’long out
doors an’ try to be some use to somebody, stid of eatin’ up an’
drinkin’ up ev’yt’ing Mis’s got on her plantash’n.”
Little Ike, thus driven out, stood for a moment by the door and
looked at the well, which was a few rods distant. But he turned his
back upon it instantly, as if it were too painful to be thus reminded of
the source of his most recent disappointment, and began walking in
the opposite direction. When he had reached a spot on the line with
the end of the kitchen, he filed to the left and again to the left when
he had reached the rear side; and pursuing this line until he had
gone some distance beyond the well, turned again and came to the
latter. Stepping upon a hewn log which lay there to enable young
drawers of water to manage the bucket, he was pleased to find this
utensil as it was resting upon the ledge, half full of water. Conscious
that the time was short, he clambered up to the edge, got upon all
fours, grabbed with one hand the rim of the bucket, and with the
other hand the well-rope, and, first taking an anxious glance toward
the kitchen and a fond one toward the contents of the bucket,
plunged in his head. He had hardly taken a few sips when the call of
his mother at its accustomed pitch sounded from the kitchen.
And here I find myself under the painful necessity of recording a
most terrible scene. I suppose it will never be known precisely how it
happened, although no one, as well as I remember, ever suspected
little Ike of a deliberate intention to commit the awful crime of suicide.
It may have been that he had not known the use of his legs long
enough for the present extreme need, and that his knees may have