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Тест: ACT - Reading

Описание теста:
Exam Description:
The ACT Assessment is designed to assess high school students' general educational development and their ability to complete college-level work.
The tests cover four skill areas: English, mathematics, reading, and science reasoning.
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PROSE FICTION: This passage is taken from the novel Too Late the Phalarope be the South African author Alan Paton. In this scene, one character tries to help another overcome a bout of anger and depression.

Yes, I thought to myself, it's in the kitchen that work is done. My brother must have known it, but he never thought one would be touched by a word of thanks. I felt suddenly tired and old, and pitied myself, and remembered my lip and that no man had ever wanted me. I do not dwell on these things in my thoughts, you must not thinks it. I count my blessings, as they say. For the Lord gave me a good home, and a little money of my own, and a brother that for all his ways was an upright man, and just; and a sister-in-law for whom I would any time die. For she gave me her children to be as my own, especially the one, and knew I loved him perhaps beyond all wisdom, and never denied me. But one does not always count one's blessings; strange it is that one should go from sweet mood to black in one brief moment. I went to the pantry and sat down, and stared at the floor.
---Tante, what's wrong?
I stared at his voice, for I did not hear him come, but it was too late to put on another face. He came and stood by me, and lifted my rough hands, and turned them upwards and looked at them, and moved his thumbs over them with gentleness.
---What's wrong, he said.
But I would not look at him. He held my hands more tightly, but kept moving his thumbs over their roughness. Then he said, in a voice that meant he would not be silent, I asked you what was wrong.
I pulled my hands away from him.
---Ag, I said, I'm angry that I was born.
But he did not comfort or chide me, or tell me not be a fool, or say come back to the party, or say anything at all. He stood there, not saying anything, not touching me, and I knew that I had put the black mood into him also, and for shame I could not look at him.
Then he said, it's I that should be angry I was born.
But I said to him, not looking at him, what do you mean?
But he did not answer me. I got to my feet and took him by the arms, but he looked over me, and I was not tall enough to see his eyes.
--- Tell me, I said urgently, tell me.
---Ag, it's nothing, he said, it comes and it goes.
I tried to go back so that I could see his face, but he held me and would not let me, as though it were important I should not see it until he had time to recover, for he had opened the door of his soul and now repented it. And so strange was this for him, who was himself so strong and sure, and not a man for holding people unless he were in command of himself and them, that I knew it was true that he had opened the door, and that I had forced myself into it, and that he was forcing me out, so that he could shut it again. So I lost my sense, being myself tired and in the black mood, and forgot the bitter lessons that he himself had taught me in the past; and I was vasberade, that is I mean determined, to find out what was wrong. So I went to the pantry door and shut it, and knew the moment I had done it I had not shut myself in but had shut myself out. He might have said to me Tante, That's enough, or he might have said, must I teach you again, but he did not say that, seeing me standing at the door, and knowing I was already humbled and defeated.
---Tante, he said gently, I told you it comes and goes. What about some coffee?

The events in the passage take place:

PROSE FICTION: This passage is taken from the novel Too Late the Phalarope be the South African author Alan Paton. In this scene, one character tries to help another overcome a bout of anger and depression.

Yes, I thought to myself, it's in the kitchen that work is done. My brother must have known it, but he never thought one would be touched by a word of thanks. I felt suddenly tired and old, and pitied myself, and remembered my lip and that no man had ever wanted me. I do not dwell on these things in my thoughts, you must not think it. I count my blessings, as they say. For the Lord gave me a good home, and a little money of my own, and a brother that for all his ways was an upright man, and just; and a sister-in-law for whom I would any time die. For she gave me her children to be as my own, especially the one, and knew I loved him perhaps beyond all wisdom, and never denied me. But one does not always count one's blessings; strange it is that one should go from sweet mood to black in one brief moment. I went to the pantry and sat down, and stared at the floor.
---Tante, what's wrong?
I stared at his voice, for I did not hear him come, but it was too late to put on another face. He came and stood by me, and lifted my rough hands, and turned them upwards and looked at them, and moved his thumbs over them with gentleness.
---What's wrong, he said.
But I would not look at him. He held my hands more tightly, but kept moving his thumbs over their roughness. Then he said, in a voice that meant he would not be silent, I asked you what was wrong.
I pulled my hands away from him.
---Ag, I said, I'm angry that I was born.
But he did not comfort or chide me, or tell me not be a fool, or say come back to the party, or say anything at all. He stood there, not saying anything, not touching me, and I knew that I had put the black mood into him also, and for shame I could not look at him.
Then he said, it's I that should be angry I was born.
But I said to him, not looking at him, what do you mean?
But he did not answer me. I got to my feet and took him by the arms, but he looked over me, and I was not tall enough to see his eyes.
--- Tell me, I said urgently, tell me.
---Ag, it's nothing, he said, it comes and it goes.
I tried to go back so that I could see his face, but he held me and would not let me, as though it were important I should not see it until he had time to recover, for he had opened the door of his soul and now repented it. And so strange was this for him, who was himself so strong and sure, and not a man for holding people unless he were in command of himself and them, that I knew it was true that he had opened the door, and that I had forced myself into it, and that he was forcing me out, so that he could shut it again. So I lost my sense, being myself tired and in the black mood, and forgot the bitter lessons that he himself had taught me in the past; and I was vasberade, that is I mean determined, to find out what was wrong. So I went to the pantry door and shut it, and knew the moment I had done it I had not shut myself in but had shut myself out. He might have said to me Tante, That's enough, or he might have said, must I teach you again, but he did not say that, seeing me standing at the door, and knowing I was already humbled and defeated.
---Tante, he said gently, I told you it comes and goes. What about some coffee?

What is the relationship of the two characters in the passage?

PROSE FICTION: This passage is taken from the novel Too Late the Phalarope be the South African author Alan Paton. In this scene, one character tries to help another overcome a bout of anger and depression.

Yes, I thought to myself, it's in the kitchen that work is done. My brother must have known it, but he never thought one would be touched by a word of thanks. I felt suddenly tired and old, and pitied myself, and remembered my lip and that no man had ever wanted me. I do not dwell on these things in my thoughts, you must not think it. I count my blessings, as they say. For the Lord gave me a good home, and a little money of my own, and a brother that for all his ways was an upright man, and just; and a sister-in-law for whom I would any time die. For she gave me her children to be as my own, especially the one, and knew I loved him perhaps beyond all wisdom, and never denied me. But one does not always count one's blessings; strange it is that one should go from sweet mood to black in one brief moment. I went to the pantry and sat down, and stared at the floor.
---Tante, what's wrong?
I stared at his voice, for I did not hear him come, but it was too late to put on another face. He came and stood by me, and lifted my rough hands, and turned them upwards and looked at them, and moved his thumbs over them with gentleness.
---What's wrong, he said.
But I would not look at him. He held my hands more tightly, but kept moving his thumbs over their roughness. Then he said, in a voice that meant he would not be silent, I asked you what was wrong.
I pulled my hands away from him.
---Ag, I said, I'm angry that I was born.
But he did not comfort or chide me, or tell me not be a fool, or say come back to the party, or say anything at all. He stood there, not saying anything, not touching me, and I knew that I had put the black mood into him also, and for shame I could not look at him.
Then he said, it's I that should be angry I was born.
But I said to him, not looking at him, what do you mean?
But he did not answer me. I got to my feet and took him by the arms, but he looked over me, and I was not tall enough to see his eyes.
--- Tell me, I said urgently, tell me.
---Ag, it's nothing, he said, it comes and it goes.
I tried to go back so that I could see his face, but he held me and would not let me, as though it were important I should not see it until he had time to recover, for he had opened the door of his soul and now repented it. And so strange was this for him, who was himself so strong and sure, and not a man for holding people unless he were in command of himself and them, that I knew it was true that he had opened the door, and that I had forced myself into it, and that he was forcing me out, so that he could shut it again. So I lost my sense, being myself tired and in the black mood, and forgot the bitter lessons that he himself had taught me in the past; and I was vasberade, that is I mean determined, to find out what was wrong. So I went to the pantry door and shut it, and knew the moment I had done it I had not shut myself in but had shut myself out. He might have said to me Tante, That's enough, or he might have said, must I teach you again, but he did not say that, seeing me standing at the door, and knowing I was already humbled and defeated.
---Tante, he said gently, I told you it comes and goes. What about some coffee?

The speaker in the passage has gone into the pantry:

PROSE FICTION: This passage is taken from the novel Too Late the Phalarope be the South African author Alan Paton. In this scene, one character tries to help another overcome a bout of anger and depression.

Yes, I thought to myself, it's in the kitchen that work is done. My brother must have known it, but he never thought one would be touched by a word of thanks. I felt suddenly tired and old, and pitied myself, and remembered my lip and that no man had ever wanted me. I do not dwell on these things in my thoughts, you must not think it. I count my blessings, as they say. For the Lord gave me a good home, and a little money of my own, and a brother that for all his ways was an upright man, and just; and a sister-in-law for whom I would any time die. For she gave me her children to be as my own, especially the one, and knew I loved him perhaps beyond all wisdom, and never denied me. But one does not always count one's blessings; strange it is that one should go from sweet mood to black in one brief moment. I went to the pantry and sat down, and stared at the floor.
---Tante, what's wrong?
I stared at his voice, for I did not hear him come, but it was too late to put on another face. He came and stood by me, and lifted my rough hands, and turned them upwards and looked at them, and moved his thumbs over them with gentleness.
---What's wrong, he said.
But I would not look at him. He held my hands more tightly, but kept moving his thumbs over their roughness. Then he said, in a voice that meant he would not be silent, I asked you what was wrong.
I pulled my hands away from him.
---Ag, I said, I'm angry that I was born.
But he did not comfort or chide me, or tell me not be a fool, or say come back to the party, or say anything at all. He stood there, not saying anything, not touching me, and I knew that I had put the black mood into him also, and for shame I could not look at him.
Then he said, it's I that should be angry I was born.
But I said to him, not looking at him, what do you mean?
But he did not answer me. I got to my feet and took him by the arms, but he looked over me, and I was not tall enough to see his eyes.
--- Tell me, I said urgently, tell me.
---Ag, it's nothing, he said, it comes and it goes.
I tried to go back so that I could see his face, but he held me and would not let me, as though it were important I should not see it until he had time to recover, for he had opened the door of his soul and now repented it. And so strange was this for him, who was himself so strong and sure, and not a man for holding people unless he were in command of himself and them, that I knew it was true that he had opened the door, and that I had forced myself into it, and that he was forcing me out, so that he could shut it again. So I lost my sense, being myself tired and in the black mood, and forgot the bitter lessons that he himself had taught me in the past; and I was vasberade, that is I mean determined, to find out what was wrong. So I went to the pantry door and shut it, and knew the moment I had done it I had not shut myself in but had shut myself out. He might have said to me Tante, That's enough, or he might have said, must I teach you again, but he did not say that, seeing me standing at the door, and knowing I was already humbled and defeated.
---Tante, he said gently, I told you it comes and goes. What about some coffee?

The speaker's black mood has been brought on by:

PROSE FICTION: This passage is taken from the novel Too Late the Phalarope be the South African author Alan Paton. In this scene, one character tries to help another overcome a bout of anger and depression.

Yes, I thought to myself, it's in the kitchen that work is done. My brother must have known it, but he never thought one would be touched by a word of thanks. I felt suddenly tired and old, and pitied myself, and remembered my lip and that no man had ever wanted me. I do not dwell on these things in my thoughts, you must not think it. I count my blessings, as they say. For the Lord gave me a good home, and a little money of my own, and a brother that for all his ways was an upright man, and just; and a sister-in-law for whom I would any time die. For she gave me her children to be as my own, especially the one, and knew I loved him perhaps beyond all wisdom, and never denied me. But one does not always count one's blessings; strange it is that one should go from sweet mood to black in one brief moment. I went to the pantry and sat down, and stared at the floor.
---Tante, what's wrong?
I stared at his voice, for I did not hear him come, but it was too late to put on another face. He came and stood by me, and lifted my rough hands, and turned them upwards and looked at them, and moved his thumbs over them with gentleness.
---What's wrong, he said.
But I would not look at him. He held my hands more tightly, but kept moving his thumbs over their roughness. Then he said, in a voice that meant he would not be silent, I asked you what was wrong.
I pulled my hands away from him.
---Ag, I said, I'm angry that I was born.
But he did not comfort or chide me, or tell me not be a fool, or say come back to the party, or say anything at all. He stood there, not saying anything, not touching me, and I knew that I had put the black mood into him also, and for shame I could not look at him.
Then he said, it's I that should be angry I was born.
But I said to him, not looking at him, what do you mean?
But he did not answer me. I got to my feet and took him by the arms, but he looked over me, and I was not tall enough to see his eyes.
--- Tell me, I said urgently, tell me.
---Ag, it's nothing, he said, it comes and it goes.
I tried to go back so that I could see his face, but he held me and would not let me, as though it were important I should not see it until he had time to recover, for he had opened the door of his soul and now repented it. And so strange was this for him, who was himself so strong and sure, and not a man for holding people unless he were in command of himself and them, that I knew it was true that he had opened the door, and that I had forced myself into it, and that he was forcing me out, so that he could shut it again. So I lost my sense, being myself tired and in the black mood, and forgot the bitter lessons that he himself had taught me in the past; and I was vasberade, that is I mean determined, to find out what was wrong. So I went to the pantry door and shut it, and knew the moment I had done it I had not shut myself in but had shut myself out. He might have said to me Tante, That's enough, or he might have said, must I teach you again, but he did not say that, seeing me standing at the door, and knowing I was already humbled and defeated.
---Tante, he said gently, I told you it comes and goes. What about some coffee?

The speaker feels shame (line 34) in front of the man because:

PROSE FICTION: This passage is taken from the novel Too Late the Phalarope be the South African author Alan Paton. In this scene, one character tries to help another overcome a bout of anger and depression.

Yes, I thought to myself, it's in the kitchen that work is done. My brother must have known it, but he never thought one would be touched by a word of thanks. I felt suddenly tired and old, and pitied myself, and remembered my lip and that no man had ever wanted me. I do not dwell on these things in my thoughts, you must not think it. I count my blessings, as they say. For the Lord gave me a good home, and a little money of my own, and a brother that for all his ways was an upright man, and just; and a sister-in-law for whom I would any time die. For she gave me her children to be as my own, especially the one, and knew I loved him perhaps beyond all wisdom, and never denied me. But one does not always count one's blessings; strange it is that one should go from sweet mood to black in one brief moment. I went to the pantry and sat down, and stared at the floor.
---Tante, what's wrong?
I stared at his voice, for I did not hear him come, but it was too late to put on another face. He came and stood by me, and lifted my rough hands, and turned them upwards and looked at them, and moved his thumbs over them with gentleness.
---What's wrong, he said.
But I would not look at him. He held my hands more tightly, but kept moving his thumbs over their roughness. Then he said, in a voice that meant he would not be silent, I asked you what was wrong.
I pulled my hands away from him.
---Ag, I said, I'm angry that I was born.
But he did not comfort or chide me, or tell me not be a fool, or say come back to the party, or say anything at all. He stood there, not saying anything, not touching me, and I knew that I had put the black mood into him also, and for shame I could not look at him.
Then he said, it's I that should be angry I was born.
But I said to him, not looking at him, what do you mean?
But he did not answer me. I got to my feet and took him by the arms, but he looked over me, and I was not tall enough to see his eyes.
--- Tell me, I said urgently, tell me.
---Ag, it's nothing, he said, it comes and it goes.
I tried to go back so that I could see his face, but he held me and would not let me, as though it were important I should not see it until he had time to recover, for he had opened the door of his soul and now repented it. And so strange was this for him, who was himself so strong and sure, and not a man for holding people unless he were in command of himself and them, that I knew it was true that he had opened the door, and that I had forced myself into it, and that he was forcing me out, so that he could shut it again. So I lost my sense, being myself tired and in the black mood, and forgot the bitter lessons that he himself had taught me in the past; and I was vasberade, that is I mean determined, to find out what was wrong. So I went to the pantry door and shut it, and knew the moment I had done it I had not shut myself in but had shut myself out. He might have said to me Tante, That's enough, or he might have said, must I teach you again, but he did not say that, seeing me standing at the door, and knowing I was already humbled and defeated.
---Tante, he said gently, I told you it comes and goes. What about some coffee?

The speaker wants to look into the man's eyes (line 40) in order to:

PROSE FICTION: This passage is taken from the novel Too Late the Phalarope be the South African author Alan Paton. In this scene, one character tries to help another overcome a bout of anger and depression.

Yes, I thought to myself, it's in the kitchen that work is done. My brother must have known it, but he never thought one would be touched by a word of thanks. I felt suddenly tired and old, and pitied myself, and remembered my lip and that no man had ever wanted me. I do not dwell on these things in my thoughts, you must not think it. I count my blessings, as they say. For the Lord gave me a good home, and a little money of my own, and a brother that for all his ways was an upright man, and just; and a sister-in-law for whom I would any time die. For she gave me her children to be as my own, especially the one, and knew I loved him perhaps beyond all wisdom, and never denied me. But one does not always count one's blessings; strange it is that one should go from sweet mood to black in one brief moment. I went to the pantry and sat down, and stared at the floor.
---Tante, what's wrong?
I stared at his voice, for I did not hear him come, but it was too late to put on another face. He came and stood by me, and lifted my rough hands, and turned them upwards and looked at them, and moved his thumbs over them with gentleness.
---What's wrong, he said.
But I would not look at him. He held my hands more tightly, but kept moving his thumbs over their roughness. Then he said, in a voice that meant he would not be silent, I asked you what was wrong.
I pulled my hands away from him.
---Ag, I said, I'm angry that I was born.
But he did not comfort or chide me, or tell me not be a fool, or say come back to the party, or say anything at all. He stood there, not saying anything, not touching me, and I knew that I had put the black mood into him also, and for shame I could not look at him.
Then he said, it's I that should be angry I was born.
But I said to him, not looking at him, what do you mean?
But he did not answer me. I got to my feet and took him by the arms, but he looked over me, and I was not tall enough to see his eyes.
--- Tell me, I said urgently, tell me.
---Ag, it's nothing, he said, it comes and it goes.
I tried to go back so that I could see his face, but he held me and would not let me, as though it were important I should not see it until he had time to recover, for he had opened the door of his soul and now repented it. And so strange was this for him, who was himself so strong and sure, and not a man for holding people unless he were in command of himself and them, that I knew it was true that he had opened the door, and that I had forced myself into it, and that he was forcing me out, so that he could shut it again. So I lost my sense, being myself tired and in the black mood, and forgot the bitter lessons that he himself had taught me in the past; and I was vasberade, that is I mean determined, to find out what was wrong. So I went to the pantry door and shut it, and knew the moment I had done it I had not shut myself in but had shut myself out. He might have said to me Tante, That's enough, or he might have said, must I teach you again, but he did not say that, seeing me standing at the door, and knowing I was already humbled and defeated.
---Tante, he said gently, I told you it comes and goes. What about some coffee?

The man prevents the speaker in the passage from looking into his face by:

PROSE FICTION: This passage is taken from the novel Too Late the Phalarope be the South African author Alan Paton. In this scene, one character tries to help another overcome a bout of anger and depression.

Yes, I thought to myself, it's in the kitchen that work is done. My brother must have known it, but he never thought one would be touched by a word of thanks. I felt suddenly tired and old, and pitied myself, and remembered my lip and that no man had ever wanted me. I do not dwell on these things in my thoughts, you must not think it. I count my blessings, as they say. For the Lord gave me a good home, and a little money of my own, and a brother that for all his ways was an upright man, and just; and a sister-in-law for whom I would any time die. For she gave me her children to be as my own, especially the one, and knew I loved him perhaps beyond all wisdom, and never denied me. But one does not always count one's blessings; strange it is that one should go from sweet mood to black in one brief moment. I went to the pantry and sat down, and stared at the floor.
---Tante, what's wrong?
I stared at his voice, for I did not hear him come, but it was too late to put on another face. He came and stood by me, and lifted my rough hands, and turned them upwards and looked at them, and moved his thumbs over them with gentleness.
---What's wrong, he said.
But I would not look at him. He held my hands more tightly, but kept moving his thumbs over their roughness. Then he said, in a voice that meant he would not be silent, I asked you what was wrong.
I pulled my hands away from him.
---Ag, I said, I'm angry that I was born.
But he did not comfort or chide me, or tell me not be a fool, or say come back to the party, or say anything at all. He stood there, not saying anything, not touching me, and I knew that I had put the black mood into him also, and for shame I could not look at him.
Then he said, it's I that should be angry I was born.
But I said to him, not looking at him, what do you mean?
But he did not answer me. I got to my feet and took him by the arms, but he looked over me, and I was not tall enough to see his eyes.
--- Tell me, I said urgently, tell me.
---Ag, it's nothing, he said, it comes and it goes.
I tried to go back so that I could see his face, but he held me and would not let me, as though it were important I should not see it until he had time to recover, for he had opened the door of his soul and now repented it. And so strange was this for him, who was himself so strong and sure, and not a man for holding people unless he were in command of himself and them, that I knew it was true that he had opened the door, and that I had forced myself into it, and that he was forcing me out, so that he could shut it again. So I lost my sense, being myself tired and in the black mood, and forgot the bitter lessons that he himself had taught me in the past; and I was vasberade, that is I mean determined, to find out what was wrong. So I went to the pantry door and shut it, and knew the moment I had done it I had not shut myself in but had shut myself out. He might have said to me Tante, That's enough, or he might have said, must I teach you again, but he did not say that, seeing me standing at the door, and knowing I was already humbled and defeated.
---Tante, he said gently, I told you it comes and goes. What about some coffee?

Tante shuts the pantry door because:

PROSE FICTION: This passage is taken from the novel Too Late the Phalarope be the South African author Alan Paton. In this scene, one character tries to help another overcome a bout of anger and depression.

Yes, I thought to myself, it's in the kitchen that work is done. My brother must have known it, but he never thought one would be touched by a word of thanks. I felt suddenly tired and old, and pitied myself, and remembered my lip and that no man had ever wanted me. I do not dwell on these things in my thoughts, you must not think it. I count my blessings, as they say. For the Lord gave me a good home, and a little money of my own, and a brother that for all his ways was an upright man, and just; and a sister-in-law for whom I would any time die. For she gave me her children to be as my own, especially the one, and knew I loved him perhaps beyond all wisdom, and never denied me. But one does not always count one's blessings; strange it is that one should go from sweet mood to black in one brief moment. I went to the pantry and sat down, and stared at the floor.
---Tante, what's wrong?
I stared at his voice, for I did not hear him come, but it was too late to put on another face. He came and stood by me, and lifted my rough hands, and turned them upwards and looked at them, and moved his thumbs over them with gentleness.
---What's wrong, he said.
But I would not look at him. He held my hands more tightly, but kept moving his thumbs over their roughness. Then he said, in a voice that meant he would not be silent, I asked you what was wrong.
I pulled my hands away from him.
---Ag, I said, I'm angry that I was born.
But he did not comfort or chide me, or tell me not be a fool, or say come back to the party, or say anything at all. He stood there, not saying anything, not touching me, and I knew that I had put the black mood into him also, and for shame I could not look at him.
Then he said, it's I that should be angry I was born.
But I said to him, not looking at him, what do you mean?
But he did not answer me. I got to my feet and took him by the arms, but he looked over me, and I was not tall enough to see his eyes.
--- Tell me, I said urgently, tell me.
---Ag, it's nothing, he said, it comes and it goes.
I tried to go back so that I could see his face, but he held me and would not let me, as though it were important I should not see it until he had time to recover, for he had opened the door of his soul and now repented it. And so strange was this for him, who was himself so strong and sure, and not a man for holding people unless he were in command of himself and them, that I knew it was true that he had opened the door, and that I had forced myself into it, and that he was forcing me out, so that he could shut it again. So I lost my sense, being myself tired and in the black mood, and forgot the bitter lessons that he himself had taught me in the past; and I was vasberade, that is I mean determined, to find out what was wrong. So I went to the pantry door and shut it, and knew the moment I had done it I had not shut myself in but had shut myself out. He might have said to me Tante, That's enough, or he might have said, must I teach you again, but he did not say that, seeing me standing at the door, and knowing I was already humbled and defeated.
---Tante, he said gently, I told you it comes and goes. What about some coffee?

The last line of the passage implies all of the following EXCEPT:

PROSE FICTION: This passage is taken from the novel Too Late the Phalarope be the South African author Alan Paton. In this scene, one character tries to help another overcome a bout of anger and depression.

Yes, I thought to myself, it's in the kitchen that work is done. My brother must have known it, but he never thought one would be touched by a word of thanks. I felt suddenly tired and old, and pitied myself, and remembered my lip and that no man had ever wanted me. I do not dwell on these things in my thoughts, you must not think it. I count my blessings, as they say. For the Lord gave me a good home, and a little money of my own, and a brother that for all his ways was an upright man, and just; and a sister-in-law for whom I would any time die. For she gave me her children to be as my own, especially the one, and knew I loved him perhaps beyond all wisdom, and never denied me. But one does not always count one's blessings; strange it is that one should go from sweet mood to black in one brief moment. I went to the pantry and sat down, and stared at the floor.
---Tante, what's wrong?
I stared at his voice, for I did not hear him come, but it was too late to put on another face. He came and stood by me, and lifted my rough hands, and turned them upwards and looked at them, and moved his thumbs over them with gentleness.
---What's wrong, he said.
But I would not look at him. He held my hands more tightly, but kept moving his thumbs over their roughness. Then he said, in a voice that meant he would not be silent, I asked you what was wrong.
I pulled my hands away from him.
---Ag, I said, I'm angry that I was born.
But he did not comfort or chide me, or tell me not be a fool, or say come back to the party, or say anything at all. He stood there, not saying anything, not touching me, and I knew that I had put the black mood into him also, and for shame I could not look at him.
Then he said, it's I that should be angry I was born.
But I said to him, not looking at him, what do you mean?
But he did not answer me. I got to my feet and took him by the arms, but he looked over me, and I was not tall enough to see his eyes.
--- Tell me, I said urgently, tell me.
---Ag, it's nothing, he said, it comes and it goes.
I tried to go back so that I could see his face, but he held me and would not let me, as though it were important I should not see it until he had time to recover, for he had opened the door of his soul and now repented it. And so strange was this for him, who was himself so strong and sure, and not a man for holding people unless he were in command of himself and them, that I knew it was true that he had opened the door, and that I had forced myself into it, and that he was forcing me out, so that he could shut it again. So I lost my sense, being myself tired and in the black mood, and forgot the bitter lessons that he himself had taught me in the past; and I was vasberade, that is I mean determined, to find out what was wrong. So I went to the pantry door and shut it, and knew the moment I had done it I had not shut myself in but had shut myself out. He might have said to me Tante, That's enough, or he might have said, must I teach you again, but he did not say that, seeing me standing at the door, and knowing I was already humbled and defeated.
---Tante, he said gently, I told you it comes and goes. What about some coffee?

The narrator's overall description of her encounter with the man suggests that:

NATURAL SCIENCES: This passage is from The Sea Around Us by Rachel Carson. In this excerpt Carson writes about undersea life in the very deepest parts of the ocean.

In their world of darkness, it would seem likely that some of the animals might have become blind, as has happened to some cave fauna. So, indeed, many of them have, compensating for the lack of eyes with marvelously developed feelers and long, slender fins and processes with which they grope their way, like so many blind men with canes, their whole knowledge of friends, enemies, or food coming to them through the sense of touch.
The last traces of plant life are left behind in the thin upper layer of water, for no plant can live below about 600 feet even in very clear water, and few find enough sunlight for their food-manufacturing activities below 200 feet. Since no animal can make its own food, the creatures of the deeper waters live a strange, almost parasitic existence of utter dependence on the upper layers. These hungry carnivores prey fiercely and relentlessly upon each other, yet the whole community is ultimately dependent upon the slow rain of descending food particles from above. The components of this never-ending rain are the dead and dying plants and animals from the surface, or from one of the intermediate layers. For each of the horizontal zones or communities of the sea that lie, in tier after tier, between the surface and the sea bottom, the food supply is different and in general poorer than for the layer above. There is a hint of the fierce and uncompromising competition for food in the saber-toothed jaws of some of the small, dragon like fishes of the deeper waters, in the immense mouths and in the elastic and distensible bodies that make it possible for a fish to swallow another several times its size, enjoying swift repletion after a long fast.

Pressure, darkness, and - we should have added only a few years ago - silence, are the conditions of life in the deep sea. But we know now that the conception of the sea as a silent place is wholly false. Wide experience with hydrophones and other listening devices for the detection of submarines has proved that, around the shore lines of much of the world, there is the extraordinary uproar produced by fishes, shrimps, porpoises and probably other forms not yet identified. There has been little investigation as yet of sound in the deep. offshore areas, but when the crew of the Atlantis lowered a hydrophone into deep water off Bermuda, they recorded strange mewing sounds, shrieks, and ghostly moans, the sources of which have not been traced. But fish of shallower zones have been captured and confined in aquaria, where their voices have been recorded for comparison with sounds heard at sea, and in many cases satisfactory identification can be made.
During the second World War the hydrophone network set up by the United States Navy to protect the entrance to Chesapeake Bay was temporarily made useless when, in the spring of 1942, the speakers at the surface began to give forth, every evening a sound described as being like 'a pneumatic drill tearing up pavement.' The extraneous noises that came over the hydrophones completely masked the sounds of the passage of ships. Eventually it was discovered that the sounds were the voices of fish known as croakers, which in the spring move into Chesapeake Bay from the offshore wintering grounds. As soon as the noise had been identified and analyzed, it was possible to screen it out with an electric filter, so that once more only the sounds of ships came through the speakers.

According to the passage the layer of the ocean where food for animal life is most plentiful is:

NATURAL SCIENCES: This passage is from The Sea Around Us by Rachel Carson. In this excerpt Carson writes about undersea life in the very deepest parts of the ocean.

In their world of darkness, it would seem likely that some of the animals might have become blind, as has happened to some cave fauna. So, indeed, many of them have, compensating for the lack of eyes with marvelously developed feelers and long, slender fins and processes with which they grope their way, like so many blind men with canes, their whole knowledge of friends, enemies, or food coming to them through the sense of touch.
The last traces of plant life are left behind in the thin upper layer of water, for no plant can live below about 600 feet even in very clear water, and few find enough sunlight for their food-manufacturing activities below 200 feet. Since no animal can make its own food, the creatures of the deeper waters live a strange, almost parasitic existence of utter dependence on the upper layers. These hungry carnivores prey fiercely and relentlessly upon each other, yet the whole community is ultimately dependent upon the slow rain of descending food particles from above. The components of this never-ending rain are the dead and dying plants and animals from the surface, or from one of the intermediate layers. For each of the horizontal zones or communities of the sea that lie, in tier after tier, between the surface and the sea bottom, the food supply is different and in general poorer than for the layer above. There is a hint of the fierce and uncompromising competition for food in the saber-toothed jaws of some of the small, dragon like fishes of the deeper waters, in the immense mouths and in the elastic and distensible bodies that make it possible for a fish to swallow another several times its size, enjoying swift repletion after a long fast.

Pressure, darkness, and - we should have added only a few years ago - silence, are the conditions of life in the deep sea. But we know now that the conception of the sea as a silent place is wholly false. Wide experience with hydrophones and other listening devices for the detection of submarines has proved that, around the shore lines of much of the world, there is the extraordinary uproar produced by fishes, shrimps, porpoises and probably other forms not yet identified. There has been little investigation as yet of sound in the deep. offshore areas, but when the crew of the Atlantis lowered a hydrophone into deep water off Bermuda, they recorded strange mewing sounds, shrieks, and ghostly moans, the sources of which have not been traced. But fish of shallower zones have been captured and confined in aquaria, where their voices have been recorded for comparison with sounds heard at sea, and in many cases satisfactory identification can be made.
During the second World War the hydrophone network set up by the United States Navy to protect the entrance to Chesapeake Bay was temporarily made useless when, in the spring of 1942, the speakers at the surface began to give forth, every evening a sound described as being like 'a pneumatic drill tearing up pavement.' The extraneous noises that came over the hydrophones completely masked the sounds of the passage of ships. Eventually it was discovered that the sounds were the voices of fish known as croakers, which in the spring move into Chesapeake Bay from the offshore wintering grounds. As soon as the noise had been identified and analyzed, it was possible to screen it out with an electric filter, so that once more only the sounds of ships came through the speakers.

Based on information in the passage, which of the following criteria is NOT likely to be used as a measure of underwater depth?

NATURAL SCIENCES: This passage is from The Sea Around Us by Rachel Carson. In this excerpt Carson writes about undersea life in the very deepest parts of the ocean.

In their world of darkness, it would seem likely that some of the animals might have become blind, as has happened to some cave fauna. So, indeed, many of them have, compensating for the lack of eyes with marvelously developed feelers and long, slender fins and processes with which they grope their way, like so many blind men with canes, their whole knowledge of friends, enemies, or food coming to them through the sense of touch.
The last traces of plant life are left behind in the thin upper layer of water, for no plant can live below about 600 feet even in very clear water, and few find enough sunlight for their food-manufacturing activities below 200 feet. Since no animal can make its own food, the creatures of the deeper waters live a strange, almost parasitic existence of utter dependence on the upper layers. These hungry carnivores prey fiercely and relentlessly upon each other, yet the whole community is ultimately dependent upon the slow rain of descending food particles from above. The components of this never-ending rain are the dead and dying plants and animals from the surface, or from one of the intermediate layers. For each of the horizontal zones or communities of the sea that lie, in tier after tier, between the surface and the sea bottom, the food supply is different and in general poorer than for the layer above. There is a hint of the fierce and uncompromising competition for food in the saber-toothed jaws of some of the small, dragon like fishes of the deeper waters, in the immense mouths and in the elastic and distensible bodies that make it possible for a fish to swallow another several times its size, enjoying swift repletion after a long fast.

Pressure, darkness, and - we should have added only a few years ago - silence, are the conditions of life in the deep sea. But we know now that the conception of the sea as a silent place is wholly false. Wide experience with hydrophones and other listening devices for the detection of submarines has proved that, around the shore lines of much of the world, there is the extraordinary uproar produced by fishes, shrimps, porpoises and probably other forms not yet identified. There has been little investigation as yet of sound in the deep. offshore areas, but when the crew of the Atlantis lowered a hydrophone into deep water off Bermuda, they recorded strange mewing sounds, shrieks, and ghostly moans, the sources of which have not been traced. But fish of shallower zones have been captured and confined in aquaria, where their voices have been recorded for comparison with sounds heard at sea, and in many cases satisfactory identification can be made.
During the second World War the hydrophone network set up by the United States Navy to protect the entrance to Chesapeake Bay was temporarily made useless when, in the spring of 1942, the speakers at the surface began to give forth, every evening a sound described as being like 'a pneumatic drill tearing up pavement.' The extraneous noises that came over the hydrophones completely masked the sounds of the passage of ships. Eventually it was discovered that the sounds were the voices of fish known as croakers, which in the spring move into Chesapeake Bay from the offshore wintering grounds. As soon as the noise had been identified and analyzed, it was possible to screen it out with an electric filter, so that once more only the sounds of ships came through the speakers.

The passage indicates that many underwater animals cannot see because:

NATURAL SCIENCES: This passage is from The Sea Around Us by Rachel Carson. In this excerpt Carson writes about undersea life in the very deepest parts of the ocean.

In their world of darkness, it would seem likely that some of the animals might have become blind, as has happened to some cave fauna. So, indeed, many of them have, compensating for the lack of eyes with marvelously developed feelers and long, slender fins and processes with which they grope their way, like so many blind men with canes, their whole knowledge of friends, enemies, or food coming to them through the sense of touch.
The last traces of plant life are left behind in the thin upper layer of water, for no plant can live below about 600 feet even in very clear water, and few find enough sunlight for their food-manufacturing activities below 200 feet. Since no animal can make its own food, the creatures of the deeper waters live a strange, almost parasitic existence of utter dependence on the upper layers. These hungry carnivores prey fiercely and relentlessly upon each other, yet the whole community is ultimately dependent upon the slow rain of descending food particles from above. The components of this never-ending rain are the dead and dying plants and animals from the surface, or from one of the intermediate layers. For each of the horizontal zones or communities of the sea that lie, in tier after tier, between the surface and the sea bottom, the food supply is different and in general poorer than for the layer above. There is a hint of the fierce and uncompromising competition for food in the saber-toothed jaws of some of the small, dragon like fishes of the deeper waters, in the immense mouths and in the elastic and distensible bodies that make it possible for a fish to swallow another several times its size, enjoying swift repletion after a long fast.

Pressure, darkness, and - we should have added only a few years ago - silence, are the conditions of life in the deep sea. But we know now that the conception of the sea as a silent place is wholly false. Wide experience with hydrophones and other listening devices for the detection of submarines has proved that, around the shore lines of much of the world, there is the extraordinary uproar produced by fishes, shrimps, porpoises and probably other forms not yet identified. There has been little investigation as yet of sound in the deep. offshore areas, but when the crew of the Atlantis lowered a hydrophone into deep water off Bermuda, they recorded strange mewing sounds, shrieks, and ghostly moans, the sources of which have not been traced. But fish of shallower zones have been captured and confined in aquaria, where their voices have been recorded for comparison with sounds heard at sea, and in many cases satisfactory identification can be made.
During the second World War the hydrophone network set up by the United States Navy to protect the entrance to Chesapeake Bay was temporarily made useless when, in the spring of 1942, the speakers at the surface began to give forth, every evening a sound described as being like 'a pneumatic drill tearing up pavement.' The extraneous noises that came over the hydrophones completely masked the sounds of the passage of ships. Eventually it was discovered that the sounds were the voices of fish known as croakers, which in the spring move into Chesapeake Bay from the offshore wintering grounds. As soon as the noise had been identified and analyzed, it was possible to screen it out with an electric filter, so that once more only the sounds of ships came through the speakers.

According to the passage, which of the following is NOT a use for a hydrophone?

NATURAL SCIENCES: This passage is from The Sea Around Us by Rachel Carson. In this excerpt Carson writes about undersea life in the very deepest parts of the ocean.

In their world of darkness, it would seem likely that some of the animals might have become blind, as has happened to some cave fauna. So, indeed, many of them have, compensating for the lack of eyes with marvelously developed feelers and long, slender fins and processes with which they grope their way, like so many blind men with canes, their whole knowledge of friends, enemies, or food coming to them through the sense of touch.
The last traces of plant life are left behind in the thin upper layer of water, for no plant can live below about 600 feet even in very clear water, and few find enough sunlight for their food-manufacturing activities below 200 feet. Since no animal can make its own food, the creatures of the deeper waters live a strange, almost parasitic existence of utter dependence on the upper layers. These hungry carnivores prey fiercely and relentlessly upon each other, yet the whole community is ultimately dependent upon the slow rain of descending food particles from above. The components of this never-ending rain are the dead and dying plants and animals from the surface, or from one of the intermediate layers. For each of the horizontal zones or communities of the sea that lie, in tier after tier, between the surface and the sea bottom, the food supply is different and in general poorer than for the layer above. There is a hint of the fierce and uncompromising competition for food in the saber-toothed jaws of some of the small, dragon like fishes of the deeper waters, in the immense mouths and in the elastic and distensible bodies that make it possible for a fish to swallow another several times its size, enjoying swift repletion after a long fast.

Pressure, darkness, and - we should have added only a few years ago - silence, are the conditions of life in the deep sea. But we know now that the conception of the sea as a silent place is wholly false. Wide experience with hydrophones and other listening devices for the detection of submarines has proved that, around the shore lines of much of the world, there is the extraordinary uproar produced by fishes, shrimps, porpoises and probably other forms not yet identified. There has been little investigation as yet of sound in the deep. offshore areas, but when the crew of the Atlantis lowered a hydrophone into deep water off Bermuda, they recorded strange mewing sounds, shrieks, and ghostly moans, the sources of which have not been traced. But fish of shallower zones have been captured and confined in aquaria, where their voices have been recorded for comparison with sounds heard at sea, and in many cases satisfactory identification can be made.
During the second World War the hydrophone network set up by the United States Navy to protect the entrance to Chesapeake Bay was temporarily made useless when, in the spring of 1942, the speakers at the surface began to give forth, every evening a sound described as being like 'a pneumatic drill tearing up pavement.' The extraneous noises that came over the hydrophones completely masked the sounds of the passage of ships. Eventually it was discovered that the sounds were the voices of fish known as croakers, which in the spring move into Chesapeake Bay from the offshore wintering grounds. As soon as the noise had been identified and analyzed, it was possible to screen it out with an electric filter, so that once more only the sounds of ships came through the speakers.

Animals that live near the bottom of the sea are most likely to be carnivorous because:

NATURAL SCIENCES: This passage is from The Sea Around Us by Rachel Carson. In this excerpt Carson writes about undersea life in the very deepest parts of the ocean.

In their world of darkness, it would seem likely that some of the animals might have become blind, as has happened to some cave fauna. So, indeed, many of them have, compensating for the lack of eyes with marvelously developed feelers and long, slender fins and processes with which they grope their way, like so many blind men with canes, their whole knowledge of friends, enemies, or food coming to them through the sense of touch.
The last traces of plant life are left behind in the thin upper layer of water, for no plant can live below about 600 feet even in very clear water, and few find enough sunlight for their food-manufacturing activities below 200 feet. Since no animal can make its own food, the creatures of the deeper waters live a strange, almost parasitic existence of utter dependence on the upper layers. These hungry carnivores prey fiercely and relentlessly upon each other, yet the whole community is ultimately dependent upon the slow rain of descending food particles from above. The components of this never-ending rain are the dead and dying plants and animals from the surface, or from one of the intermediate layers. For each of the horizontal zones or communities of the sea that lie, in tier after tier, between the surface and the sea bottom, the food supply is different and in general poorer than for the layer above. There is a hint of the fierce and uncompromising competition for food in the saber-toothed jaws of some of the small, dragon like fishes of the deeper waters, in the immense mouths and in the elastic and distensible bodies that make it possible for a fish to swallow another several times its size, enjoying swift repletion after a long fast.

Pressure, darkness, and - we should have added only a few years ago - silence, are the conditions of life in the deep sea. But we know now that the conception of the sea as a silent place is wholly false. Wide experience with hydrophones and other listening devices for the detection of submarines has proved that, around the shore lines of much of the world, there is the extraordinary uproar produced by fishes, shrimps, porpoises and probably other forms not yet identified. There has been little investigation as yet of sound in the deep. offshore areas, but when the crew of the Atlantis lowered a hydrophone into deep water off Bermuda, they recorded strange mewing sounds, shrieks, and ghostly moans, the sources of which have not been traced. But fish of shallower zones have been captured and confined in aquaria, where their voices have been recorded for comparison with sounds heard at sea, and in many cases satisfactory identification can be made.
During the second World War the hydrophone network set up by the United States Navy to protect the entrance to Chesapeake Bay was temporarily made useless when, in the spring of 1942, the speakers at the surface began to give forth, every evening a sound described as being like 'a pneumatic drill tearing up pavement.' The extraneous noises that came over the hydrophones completely masked the sounds of the passage of ships. Eventually it was discovered that the sounds were the voices of fish known as croakers, which in the spring move into Chesapeake Bay from the offshore wintering grounds. As soon as the noise had been identified and analyzed, it was possible to screen it out with an electric filter, so that once more only the sounds of ships came through the speakers.

The passage indicates that fish living far under water sometimes do not eat for extended periods of time because:

NATURAL SCIENCES: This passage is from The Sea Around Us by Rachel Carson. In this excerpt Carson writes about undersea life in the very deepest parts of the ocean.

In their world of darkness, it would seem likely that some of the animals might have become blind, as has happened to some cave fauna. So, indeed, many of them have, compensating for the lack of eyes with marvelously developed feelers and long, slender fins and processes with which they grope their way, like so many blind men with canes, their whole knowledge of friends, enemies, or food coming to them through the sense of touch.
The last traces of plant life are left behind in the thin upper layer of water, for no plant can live below about 600 feet even in very clear water, and few find enough sunlight for their food-manufacturing activities below 200 feet. Since no animal can make its own food, the creatures of the deeper waters live a strange, almost parasitic existence of utter dependence on the upper layers. These hungry carnivores prey fiercely and relentlessly upon each other, yet the whole community is ultimately dependent upon the slow rain of descending food particles from above. The components of this never-ending rain are the dead and dying plants and animals from the surface, or from one of the intermediate layers. For each of the horizontal zones or communities of the sea that lie, in tier after tier, between the surface and the sea bottom, the food supply is different and in general poorer than for the layer above. There is a hint of the fierce and uncompromising competition for food in the saber-toothed jaws of some of the small, dragon like fishes of the deeper waters, in the immense mouths and in the elastic and distensible bodies that make it possible for a fish to swallow another several times its size, enjoying swift repletion after a long fast.

Pressure, darkness, and - we should have added only a few years ago - silence, are the conditions of life in the deep sea. But we know now that the conception of the sea as a silent place is wholly false. Wide experience with hydrophones and other listening devices for the detection of submarines has proved that, around the shore lines of much of the world, there is the extraordinary uproar produced by fishes, shrimps, porpoises and probably other forms not yet identified. There has been little investigation as yet of sound in the deep. offshore areas, but when the crew of the Atlantis lowered a hydrophone into deep water off Bermuda, they recorded strange mewing sounds, shrieks, and ghostly moans, the sources of which have not been traced. But fish of shallower zones have been captured and confined in aquaria, where their voices have been recorded for comparison with sounds heard at sea, and in many cases satisfactory identification can be made.
During the second World War the hydrophone network set up by the United States Navy to protect the entrance to Chesapeake Bay was temporarily made useless when, in the spring of 1942, the speakers at the surface began to give forth, every evening a sound described as being like 'a pneumatic drill tearing up pavement.' The extraneous noises that came over the hydrophones completely masked the sounds of the passage of ships. Eventually it was discovered that the sounds were the voices of fish known as croakers, which in the spring move into Chesapeake Bay from the offshore wintering grounds. As soon as the noise had been identified and analyzed, it was possible to screen it out with an electric filter, so that once more only the sounds of ships came through the speakers.

Which of the following statements about the state of oceanographic research does the passage most clearly support?

NATURAL SCIENCES: This passage is from The Sea Around Us by Rachel Carson. In this excerpt Carson writes about undersea life in the very deepest parts of the ocean.

In their world of darkness, it would seem likely that some of the animals might have become blind, as has happened to some cave fauna. So, indeed, many of them have, compensating for the lack of eyes with marvelously developed feelers and long, slender fins and processes with which they grope their way, like so many blind men with canes, their whole knowledge of friends, enemies, or food coming to them through the sense of touch.
The last traces of plant life are left behind in the thin upper layer of water, for no plant can live below about 600 feet even in very clear water, and few find enough sunlight for their food-manufacturing activities below 200 feet. Since no animal can make its own food, the creatures of the deeper waters live a strange, almost parasitic existence of utter dependence on the upper layers. These hungry carnivores prey fiercely and relentlessly upon each other, yet the whole community is ultimately dependent upon the slow rain of descending food particles from above. The components of this never-ending rain are the dead and dying plants and animals from the surface, or from one of the intermediate layers. For each of the horizontal zones or communities of the sea that lie, in tier after tier, between the surface and the sea bottom, the food supply is different and in general poorer than for the layer above. There is a hint of the fierce and uncompromising competition for food in the saber-toothed jaws of some of the small, dragon like fishes of the deeper waters, in the immense mouths and in the elastic and distensible bodies that make it possible for a fish to swallow another several times its size, enjoying swift repletion after a long fast.

Pressure, darkness, and - we should have added only a few years ago - silence, are the conditions of life in the deep sea. But we know now that the conception of the sea as a silent place is wholly false. Wide experience with hydrophones and other listening devices for the detection of submarines has proved that, around the shore lines of much of the world, there is the extraordinary uproar produced by fishes, shrimps, porpoises and probably other forms not yet identified. There has been little investigation as yet of sound in the deep. offshore areas, but when the crew of the Atlantis lowered a hydrophone into deep water off Bermuda, they recorded strange mewing sounds, shrieks, and ghostly moans, the sources of which have not been traced. But fish of shallower zones have been captured and confined in aquaria, where their voices have been recorded for comparison with sounds heard at sea, and in many cases satisfactory identification can be made.
During the second World War the hydrophone network set up by the United States Navy to protect the entrance to Chesapeake Bay was temporarily made useless when, in the spring of 1942, the speakers at the surface began to give forth, every evening a sound described as being like 'a pneumatic drill tearing up pavement.' The extraneous noises that came over the hydrophones completely masked the sounds of the passage of ships. Eventually it was discovered that the sounds were the voices of fish known as croakers, which in the spring move into Chesapeake Bay from the offshore wintering grounds. As soon as the noise had been identified and analyzed, it was possible to screen it out with an electric filter, so that once more only the sounds of ships came through the speakers.

The phrase "enjoying swift repletion," as used in line 00, probably means that the fish:

NATURAL SCIENCES: This passage is from The Sea Around Us by Rachel Carson. In this excerpt Carson writes about undersea life in the very deepest parts of the ocean.

In their world of darkness, it would seem likely that some of the animals might have become blind, as has happened to some cave fauna. So, indeed, many of them have, compensating for the lack of eyes with marvelously developed feelers and long, slender fins and processes with which they grope their way, like so many blind men with canes, their whole knowledge of friends, enemies, or food coming to them through the sense of touch.
The last traces of plant life are left behind in the thin upper layer of water, for no plant can live below about 600 feet even in very clear water, and few find enough sunlight for their food-manufacturing activities below 200 feet. Since no animal can make its own food, the creatures of the deeper waters live a strange, almost parasitic existence of utter dependence on the upper layers. These hungry carnivores prey fiercely and relentlessly upon each other, yet the whole community is ultimately dependent upon the slow rain of descending food particles from above. The components of this never-ending rain are the dead and dying plants and animals from the surface, or from one of the intermediate layers. For each of the horizontal zones or communities of the sea that lie, in tier after tier, between the surface and the sea bottom, the food supply is different and in general poorer than for the layer above. There is a hint of the fierce and uncompromising competition for food in the saber-toothed jaws of some of the small, dragon like fishes of the deeper waters, in the immense mouths and in the elastic and distensible bodies that make it possible for a fish to swallow another several times its size, enjoying swift repletion after a long fast.

Pressure, darkness, and - we should have added only a few years ago - silence, are the conditions of life in the deep sea. But we know now that the conception of the sea as a silent place is wholly false. Wide experience with hydrophones and other listening devices for the detection of submarines has proved that, around the shore lines of much of the world, there is the extraordinary uproar produced by fishes, shrimps, porpoises and probably other forms not yet identified. There has been little investigation as yet of sound in the deep. offshore areas, but when the crew of the Atlantis lowered a hydrophone into deep water off Bermuda, they recorded strange mewing sounds, shrieks, and ghostly moans, the sources of which have not been traced. But fish of shallower zones have been captured and confined in aquaria, where their voices have been recorded for comparison with sounds heard at sea, and in many cases satisfactory identification can be made.
During the second World War the hydrophone network set up by the United States Navy to protect the entrance to Chesapeake Bay was temporarily made useless when, in the spring of 1942, the speakers at the surface began to give forth, every evening a sound described as being like 'a pneumatic drill tearing up pavement.' The extraneous noises that came over the hydrophones completely masked the sounds of the passage of ships. Eventually it was discovered that the sounds were the voices of fish known as croakers, which in the spring move into Chesapeake Bay from the offshore wintering grounds. As soon as the noise had been identified and analyzed, it was possible to screen it out with an electric filter, so that once more only the sounds of ships came through the speakers.

By using the phrase "saber-toothed" to characterize some of the fishes that live in the deepest waters, the author is suggesting that the fishes:

NATURAL SCIENCES: This passage is from The Sea Around Us by Rachel Carson. In this excerpt Carson writes about undersea life in the very deepest parts of the ocean.

In their world of darkness, it would seem likely that some of the animals might have become blind, as has happened to some cave fauna. So, indeed, many of them have, compensating for the lack of eyes with marvelously developed feelers and long, slender fins and processes with which they grope their way, like so many blind men with canes, their whole knowledge of friends, enemies, or food coming to them through the sense of touch.
The last traces of plant life are left behind in the thin upper layer of water, for no plant can live below about 600 feet even in very clear water, and few find enough sunlight for their food-manufacturing activities below 200 feet. Since no animal can make its own food, the creatures of the deeper waters live a strange, almost parasitic existence of utter dependence on the upper layers. These hungry carnivores prey fiercely and relentlessly upon each other, yet the whole community is ultimately dependent upon the slow rain of descending food particles from above. The components of this never-ending rain are the dead and dying plants and animals from the surface, or from one of the intermediate layers. For each of the horizontal zones or communities of the sea that lie, in tier after tier, between the surface and the sea bottom, the food supply is different and in general poorer than for the layer above. There is a hint of the fierce and uncompromising competition for food in the saber-toothed jaws of some of the small, dragon like fishes of the deeper waters, in the immense mouths and in the elastic and distensible bodies that make it possible for a fish to swallow another several times its size, enjoying swift repletion after a long fast.

Pressure, darkness, and - we should have added only a few years ago - silence, are the conditions of life in the deep sea. But we know now that the conception of the sea as a silent place is wholly false. Wide experience with hydrophones and other listening devices for the detection of submarines has proved that, around the shore lines of much of the world, there is the extraordinary uproar produced by fishes, shrimps, porpoises and probably other forms not yet identified. There has been little investigation as yet of sound in the deep. offshore areas, but when the crew of the Atlantis lowered a hydrophone into deep water off Bermuda, they recorded strange mewing sounds, shrieks, and ghostly moans, the sources of which have not been traced. But fish of shallower zones have been captured and confined in aquaria, where their voices have been recorded for comparison with sounds heard at sea, and in many cases satisfactory identification can be made.
During the second World War the hydrophone network set up by the United States Navy to protect the entrance to Chesapeake Bay was temporarily made useless when, in the spring of 1942, the speakers at the surface began to give forth, every evening a sound described as being like 'a pneumatic drill tearing up pavement.' The extraneous noises that came over the hydrophones completely masked the sounds of the passage of ships. Eventually it was discovered that the sounds were the voices of fish known as croakers, which in the spring move into Chesapeake Bay from the offshore wintering grounds. As soon as the noise had been identified and analyzed, it was possible to screen it out with an electric filter, so that once more only the sounds of ships came through the speakers.

The author's main purpose in the passage is to:

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