Alaska Standards Based Assessment Practice Test

Look at the letters on the refrigerator. Can you point to...

Look at all the shapes below. Can you point to the...

Look at all the objects below. They resemble shapes you know. Point to an object that resembles a...

Egypt and its River
by Edith A. How, B.A.

1          Egypt is a country in the north of Africa. It has sea to the north and sea to the east. On the north it is called the Mediterranean Sea, and on the east the Red Sea. On the west is the great sandy desert called the Sahara, and to the south are great forests and mountains.
2          Egypt itself is the land of the great River Nile. There is very seldom any rain there, and everyone has to get water from the great river. So all the people live near the Nile or the canals that lead out of it. A "canal" is a waterway, the channel of which has been dug by men. The big towns are where the river flows out into the sea, or where a canal meets the main stream, because the people bring their merchandise to market in boats.
3          All over the land are little villages, where many people live and work in the fields to grow food. Year by year when there is heavy rain in the mountains far away south, the River Nile rises and floods the fields. Then the people plant their seed quickly and get a good harvest. It is not difficult to understand why the egyptians love their great river, which gives them water for their fields and carrys them in their boats from place to place.

The following excerpt was taken from the book The Secret Garden, written by Frances Hodgson Burnett.

When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen. It was true, too. She had a little thin face and a little thin body, thin light hair and a sour expression. Her hair was yellow. Her face was yellow, too, because she had been born in India and had always been ill in one way or another. Her father had held a position under the English Government and had always been busy and ill himself. Her mother had been a great beauty who cared only to go to parties and amuse herself. She had not wanted a little girl at all. When Mary was born she handed her over to the care of an Ayah, who was made to understand that if she wished to please the Mem Sahib she must keep the child out of sight as much as possible. 
 
So when she was a sickly, fretful, ugly little baby she was kept out of the way. When she became a sickly, fretful, toddling thing she was kept out of the way also. She never remembered seeing familiarly anything but the dark faces of her Ayah and the other native servants. Because they always obeyed her and gave her her own way in everything, by the time she was six years old she was as tyrannical and selfish a little pig as ever lived. The young English governess who came to teach her to read and write disliked her so much that she gave up her place in three months. When other governesses came to try to fill it they always went away in a shorter time than the first one. So if Mary had not chosen to really want to know how to read books she would never have learned her letters at all.
 
            One frightfully hot morning, when she was about nine years old, she awakened feeling very cross. She became crosser still when she saw that the servant who stood by her bedside was not her Ayah.
 
"Why did you come?" she said to the strange woman. "I will not let you stay. Send my Ayah to me."
 
The woman looked frightened, but she only stammered that the Ayah could not come. When Mary threw herself into a passion and beat and kicked her, she looked only more frightened and repeated that it was not possible for the Ayah to come to Missie Sahib.
   
There was something mysterious in the air that morning. Nothing was done in its regular order. Several of the native servants seemed missing, while those whom Mary saw slunk or hurried about with ashy and scared faces. But no one would tell her anything and her Ayah did not come. She was actually left alone as the morning went on. At last she wandered out into the garden and began to play by herself under a tree near the veranda. She pretended that she was making a flower-bed. She stuck big scarlet hibiscus blossoms into little heaps of earth. The entire time she was growing more and more angry and muttering to herself the things she would say and the names she would call Saidie when she returned.

 
They were not railway children to begin with. I don't suppose they had ever thought about railways except as a means of getting to Maskelyne and Cook's, the Pantomime, Zoological Gardens, and Madame Tussaud's. They were just ordinary suburban children, and they lived with their Father and Mother in an ordinary red-brick-fronted villa, with coloured glass in the front door, a tiled passage that was called a hall, a bath-room with hot and cold water, electric bells, French windows, and a good deal of white paint, and 'every modern convenience', as the house-agents say.
There were three of them. Roberta was the eldest. Of course, Mothers never have favourites, but if their Mother HAD had a favourite, it might have been Roberta. Next came Peter, who wished to be an Engineer when he grew up; and the youngest was Phyllis, who meant extremely well.
Mother did not spend all her time in paying dull calls to dull ladies, and sitting dully at home waiting for dull ladies to pay calls to her. She was almost always there, ready to play with the children, and read to them, and help them to do their home-lessons. Besides this she used to write stories for them while they were at school, and read them aloud after tea, and she always made up funny pieces of poetry for their birthdays and for other great occasions, such as the christening of the new kittens, or the refurnishing of the doll's house, or the time when they were getting over the mumps.
These three lucky children always had everything they needed: pretty clothes, good fires, a lovely nursery with heaps of toys, and a Mother Goose wall-paper. They had a kind and merry nursemaid, and a dog who was called James, and who was their very own. They also had a Father who was just perfect—never cross, never unjust, and always ready for a game—at least, if at any time he was NOT ready, he always had an excellent reason for it, and explained the reason to the children so interestingly and funnily that they felt sure he couldn't help himself.
You will think that they ought to have been very happy. And so they were, but they did not know HOW happy till the pretty life in the Red Villa was over and done with, and they had to live a very different life indeed.
The dreadful change came quite suddenly.
Peter had a birthday—his tenth. Among his other presents was a model engine more perfect than you could ever have dreamed of. The other presents were full of charm, but the Engine was fuller of charm than any of the others were.
Its charm lasted in its full perfection for exactly three days. Then, owing either to Peter's inexperience or Phyllis's good intentions, which had been rather pressing, or to some other cause, the Engine suddenly went off with a bang. James was so frightened that he went out and did not come back all day. All the Noah's Ark people who were in the tender were broken to bits, but nothing else was hurt except the poor little engine and the feelings of Peter. The others said he cried over it—but of course boys of ten do not cry, however terrible the tragedies may be which darken their lot. He said that his eyes were red because he had a cold. This turned out to be true, though Peter did not know it was when he said it, the next day he had to go to bed and stay there. Mother began to be afraid that he might be sickening for measles, when suddenly he sat up in bed and said:
"I hate gruel—I hate barley water—I hate bread and milk. I want to get up and have something REAL to eat."
"What would you like?" Mother asked.
"A pigeon-pie," said Peter, eagerly, "a large pigeon-pie. A very large one."
So Mother asked the Cook to make a large pigeon-pie. The pie was made. And when the pie was made, it was cooked. And when it was cooked, Peter ate some of it. After that his cold was better. Mother made a piece of poetry to amuse him while the pie was being made. It began by saying what an unfortunate but worthy boy Peter was, then it went on:

He had an engine that he loved

With all his heart and soul,

And if he had a wish on earth

It was to keep it whole.

One day—my friends, prepare your minds;

I'm coming to the worst—

Quite suddenly a screw went mad,

And then the boiler burst!

With gloomy face he picked it up

And took it to his Mother,

Though even he could not suppose

That she could make another;

For those who perished on the line

He did not seem to care,

His engine being more to him

Than all the people there.

And now you see the reason why

Our Peter has been ill:

He soothes his soul with pigeon-pie

His gnawing grief to kill.

He wraps himself in blankets warm

And sleeps in bed till late,

Determined thus to overcome

His miserable fate.

And if his eyes are rather red,

His cold must just excuse it:

Offer him pie; you may be sure

He never will refuse it.

Read “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” and “Ah Sunflower” and answer the questions that follow.

 

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening By:  Robert Frost Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

Ah Sunflower By:  William Blake Ah Sunflower, weary of time, Who countest the steps of the sun; Seeking after that sweet golden clime Where the traveller's journey is done; Where the Youth pined away with desire, And the pale virgin shrouded in snow, Arise from their graves, and aspire Where my Sunflower wishes to go!