大学MOOC 英语阅读与写作(宁波大学)1206524801 最新慕课完整章节测试答案

Identifying Figurative Language

1、填空题：
​‍The following sentences are selected from “The Sounds of the City” . What kind of figurative language (similes, metaphors, personification, etc.) are used in the following sentences?​The Sounds of the City​New York is a city of sounds: muted sounds and shrill sounds; shattering sounds and soothing sounds; urgent sounds and aimless sounds. The cliff dwellers of Manhattan—who would be racked by the silence of the lonely woods—do not hear these sounds because they are constant and eternally urban.​The visitor to the city can hear them, though, just as some animals can hear a high-pitched whistle inaudible to humans. To the casual caller to Manhattan, lying restive and sleepless in a hotel twenty or thirty floors above the street, they tell a story as fascinating as life itself. And back of the sounds broods the silence.​Night in midtown is the noise of tinseled honky-tonk and violence. Thin strains of music, usually the firm beat of rock ’n’ roll or the frenzied outbursts of the discotheque, rise from ground level. This is the cacophony the discordance of youth, and it comes on strongest when nights are hot and young blood restless.​Somewhere in the canyons below there is shrill laughter or raucous shouting. A bottle shatters against concrete. The whine of a police siren slices through the night, moving ever closer, until an eerie Doppler effect brings it to a guttural halt.​There are few sounds so exciting in Manhattan as those of fire apparatus dashing through the night. At the outset there is the tentative hint of the first-due company bullying its way through midtown traffic. Now a fire whistle from the opposite direction affirms that trouble is, indeed, afoot. In seconds, other sirens converging from other streets help the skytop listener focus on the scene of excitement.​But he can only hear and not see, and imagination takes flight. Are the flames and smoke gushing from windows not far away? Are victims trapped there, crying out for help? Is it a conflagration, or only a trash-basket fire? Or, perhaps, it is merely a false alarm.​The questions go unanswered and the urgency of the moment dissolves. Now the mind and the ear detect the snarling, arrogant bickering of automobile horns. People in a hurry. Taxicabs blaring, insisting on their checkered priority.​Even the taxi horns dwindle down to a precocious few in the gray and pink moments of dawn. Suddenly there is another sound, a morning sound that taunts the memory for recognition. The growl of a predatory monster? No, just garbage trucks that have begun a day of scavenging.​Trash cans rattle outside restaurants. Metallic jaws on sanitation trucks gulp and masticate the residue of daily living, then digest it with a satisfied groan of gears. The sounds of the new day are businesslike. [LZW1] ​The growl of buses, so scattered and distant at night, becomes a demanding part of the traffic bedlam. An occasional jet or helicopter injects an exclamation point from an unexpected quarter. When the wind is right, the vibrant bellow of an ocean liner can be heard.​The sounds of the day are as jarring as the glare of a sun that outlines the canyons of midtown in drab relief. A pneumatic drill frays countless nerves with its rat-a-tat-tat, for dig they must to perpetuate the city’s dizzy motion. After each screech of brakes there is a moment of suspension, of waiting for the thud or crash that never seems to follow.​The whistles of traffic policemen and hotel doormen chirp from all sides, like birds calling for their mates across a frenzied aviary. And all of these sounds are adult sounds, for childish laughter has no place in these canyons.​Night falls again, the cycle is complete, but there is no surcease from sound. For the beautiful dreamers, perhaps, the “sounds of the rude world heard in the day, lulled by the moonlight have all passed away,” but this is not so in the city.​Too many New Yorkers accept the sounds about them as bland parts of everyday existence. They seldom stop to listen to the sounds, to think about them, to be appalled or enchanted by them. In the big city, sounds are life.​​(From The New York Times, August 6, 1966, by James Tuite)​‍1. The cliff dwellers of Manhattan—who would be racked by the silence of the lonely woods—do not hear these sounds because they are constant and eternally urban.​‍A. simile​‍B. metaphor​‍C. personification​
答案: 【 C】

2、填空题：
​The visitor to the city can hear them, though, just as some animals can hear a high pitched whistle inaudible to humans.‏​A. simile‏​B. metaphor‏​C. personification ‏
答案: 【 A】

3、填空题：
‍3. At the outset there is the tentative hint of the first-due company bullying its way through midtown traffic.‏‍A. simile‏‍B. metaphor‏‍C. personification ‏
答案: 【 C】

4、填空题：
​Metallic jaws on sanitation trucks gulp and masticate the residue of daily living, then digest it with a satisfied groan of gears.‏​A. simile‏​B. metaphor‏​C. personification ‏
答案: 【 C】

5、填空题：
‏Now the mind and the ear detect the snarling, arrogant bickering of automobile horns.​‏A. simile​‏B. metaphor​‏C. personification ​
答案: 【 C】

6、填空题：
‍The sounds of the day are as jarring as the glare of a sun that outlines the canyons of midtown in drab relief.‍‍A. simile‍‍B. metaphor‍‍C. personification ‍
答案: 【 A】

7、填空题：
​The whistles of traffic policemen and hotel doormen chirp from all sides, like birds calling for their mates across a frenzied aviary.‍​A. simile‍​B. metaphor‍​C. personification ‍
答案: 【 A】

8、填空题：
‏In the big city, sounds are life.‏‏A. simile‏‏B. metaphor‏‏C. personification ‏
答案: 【 B】

Identifying Five Senses in a Descriptive Essay

1、单选题：
‎Read the excerpts from "Day in Samoa". What kind of sensory details ​‎(sight, taste, smell, touch, and hearing) are used in the following sentences?​A Day in Samoa​The life of the day begins at dawn, or if the moon has shown until daylight, the shouts of the young men may be heard before dawn from the hillside. Uneasy in the night, populous with ghosts, they shout lustily to one another as they hasten with their work. As the dawn begins to fall among the soft brown roofs and the slender palm trees stand out against a colourless, gleaming sea, lovers slip home from trysts beneath the palm trees or in the shadow of beached canoes, that the light may find each sleeper in his appointed place. Cocks crow, negligently, and a shrill-voiced bird cries from the breadfruit trees. The insistent roar of the reef seems muted to an undertone for the sounds of a waking village. Babies cry, a few short wails before sleepy mothers give them the breast. Restless little children roll out of their sheets and wander drowsily down to the beach to freshen their faces in the sea. Boys, bent upon an early fishing, start collecting their tackle and go to rouse their more laggard companions. Fires are lit, here and there, the white smoke hardly visible against the paleness of the dawn. The whole village, sheeted and frowzy, stirs, rubs its eyes, and stumbles towards the beach. “Talofa!” “Talofa!” “Will the journey start today?” “Is it bonito fishing your lordship is going?” Girls stop to giggle over some young ne’er-do-well who escaped during the night from an angry father’s pursuit and to venture a shrewd guess that the daughter knew more about his presence than she told. The boy who is taunted by another, who has succeeded him in his sweetheart’s favour, grapples with his rival, his foot slipping in the wet sand. From the other end of the village comes a long drawn-out, piercing wail. A messenger has just brought word of the death of some relative in another village. Half-clad, unhurried women, with babies at their breasts, or astride their hips, pause in their tale of Losa’s outraged departure from her father’s house to the greater kindness in the home of her uncle, to wonder who is dead. Poor relatives whisper their requests to rich relatives, men make plans to set a fish trap together, a woman begs a bit of yellow dye from a kinswoman, and through the village sounds the rhythmic tattoo which calls the young men together. They gather from all parts of the village, digging sticks in hand, ready to start inland to the plantation. The older men set off upon their more lonely occupations, and each household, reassembled under its peaked roof, settles down to the routine of the morning. Little children, too hungry to wait for the late breakfast, beg lumps of cold taro which they munch greedily. Women carry piles of washing to the sea or to the spring at the far end of the village, or set off inland after weaving materials. The older girls go fishing on the reef, or perhaps set themselves to weaving a new set of Venetian blinds.​In the houses, where the pebbly floors have been swept bare with a stiff, long-handled broom, the women great with child and the nursing mothers sit and gossip with one another. Old men sit apart, unceasingly twisting palm husk on their bare thighs and muttering old tales under their breath. The carpenters begin work on the new house, while the owner bustles about trying to keep them in good humour. Families who will cook today are hard at work; the taro, yams and bananas have already been brought from inland; the children are scuttling back and forth, fetching sea water, or leaves to stuff the pig. As the sun rises higher in the sky, the shadows deepen under the thatched roofs, the sand is burning to the touch, the hibiscus f