NAME:
PERIOD:
9th English language arts | Final exam review
Note:

The first section of your final will be IN CLASS on THURSDAY, JANUARY 28TH—Short Story section.

The rest of your final exam will be on MONDAY, FEBRUARY 1st, from 7:40—9:40.
Period 5 = H206
The final is worth 20% of your semester grade. This review should help you to pinpoint the information you
will mostly need to review. This will be collected on your exam day.
On the final exam day:
 You must stay in the exam room for the full 2 hours.
 Bring a pencil, paper, your exam review with your name on it, and any outstanding materials.
 You may not use electronic devices during the final
SECTION OF EXAM


Fiction (new short story to
read and analyze)
2 nonfiction articles
# OF QUESTIONS
TOTAL POINTS FOR
SECTION


8 multiple choice
2 short answer



12 multiple choice
1 short answer



1 point for each multiple
choice (8 points total)
3 points for each short
answer (6 points total)
1 point for each multiple
choice (12 points total)
3 points for each short
answer (3 points total)

Advertisement Analysis

2 short answer

3 points for each short
answer
(6 points total)

Animal Farm and
Fahrenheit 451 connection

1 short answer

3 points for each short
answer (3 points total)
TOTAL = 38 POINTS (20% OF SEMESTER GRADE)
FICTION
Please fill out the definition of each literary element. Then read the story “There Will Come Soft Rains” by
Ray Bradbury and provide a specific example for each literary element.
LITERARY ELEMENT & DEFINITION
Plot Structure
Exposition:
Rising Action:
Climax:
Falling Action:
Resolution:
Setting:
Mood:
Conflict
Man vs. himself (internal):
Man vs. man (external):
Man vs. society (external):
Man vs. nature (external):
Point of View
First person:
Third person limited:
Third person omniscient:
Theme:
SPECIFIC EXAMPLE FROM STORY
“There Will Come Soft Rains”
By Ray Bradbury
In the living room the voice-clock sang, Tick-tock, seven o'clock, time to get UP, time to get up, seven o'clock! as if
it were afraid that nobody would. The morning house lay empty. The clock ticked on, repeating and repeating its
sounds into the emptiness. Seven-nine, breakfast time, seven-nine!
In the kitchen the breakfast stove gave a hissing sigh and ejected from its warm interior eight pieces of perfectly
browned toast, eight eggs sunny side up, sixteen slices of bacon, two coffees, and two cool glasses of milk.
“Today is August 4, 2026,” said a second voice from the kitchen ceiling, “in the city of Allendale, California.” It
repeated the date three times for memory's sake. “Today is Mr. Featherstone's birthday. Today is the anniversary of
Tilita's marriage. Insurance is payable, as are the water, gas, and light bills.”
Somewhere in the walls, relays clicked, memory tapes glided under electric eyes.
Eight-one, tick-tock, eight-one o’clock, off to school, off to work, run, run, eight-one! But no doors slammed, no
carpets took the soft tread of rubber heels. It was raining outside. The weather box on the front door sang quietly:
“Rain, rain, go away; rubbers, raincoats for today. . .” And the rain tapped on the empty house, echoing.
Outside, the garage chimed and lifted its door to reveal the waiting car. After a long wait the door swung down
again.
At eight-thirty the eggs were shriveled and the toast was like stone. An aluminum wedge scraped them into the
sink, where hot water whirled them down a metal throat which digested and flushed them away to the distant sea.
The dirty dishes were dropped into a hot washer and emerged twinkling dry.
Nine-fifteen, sang the clock, time to clean.
Out of warrens in the wall, tiny robot mice darted. The rooms were acrawl with the small cleaning animals, all
rubber and metal. They thudded against chairs, whirling their mustached runners, kneading the rug nap, sucking
gently at hidden dust. Then, like mysterious invaders, they popped into their burrows. Their pink electric eyes faded.
The house was clean.
Ten o’clock. The sun came out from behind the rain. The house stood alone in a city of rubble and ashes. This was
the one house left standing. At night the ruined city gave off a radioactive glow which could be seen for miles.
Ten-fifteen. The garden sprinklers whirled up in golden founts, filling the soft morning air with scatterings of
brightness. The water pelted windowpanes, running down the charred west side where the house had been burned
evenly free of its white paint. The entire west face of the house was black, save for five places. Here the silhouette in
paint of a man mowing a lawn. Here, as in a photograph, a woman bent to pick flowers. Still farther over, their
images burned on wood in one titanic instant, a small boy, hands flung into the air; higher up, the image of a thrown
ball, and opposite him a girl, hands raised to catch a ball which never came down.
The five spots of paint-the man, the woman, the children, the ball remained. The rest was a thin charcoaled layer.
The gentle sprinkler rain filled the garden with falling light. Until this day, how well the house had kept its peace.
How carefully it had inquired, “Who goes there? What's the password?” and, getting no answer from lonely foxes
and whining cats, it had shut up its windows and drawn shades in an old-maidenly preoccupation with selfprotection which bordered on a mechanical paranoia.
It quivered at each sound, the house did. If a sparrow brushed a window, the shade snapped up. The bird,
startled, flew off! No, not even a bird must touch the house!
The house was an altar with ten thousand attendants, big, small, servicing, attending, in choirs. But the gods had
gone away, and the ritual of the religion continued senselessly, uselessly.
Twelve noon.
A dog whined, shivering, on the front porch.
The front door recognized the dog voice and opened. The dog, once huge and fleshy, but now gone to bone and
covered with sores, moved in and through the house, tracking mud. Behind it whirred angry mice, angry at having to
pick up mud, angry at inconvenience.
For not a leaf fragment blew under the door but what the wall panels flipped open and the copper scrap rats
flashed swiftly out. The offending dust, hair, or paper, seized in miniature steel jaws, was raced back to the burrows.
There, down tubes which fed into the cellar, it was dropped into the sighing vent of an incinerator which sat like
evil Baal in a dark corner.
The dog ran upstairs, hysterically yelping to each door, at last realizing, as the house realized, that only silence
was here.
It sniffed the air and scratched the kitchen door. Behind the door, the stove was making pancakes which filled the
house with a rich baked odor and the scent of maple syrup.
The dog frothed at the mouth, lying at the door, sniffing, its eyes turned to fire. It ran wildly in circles, biting at its
tail, spun in a frenzy, and died. It lay in the parlor for an hour.
Two o'clock, sang a voice.
Delicately sensing decay at last, the regiments of mice hummed out as softly as blown gray leaves in an electrical
wind.
Two-fifteen.
The dog was gone.
In the cellar, the incinerator glowed suddenly and a whirl of sparks leaped up the chimney.
Two thirty-five.
Bridge tables sprouted from patio walls. Playing cards fluttered onto pads in a shower of pips. Martinis
manifested on an oaken bench with egg-salad sandwiches. Music played. But the tables were silent and the cards
untouched. At four o'clock the tables folded like great butterflies back through the paneled walls.
Four-thirty.
The nursery walls glowed.
Animals took shape: yellow giraffes, blue lions, pink antelopes, lilac panthers cavorting in crystal substance. The
walls were glass. They looked out upon color and fantasy. Hidden films clocked through well-oiled sprockets, and the
walls lived. The nursery floor was woven to resemble a crisp, cereal meadow. Over this ran aluminum roaches and
iron crickets, and in the hot still air butterflies of delicate red tissue wavered among the sharp aromas of animal
spoors! There was the sound like a great matted yellow hive of bees within a dark bellows, the lazy bumble of a
purring lion. And there was the patter of okapi feet and the murmur of a fresh jungle rain, like other hoofs, falling
upon the summer-starched grass. Now the walls dissolved into distances of parched weed, mile on mile, and warm
endless sky. The animals drew away into thorn brakes and water holes.
It was the children's hour.
Five o'clock. The bath filled with clear hot water. Six, seven, eight o’clock. The dinner dishes manipulated like
magic tricks, and in the study a click. In the metal stand opposite the hearth where a fire now blazed up warmly, a
cigar popped out, half an inch of soft gray ash on it, smoking, waiting. Nine o'clock. The beds warmed their hidden
circuits, for nights were cool here.
Nine-five. A voice spoke from the study ceiling: "Mrs. McClellan, which poem would you like this evening?"
The house was silent.
The voice said at last, "Since you express no preference, I shall select a poem at random." Quiet music rose to
back the voice. "Sara Teasdale. As I recall, your favorite...
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering, sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white;
Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war,
not one Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
The fire burned on the stone hearth and the cigar fell away into a mound of quiet ash on its tray. The empty
chairs faced each other between the silent walls, and the music played.
At ten o'clock the house began to die. The wind blew. A falling tree bough crashed through the kitchen window.
Cleaning solvent, bottled, shattered over the stove. The room was ablaze in an instant!
“Fire!” screamed a voice. The house lights flashed, water pumps shot water from the ceilings. But the solvent
spread on the linoleum, licking, eating, under the kitchen door, while the voices took it up in chorus: “Fire, fire, fire!”
The house tried to save itself. Doors sprang tightly shut, but the windows were broken by the heat and the wind
blew and sucked upon the fire.
The house gave ground as the fire in ten billion angry sparks moved with flaming ease from room to room and
then up the stairs. While scurrying water rats squeaked from the walls, pistoled their water, and ran for more. And
the wall sprays let down showers of mechanical rain.
But too late. Somewhere, sighing, a pump shrugged to a stop. The quenching rain ceased. The reserve water
supply which had filled baths and washed dishes for many quiet days was gone.
The fire crackled up the stairs. It fed upon Picassos and Matisses in the upper halls, like delicacies, baking off the
oily flesh, tenderly crisping the canvases into black shavings.
Now the fire lay in beds, stood in windows, changed the colors of drapes!
And then, reinforcements.
From attic trapdoors, blind robot faces peered down with faucet mouths gushing green chemicals. The fire
backed off, as even an elephant must at the sight of a dead snake. Now there were twenty snakes whipping over the
floor, killing the fire with a clear cold venom of green froth.
But the fire was clever. It had sent flame outside the house, up through the attic to the pumps there. An
explosion! The attic brain which directed the pumps was shattered into bronze shrapnel on the beams. The fire
rushed back into every closet and felt of the clothes hung there.
The house shuddered, oak bone on bone, its bared skeleton cringing from the heat, its wire, its nerves revealed as
if a surgeon had torn the skin off to let the red veins and capillaries quiver in the scalded air. Help, help! Fire! Run,
run! Heat snapped mirrors like the first brittle winter ice. And the voices wailed, Fire, fire, run, run, like a tragic
nursery rhyme, a dozen voices, high, low, like children dying in a forest, alone, alone. And the voices fading as the
wires popped their sheathings like hot chestnuts. One, two, three, four, five voices died.
In the nursery the jungle burned. Blue lions roared, purple giraffes bounded off. The panthers ran in circles,
changing color, and ten million animals, running before the fire, vanished off toward a distant steaming river....
Ten more voices died. In the last instant under the fire avalanche, other choruses, oblivious, could be heard
announcing the time, playing music, cutting the lawn by remote-control mower, or setting an umbrella frantically
out and in, the slamming and opening front door, a thousand things happening, like a clock shop when each clock
strikes the hour insanely before or after the other, a scene of maniac confusion, yet unity; singing, screaming, a few
last cleaning mice darting bravely out to carry the horrid ashes away! And one voice, with sublime disregard for the
situation, read poetry aloud in the fiery study, until all the film spools burned, until all the wires withered and the
circuits cracked.
The fire burst the house and let it slam flat down, puffing out skirts of spark and smoke.
In the kitchen, an instant before the rain of fire and timber, the stove could be seen making breakfasts at a
psychopathic rate, ten dozen eggs, six loaves of toast, twenty dozen bacon strips, which, eaten by fire, started the
stove working again, hysterically hissing!
The crash. The attic smashing into kitchen and parlor. The parlor into cellar, cellar into sub-cellar. Deep freeze,
armchair, film tapes, circuits, beds, and all like skeletons thrown in a cluttered mound deep under.
Smoke and silence. A great quantity of smoke.
Dawn showed faintly in the east. Among the ruins, one wall stood alone. Within the wall, a last voice said, over
and over again and again, even as the sun rose to shine upon the heaped rubble and steam:
“Today is August 5, 2026, today is August 5, 2026, today is. . .”
NON-FICTION
Please read the article and provide a specific example for each element of nonfiction.
ELEMENT OF NONFICTION & QUESTION
Vocabulary in context: Using context clues, please
provide a synonym for the three bolded words in the
article.
Drawing conclusions: What conclusions can you
make about the writer of this article?
Main idea: What is the main idea of the article?
Supportive arguments the author uses; author’s
purpose/beliefs: Name two tactics the writer uses to
support her point.
In-text citations: How would you cite this article in
an essay?
Thesis statement: Please write a thesis statement
supporting the writer’s stance that Americans need
to be educated on our agricultural system.
SPECIFIC EXAMPLE FROM ARTICLE
Holiday food shouldn't be a mystery
Kathryn J. Boor | December 31, 2013
Americans don't know enough about the science behind the
pumpkin pie.
After we have enjoyed this year's cookies, pies, roasts
and other traditional favorites that are an indispensable
part of our holiday celebrations, it’s time to change our
focus from feasts and recipes to the path all the
ingredients took to get to our tables or the research
behind them.
Agriculture affects every one of us, and, yet as a culture,
we have never been further removed from the
production of our food. With only 2% of our population
involved with agriculture, we do not understand, or
appreciate, the complexity behind how what we eat
comes to be on our plate. Currently, a leading American
soup brand advertises that one of its lines uses "farm
grown vegetables," as if farm-grown food is a unique
selling point or value-add. It's no better across the pond: A recent survey of 2,000 Britons aged 16-23 yearsold showed that 40% of young adults failed to associate milk with a picture of a dairy cow, with 7% of them
identifying wheat as its source.
Ironically, the continuing popularity of television channels and shows devoted to culinary pursuits has not
translated into a more educated, or healthier, public. The typical American will spend a little under 30
minutes a day preparing food and yet may spend hours watching cooking shows. Food has become a
spectator sport. We may see chefs as celebrities, but we remain uninformed of the multifaceted systems and
actual superstars far off-screen, whose livelihoods and lives are dedicated to farming, and the applied
agricultural research that makes what we eat everyday possible.
Many might, and some do, think that we know all we will ever need to about farming, but that couldn't be
further from the truth. That disconnect can be illustrated by the recent history of a dish likely on your holiday
table: pumpkin pie. There are only two plant breeders who work on pumpkins at public universities in the
U.S., with even that number expected to shrink to one in the next few years. One of those is a colleague at
Cornell, whose seeds are providing a critical solution after a devastating 90% loss of pumpkin pie-filling
pumpkins several years ago that created a filling shortage.
Without his research program, we may very well have had years without holiday pumpkin pies, and I am
confident that most of us had no idea that was even possible. What happens in the field makes a real
difference to what is on our plates.
Beyond providing the comfort and continuity of family favorites, the work of farming, of plant breeding, and
of the entire agricultural enterprise are inextricably tied to the bigger issues surrounding nutrition, wellness
and healthy choices. Researchers and farmers combine their efforts to develop and produce crops with better
yields, improved flavor profiles, and better nutritive value. These, in turn, offer economic development to
farming communities, and the businesses that bring the products to market, as well as enticing us with new
options for our dinner table.
Given such misunderstanding about the very basics of the food we eat, and a lack of access for many to
experience our food systems in person, it is perhaps no wonder that Americans, and their elected
representatives, do not give agriculture the attention it is due. During the recent government shutdown, there
was very little, if any, coverage of its impact on agriculture. But because it happened during harvest time,
USDA scientists were forced to stop work, leaving them and their colleagues without access to their research
fields, effectively harming years' worth of vitally important and expensive-to-reproduce studies into new
crops that will efficiently and sustainably feed our families and fuel our cars, as well as power growth of
local and state economies.
The holiday season was a time for gathering together. It was a time to share in gratitude, to celebrate the past,
and to look to the future. After the many conversations around the table, I ask that you turn your attention to
talking turkey about the real kitchen table issue directly in front of you: the importance of agriculture in the
everyday life of every American. Become more aware of what it took to get those holiday feasts from the
farm to your fork. If we don't, and we remain only distant observers of agriculture and its many yields, then
we guarantee an America that is less healthy and more hungry for generations to come.
ADVERTISEMENT ANALYSIS
Please define each element of persuasion and then provide a specific example from the advertisement
provided.
ELEMENT OF PERSUASION &
DEFINTION
Target Audience
Logos
Ethos
Pathos
Message to audience / purpose of
advertisement
SPECIFIC EXAMPLES FROM ADS
AD 1
AD 2
ADVERTISEMENT 1
ADVERTISEMENT 2
ANIMAL FARM and FAHRENHEIT 451
Answer the following questions about both novels and be prepared to discuss their similarities.
1. Provide a brief summary of Animal Farm. Include at least 5 rising action points.
2. Provide a brief summary of Fahrenheit 451. Include at least 5 rising action points.
3. What is Orwell’s message in writing Animal Farm?
4. What is Bradbury’s message in writing Fahrenheit 451?
5. How do both authors use the young to create their societies? Be specific to both novels by including
at least 2 major ways per novel.
6. What is the purpose or message from the authors for using the young to create their societies?