Free Praxis 5039 Practice Test

There was a poor but good little girl who lived alone with her

mother, and they no longer had anything to eat. So the child went

into the forest, and there an aged woman met her who was aware of her

sorrow, and presented her with a little pot, which when she said,

cook, little pot, cook, would cook good, sweet porridge, and when she

said, stop, little pot, it ceased to cook. The girl took the pot

home to her mother, and now they were freed from their poverty and

hunger, and ate sweet porridge as often as they chose. Once on a

time when the girl had gone out, her mother said, cook, little pot,

cook. And it did cook and she ate till she was satisfied, and then

she wanted the pot to stop cooking, but did not know the word. So it

went on cooking and the porridge rose over the edge, and still it

cooked on until the kitchen and whole house were full, and then the

next house, and then the whole street, just as if it wanted to

satisfy the hunger of the whole world, and there was the greatest

distress, but no one knew how to stop it. At last when only one

single house remained, the child came home and just said, stop,

little pot, and it stopped and gave up cooking, and whosoever wished

to return to the town had to eat his way back.

One of the yellow days of last October, when I was among the mountains of the Merced group, following the footprints of the ancient glaciers that once flowed grandly from their ample fountains, reading what I could of their history as written in moraines and canyons and lakes and carved rocks, I came upon a small stream that was carrying mud I had not before seen.

One of the yellow days of last October, when I was among the mountains of the Merced group, following the footprints of the ancient glaciers that once flowed grandly from their ample fountains, reading what I could of their history as written in moraines and canyons and lakes and carved rocks, I came upon a small stream that was carrying mud I had not before seen.

I do not wonder that the Druids built

Their sacred altars in the sacred groves.

Fit place to worship God. The native guilt

Of our poor weak humanity behoves

That we should set aside no little part

Of the devotion of the yearning heart

To rest and peace, as typical of that

Sweet tranquil rest to which the good aspire.

Calm thoughts are as the purifying fire

That burns the useless dross from life's mixed gold,

And lights the torch of mind. While grasping at

The shadow for the substance, youth grows old,

And groves of palm spring up in every heart -

Temples to God, wherein we pray and sit apart.

Anyway, I went on walking home, thinking about the movie, and then suddenly wishing I had some company. Greasers can't walk alone too much or they'll get jumped, or someone will come by and scream "Greaser!" at them, which doesn't make you feel too hot, if you know what I mean. We get jumped by the Socs. I'm not sure how you spell it, but it's the abbreviation for the Socials, the jet set, the West-side rich kids. It's like the term "greaser," which is used to class all us boys on the East Side.