IAB- Read Literary Texts

Read the text and answer the questions.

Guitar Story

If you think you know someone really well, you may be mistaken. A few weeks ago, my sister, mom, and I spent a couple of days out of state during a school break. When we returned home, we discovered that my dad—who is a beginning-level musician—had morphed into an Internet rock singer, or at least he'd tried to.

This transformation was especially surprising because my father had created his background music using a fairly sophisticated software program. At the hotel where he works, my father answers email on a computer, but that's about it. He's required to be a face-to-face communicator and must spend his time outside his office with the guests, helping them plan their outings and answering their questions. He's the assistant manager at the hotel, and as he says, "Managers mostly talk, and they rarely type."

So why exactly did my father make his daring digital leap into the complex world of music production? Well, it's my influence, actually, and I'll do my best to explain.

My name is Nick, and I'm a good jazz-guitar player who recently discovered that I can also play other instruments digitally, thanks to some music-creation software that a local recording studio donated to my school. Using a mouse or a musical keyboard, I can enter notes onto a computer screen and then assign different musical instruments to play those notes. Click, click, and a piano is playing in my headphones. More clicks and notes, another line of music, and now I have a trumpet section. Note by note, instrument by instrument, I can create a whole song and orchestra. The experience is so thrilling and gratifying that it's difficult for me to stop.

That's why I'm usually the last person in the lab after school and why my dad says things like, "Nick, you certainly are devoted!"

And what do I reply? "Yes, that's true, Dad. Say, did you practice that blues tune we went over last week?"

"Um, not yet," he'll mumble, and then hurry off. You see, I'm actually a music teacher on Saturdays, and my dad is one of my students. My father—although he really wants to learn—hasn't progressed as fast as he wanted to yet because he can never find time to practice.

Saturday will come and he'll struggle along through a song, sometimes playing wrong notes.

So why does he continue to take lessons if he doesn't have time to study? Good question! Maybe he thinks he'll find more time next week, or maybe it's because he really wants to learn to play! He says, "Every year, you and your cousins bring your guitars to the family picnic. This year, I'd like to play along."

So now we arrive at the point where this story began—at the moment when we discovered that my dad was now a music-maker.

"Everybody, come here for a second," he said, once the three of us had finally put away our suitcases. He herded us into the basement and stated, "Look what I bought at a secondhand store downtown!" Hooked up to his laptop from work was an old musical keyboard, and nearby were a microphone, the box from a software program, and his guitar.

Nearby were a microphone, the box from a software program, and his guitar. My mom, sister, and I looked at each other as if to say, "What is all of this for?"

"Now, wait until you hear this!" he said, and then he pulled up an Internet video of himself playing and singing over a mixture of digital instruments.

When the video ended, my sister, mom, and I didn't know what to say.

"Um, that's really—quite different," my mother began.

"Yes," my little sister echoed, "it's very different."

I looked carefully at my dad's eyes. They were sparking with eagerness, and I decided that the video was the result of hours of effort. "Dad," I said, "I'm really proud of you. Show me the new equipment."

"Thanks, Nick," he said, beaming. In the days since, he and I have been fiddling with his software and keyboard and are having a wonderful time. My dad has never been more pleased and enthusiastic. "Gosh, if only I'd started playing music earlier," he said at our last practice.

"You can still achieve a lot musically, Dad," I replied. I suspected that there was more than a hint of longing in his statement.

Read the text. Then answer the questions.

We Make a Start
from From Lake to Lake: A Trip Across Country
by Capt. Charles A. J. Farrar

Our season had ended, and the jaunty little steamer “Welokennebacook,” which had done such excellent service on the Richardson Lakes during the summer, was now securely moored at the mouth of the river, with her bow$^1$ toward the rapids, while two large “driving” anchors from bow and stern$^2$ held her in position. To make assurance doubly sure we had run a long, heavy cable from each side of the boat, amid ship, to trees on either point that formed the little cove in which she lay.

After taking a last look around to satisfy ourselves that nothing remained to be done, we pulled to the landing, and drew the yawl$^3$ carefully up on shore beyond the reach of any sea, and turning it bottom up, covered it over with boards that were held in position by heavy stones.

As we left the lake shore we took one more look at the gallant little craft floating at anchor, and a momentary feeling of sadness stole over me, as I thought of the pleasant hours I had passed on her deck that summer, and how seven long months must come and go before I should see her again.

Her deserted appearance also touched me. The flagstaffs had been taken down and housed, the smoke stack and exhaust pipe no longer appeared above the engine room, and all the windows and doors had been covered with boards, as protection against the wind and hail and snow that were to buffet her through the winter.

“She looks as if the life had all gone out of her,” remarked Jack, the engineer, who was with me.

“That is a fact,” I replied. “Do you suppose she will stay there safely through the winter?”

“Why not? The ice won’t freeze very thick there on account of the current.”

“I was not thinking of the ice, but of the wind. There are such heavy blows here in winter.”

“Oh, I guess she will be all right, Captain. But if we are going to get to camp before dark, we had better be moving.”

Leaving the lakeshore we struck into the road, and went up to the Upper Dam Camp, where we were stopping, and had our supper; and, as we intended to make an early start the next morning, we went to bed soon after eating. We had put in a hard day’s work, and we slept soundly. Indeed, it seemed I had been in bed but an hour or two when I was awakened by the cook, pounding on my door and telling me it was five o’clock.

Crushing the strong inclination I had to turn over and take another nap, I arose quickly and dressed, and went outdoors to take a look at the weather. It bid fair to be a pleasant day, and as I turned to go in I descried⁴ Jack returning from the dam with a couple of nice trout. I waited for him to come along.

“Thought you would want trout for your last breakfast at the lakes, Captain, so I went down and snaked out a couple.”

“What beauties,” I replied.

“The two will weigh about seven pounds, I think.”

We went into camp and weighed the fish. One weighed three pounds and a half, the other four pounds.

The cook soon had them in the frying pan, and at six o’clock we sat down to breakfast. As we did not expect to have anything more than a hasty lunch at noon, we ate heartily.

We had picked up all our things the night before, and were ready to depart as soon as we arose from the table. I charged McCard to look after the steamer, and, bidding all the men of the camp good-by, we left just in time to escape an old shoe that the cook threw after us for luck.

We crossed the dam and went over to the lower landing, where we launched our boat and pulled down to Mosquito Brook.

It was a lovely morning, warm for October, and the lake was so smooth and calm that the foliage, with all its delicate leaves and twigs, and its gorgeous array of colors, was reflected with a mirror-like fidelity. The shadowy outlines of old Aziscohos and Observatory, two beautiful mountains that towered skyward north of us, were also thrown on the smooth water, a long distance from the shore.

“This is a jolly morning to start,” said Jack, as our powerful strokes sent the light craft spinning through the water.

“It is simply perfect; if we have such weather as this all the way to Parmachenee our trip will be one of the things to be remembered.”

Just then two loons bobbed their heads above water, not more than fifty feet behind us, and with taunting cries challenged us to take their photograph. This was too much for Jack, and he dropped his oar,

seized his camera, and clicked away at them. Jack put in new film and clicked again, but with no better result.

I remarked to Jack that we had better resume our rowing, for I doubted if he had film enough in the boat to take enough photos. We started onward again, a cry of triumph from the loons ringing in our ears.

1 bow: the front end of a ship
2 stern: the back end of a ship
3 yawl: a ship’s small boat that is rowed by a crew of four to six people
4 descried: saw

“We Make a Start” from From Lake to Lake: A Trip Across Country by Capt. Charles A. J. Farrar. In the public domain.