Read this opening. What is the writer doing?"Rain sprinkled softly down, sparkling in the yellow glow of the street lamps."

Read this ending. What is the writer doing?"Finally, the tables were laid out, the cakes sat on the counter and the waiting staff stood poised with pens and paper. As they threw open the doors to open the cafe, the sun came out and shone down on the patio tables out the front. It looked perfect. Nobody would ever know about the almost disaster."

Read this opening. What is the writer doing?"Rod ran a hand through his jet black hair to mess it up, and smiled at his reflection in the mirror."

You are writing the opening to a scary story.You are going to describe the weather to set the tone of a story. You need to create the impression that the character is sad.Choose the best opening.With a howling shriek of terror, the wind rattled the window panes and the trees outside trembled.Raindrops dripped miserably from the sky as I trudged along.Beaming brightly, the butter yellow sun shone in the endless stretch of cloudless blue sky.I crouched down to scoop up a handful of the pure, white unbroken snow. Cupping the snow in my hands, I stared at the tiny crystals, utterly mesmerised.I DON'T KNOWSUBMIT ANSWER

What clues tell the reader that "The Yellow Wallpaper" by Charlotte Perkins Gilman is written in the first-person point of view?

Select the correct text in the passage.Which detail builds on the themes that a person's environment can shape his or her view of life and that people can bear difficult circumstances for a long time?adapted from Life in the Iron Millsby Rebecca Harding Davis     A cloudy day—do you know what that is in a town of iron works? The sky sank down before dawn—muddy, flat, and immovable; the air is thick—clammy with the breath of crowded human beings, and it stifles me. I open the front window and can scarcely see through the rain the grocer's shop opposite, and I can detect the scent through all the foul smells ranging loose in the air.     The idiosyncrasy of this town is smoke as it rolls sullenly in slow folds from the great chimneys of the iron foundries and settles down in black, slimy pools on the muddy streets. Smoke on the wharves, smoke on the dingy boats, on the yellow river clinging in a coating of greasy soot to the house, the two faded poplars, the faces of the passerby—smoke everywhere! A dirty canary chirps desolately in a cage beside me; its dream of green fields and sunshine is a very old dream—almost worn out, I think.     From the back window, I can see a narrow brickyard sloping down to the riverside, where the river—dull and tawny-colored—drags itself sluggishly along, tired of the heavy weight of boats and barges. When I was a child, I used to fancy a look of weary, dumb appeal upon the face of the river, bearing its burden day after day. Something of the same idle notion comes to me today, when I look on the slow stream of human life creeping past, night and morning, to the great mills. Masses of men with dull, besotted faces bent to the ground, sharpened here and there by pain or cunning; skin and muscle and flesh begrimed with smoke and ashes; stooping all night over boiling cauldrons of metal; breathing from infancy to death an air saturated with grease and soot—vileness for soul and body. What do you make of a case like that, amateur psychologist? You call it an altogether serious thing to be alive: to these men it is a jest, a joke—horrible to angels perhaps, but to them commonplace enough.