Solution Manual for Essentials of Marketing Research: A Hands-On Orientation.

Naresh K Malho

Solution Manual for Essentials of Marketing

Research: A Hands-On Orientation. Naresh K
Malhotra
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For courses in Marketing Research at two- and four-year colleges and
universities
An engaging, do-it-yourself approach to marketing research
Essentials of Marketing Research: A Hands-On Orientation presents a
concise overview of marketing research via a do-it-yourself approach
that engages students. Building on the foundation of his successful
previous titles– Basic Marketing Research: Integration of Social Media
and Marketing Research: An Applied Orientation–author Naresh
Malhotra covers concepts at an elementary level, deemphasizing
statistics and formulas. Sensitive to the needs of today’s undergraduates,
Malhotra integrates online and social media content, and provides
current, contemporary examples that ground course material in the real
world.

This text provides a better teaching and learning experience–for you and
your students. It will help you to:
•
Give students a framework for understanding:
A clear framework helps students grasp marketing research principles, as
well as the relationship between marketing research and management.
•
Emphasize practical applications:
A do-it-yourself approach and detailed real-world cases let students see
how marketing research is actually conducted.
•
Foster interest through contemporary content:
Current examples and an emphasis on online market research and social
media helps students understand the relevance of course material.
•
Enable student success via learning aids:
Various tools, throughout the text and at the end of each chapter, support
students as they learn and review.
 Another random document
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 T G .—(O R I .)
You—you if you should fail to understand
That Peace for England is her all in all—
On you will come the curse of all the land
If that old England fall,
Which Peace has made so great—

This isle, the mightiest moral power on earth,

This one small isle, the lord of all the sea—
Poor England, what would all thy Fleet be worth,
And what avail thine ancient name of “Free.”
Wert thou a tyrant State?

You—you—who have the ordering of her choice,

If you shall only compass her disgrace,
When all men know, the wild mob’s million voice
Shall hurl you from your place—
But then—too late, too late!
J C .
 T L .—(O R D ).
You—you—if you have ceased to understand
Why once your song did England’s heart enthral—
On you will come the gibes of all the land
If that old grandeur fall
From eminence so great.

’Tis vile, thou sweetest singer upon earth—

’Tis very vile, thou bard of every sea—
Poor poet, what will bygone praise be worth,
And what avail thine ancient fame to thee,
If bathos blur thy state?

You—you—whose Muse had dainty, dancing feet,

If with a careless pen you mar her grace,
While true men sigh, the million, as ’tis meet,
Will laugh you from your place—
But then—too late, too late!
E .
 T C (A .)
We—we—who have not failed to understand
That Soup of turtle is our all in all—
On us may fall the anger of the land,
And that old charter fall,
Which kings have left so great—

That charter, noblest instrument on earth,

That grand old charter, gift of royalty—
Poor charter, what will all thy words be worth,
And what avail thine ancient liberty,
When in a lapsed state?

We—we—who strove to hold our powers complete,

If we have only fought and toiled in vain,
When all men kick, the region of our seat
Will suffer mortal pain—
Too hard—too hard a fate!
T H. K , .
 T J .—(O H R R .)
You—you—since you have failed to understand
The Brag of England serves no turn at all—
Will never rise to curse again this land,
And never have the fall
Five years ago your fate.

This creed, the maddest vainest creed on earth,

That one small isle should lord o’er all lands be—
Poor jingo! what would this small isle be worth,
Where its great wealth, its ancient name of “Free,”
Wert thou to rule our state?

You—you—when you’d the ordering of the Fleet,

Did you not strive to compass our disgrace?
Do you forget ’twas once the “wild mob’s” feat
To kick you from your place?
You’ll mend—too late, too late!
G M .
Few—few—so few can really understand
Why all this fighting to our share should fall—
Or why Old England should protect a land
That is not hers at all,
Although she is so great—

This isle, the mightiest meddling power on earth,

The would-be lord of every land and sea—
Poor England, what is all the honour worth,
To crush a people struggling to be free,
And help a rotten state?

Few—few—there are who would not wish to fight

If Russia should encompass our disgrace,
And make for India—why, then with right
We’d kick her from the place—
But now—we’ll wait, we’ll wait.
E S .
 G ’ R .
You—you—if you have failed to understand
The peace of nations is our all in all—
On you will come the blame of all the land
If those strong efforts fall
That we have used of late.

This isle, once fairest spot in all the earth,

This one small isle that boasts the name of “Free”—
Poor England! what will that fair name be worth,
And what will be thy “prestige” presently,
At war with every State?

You—you—who grovel still at Jingo’s feet,

If you shall plunge us in this dark disgrace
While thousands, starving, walk about the street,
They’ll hiss you to your face;
But all—too late, too late!
J H. W .

The two following parodies à propos of present circumstances, also

appeared in a Prize competition:
B G .
You must save me from the Jingoes, from the Jingoes, Gladdy dear—
To morrow’ll be the wretchedest time of all this tragic year;
Of all this tragic year, Gladdy, the maddest, wickedest day,
For there’ll be a war, they say, Gladdy—there’ll be a war they say.

The Russians come and go, Gladdy, and seize upon each pass,
And with the savage Turcomans they drain the social glass;
The Tories shout and yell, Gladdy, awhile the Quakers pray,
For there’ll be a war, they say, Gladdy—there’ll be a war, they say.
All in the wild March morning I heard the trumpet call,
As Russian upon Afghan did mercilessly fall;
The shots began to whistle, and the drums began to roll,
And in the wild March morning fled many a trooper’s soul.

O, strange it seems to me, Gladdy, that ere this year is done

Some thousands of my bravest may be rotting ’neath the sun,
Just like my noble Gordon, the gallant and the true—
But what of that, the Jingoes say, why make ye such ado?

For ever, and for ever, they rave and stamp and roam—
Why can’t they wait a little while, until th’ elections come?
For then you’ll go up, Gladdy to yon House and wear a crest,
And the Russian cease from troubling, and the Jingo be at rest!
J. A E .

——:o:——
H ’ E .
The elections will be early, will be early, brother dear;
There is no doubt we’ll have to vote before another year.
The parson and the squire, they say, are quite polite to-day,
And think it will be most unkind if we don’t vote their way.

They forget we were the black sheep—the blackest of our time—

Were only fit to till the ground and feed our master’s swine;
Now they declare by us to stand for ever and a day,
If we will vote their way, brother—will only vote their way.

As I came up the valley brother, whom think ye I should see

But the parson arm-in-arm with Hodge, as merry as could be?
He thought of those sharp words, brother, I gave him yesterday—
When I refused to tell him, brother, if we should vote his way.

Now they may lose our votes brother, they think we’re in the right,
Although they failed to see our wrongs till Gladstone gave them light.
They may call us cruel-hearted—I care not what they say—
 For we will vote by ballot, brother—why should we vote their way?

You must wake me and poll early—poll early, my brother dear—

That morrow will be the merriest time of all this glad new year!
That morrow may be to all of us our emancipation day,
If we vote for those who helped, brother—who helped us on our way!
J H. G .
he Weekly Dispatch, April 26, 1885.

——:o:——
P O L .
You must wake and call me early—call me early mother dear,
Our Irving, as you’ll recollect, does now once more appear,
And so I’m bound, ere yet ’tis dawn, my humble couch to quit,
For I have to book for the pit, mother—I have to book for the pit.
Funny Folks.
L —Special Notice—With a desire to increase the comfort of the
people, all seats in the pit and gallery of this theatre may, during Mr.
Irving’s management, in the future be booked, and the pit and gallery will
be reseated for this purpose by Mr. J. C. Phipps.—Advertisement in the
Daily Papers, April, 1885.
[This arrangement did not meet with general approval, and was soon
abandoned.]

W .
Hundreds of sovereigns, hundreds of sterling, hundreds of cash,
Paid with a cheerfulness, eager to gain a poem from me;
Hundreds of sterling to write, to utter, to make a dash—
Nay, but the Editor aim’d not at poetry, no lover of poetry he:
Give me the pleasure of going on for the £ s. d.!
 The wages of rant is great: if the wages of merit be just
Would the publishers scramble who should be first to bargain with me?
I desire them not to come hither, unless it be with the “dust,”
To make me a golden grove, or to add to my stock of gree;
Give me the pleasure of going on for the £ s. d.!
udy, February 19, 1868.

——:o:——
G M ,
(With apologies to L T .)
Give me no more: a man might drink the sea—
If it were drinkable, and yours to give—
Might drink while Heaven allowed him grace to live
And not exhaust your hospitality;
Give me no more.

Give me no more: I’m nearly tight already,

Behold my flaming cheek and bloodshot eye;
Yes, O my friend, ’tis time to say good bye,
My tongue feels thick, my knees are far from steady
Give me no more.

Give me no more: ofttimes I might be glad

To drink with you all night, and glass for glass,
But not just now—my honest word I pass—
Your liquor is so execrably bad,
Give me no more!

——:o:——
T O -E .
“Courage!” she said, and pointed with one hand
(A hand that held a heavy metal spoon),
“Ere dies the day ye all will understand
The solemn myst’ry of this afternoon,
The luscious dish will ready be full soon!”
 Above the cauldron rose a fragrant steam,
Through which her face gleam’d like a misty moon:
The boiling broth, with energy extreme,
Within the pot to bubble up did seem.

The dancing fire flicker’d up and down,

Fann’d by the murm’ring bellows gentle gale,
And by its crimson light was plainly shown
The kitchen-dresser and the housemaid’s pail.
Upon the table stood a jug of ale,
Some plates and knives and forks were near the same;
A frying-pan hung greasy on a nail.
With faces ruddied by the leaping flame,
The eager, hungry onion-eaters came.

Large roots they bore of that full-flavour’d stem,

Of pungent taste and odour. These they gave
To Cook, who gladly did receive of them.
With careful hands these roots she well did lave
In pure spring water’s clear and limpid wave;
Then toss’d them in the pot, a stew to make.
’Tis for this mess the greedy gluttons crave;
The echoes with their eager cries they wake,—
“Oh, give us some, we pray, for mercy’s sake!”

They sat them down, a longing, hungry band,

To eat, as if they ne’er had ate before,
Within the savoury dish each dipp’d a hand,
Until ’twas empty. Then arose a roar—
“’Tis not enough! Oh, give us more, more, !
’Tis not more filling than the ocean’s foam.”
Then some one said,—“Eat not, friends, I implore!
Or how, when back to our own shores we roam,
Dare we kiss wives and sweethearts left at home?”
udy, September 25, 1872.

——:o:——
 In Punch, May 9, 1885, will be found a rather weak parody of “Tears,
idle tears,” it is àpropos of the farewell performance of Adelina Patti, at San
Francisco, and commences “Tears, maudlin tears.”
——:o:——
G G .
In reply to a letter from the poet Whittier respecting General Gordon,
Lord Tennyson has written as follows—
“Dear Mr. Whittier,—Your request has been forwarded to me,
and I herein send you an epitaph for Gordon in our Westminster
Abbey—i.e. for his cenotaph:—
“‘Warrior of God, man’s friend, not here below
But somewhere dead far in the waste Soudan;
Thou livest in all hearts, for all men know
This earth hath borne no simpler, nobler man.’
“With best wishes, yours very faithfully,
“T .”
On which the Globe (May 7th, 1885,) remarked—“Lord Tennyson must
really decline to be prodded. The poet Whittier has been egging him on to
write about Gordon, and the result is an epitaph of four lines, giving the
information that Gordon is not “here below” (i.e., in Westminster Abbey),
but in the Soudan. The Times, in giving this epitaph, heads it “Gordon,
Tennyson, and Whittier,” and the association of three such names with the
starveling verse under them, is an ideal example of the short and simple
step from the sublime to the ridiculous.”
 “MY MOTHER.”
HE kind correspondent who sent the pathetic poem entitled
“Another,” which appeared in the May number of Parodies,
correctly described the difficulty of compiling this collection
so as to make it fairly complete, without being tedious,
especially as new Parodies on every popular poem are
continually appearing. Since Part 18 appeared many other parodies on “My
Mother” have been sent in, some of which are so good that they are here
inserted, although it had not been intended again to refer to that particular
poem in this volume.
T S .
No more this silent grief I’ll hug,
What shall I do to kill the slug,
That haunts the beds which I have dug?—
Curst slug!

I’ve sprinkled soot upon its trail,

But less than naught does that avail,
Over it pass’d th’ unconscious snail—
Vile slug!

I dogg’d its footsteps then with lime,

Dropping it where I saw the slime,
But it did change its route next time—
Sly slug!

I keep some salt mixed in a jug,

In which I hoped to pop it snug,
But it declined to show its mug—
Shy slug!

What lots of mischief it can do—

 Would you believe it bit in two
My Vincitoxis Thunbergu?
Base slug!

Could it not e’en have spared me this?

My bulb Incomparabilis
Hookeri Walkeri insignis—
Low slug!

If I could find its hidden lair!

I can’t! Ah, cry of wild despair,
That breaks upon the tortured air—
Oh, slug!

Stranger! who read’st, yet sittest still,

I’ll leave you something in my will—
Give me a recipe to kill
That slug!
udy, July 30, 1873.

——:o:——
T F F S .
By a Victim.
“What may perhaps be said to be the first fog of the season occurred in
London on Wednesday last. All through the forenoon the weather was so
dark as to make the use of gas requisite within doors. The fog was
especially dense in the Northern and Eastern suburbs. In the morning there
was a sharp frost.”—Daily Paper.
What comes this year before its time,
To make us execrate our clime,
And doth the City streets begrime?
The fog!

What makes the trains late up in town,

And much disgusts Smith, Jones, and Brown;
 And stops them when they would go “down?”
The fog!

What spreads destruction round one’s feet

By dark’ning every crowded street—
Invades the most secure retreat?
The fog!

What fills the atmosphere with smoke,

Till all who breathe it, all but choke;
And much bad language doth provoke?
The fog.

What hurts the eyes and makes them red,

Gives one a bad cold in the head,
And makes one think one’s nearly dead?
The fog!

What in the day produces night,

And keeps the flaring gas alight,
And takes away one’s appetite?
The fog.

What doth all London discompose,

Yet whence it comes and where it goes
No living human being knows?
The fog!
udy, November 1, 1876.

——:o:——
T N .
Who taught me when there was a draught,
And showed me perils fore and aft
And frowned when I untimely laughed?
The Nervous.
 Who told me when the glass would rise
Or fall, and with their prophecies,
Or recollections, made me wise?
The Nervous.

Who heard a crash before it fell

And knew things were not going well,
And would some warning story tell?
The Nervous.

Who, when I was a pachyderm,

By many a proper piercing term
Thinned my coarse skin so hard and firm?
The Nervous.
he Argosy Magazine, 1866.

——:o:——
M B .
Dedicated (without respect) to certain Bank Mis-Directors.
B M A .
I know a bank which when a wild time rose,
topped payment, and resolved its doors to close.”
—Shakespeare perverted.

Though times are hard, who is’t one sees

Enjoying life’s luxurious ease
By spending others’ £. s. d’s?
My Banker.

Who cows the trader with a glance,

And eyes poor shopkeepers askance,
And wastes their money in—“finance”?
My Banker.

Whose style the ignorant delights,

 Who orphans’ confidence invites,
And freely takes the widows’ mites?
My Banker.

Who finds religion’s cloak to pay

And client’s money ev’ry day
In charity, who gives away?
My Banker.

Who’s he whose fame spreads far and wide

For wealth and ostentatious pride
Until for peculation tried?
My Banker.

Who makes of roguery a trade,

Who, by his conscience undismayed,
To other rascals lends his aid?
My Banker.

Who is’t would have us to believe

A child in arms he’d not deceive,
Yet all the while will lie and thieve?
My Banker.

Who, when my Banker stares aghast

At prison walls which hold him fast,
Rejoices that he’s caught at last?
My-self.
udy, January 29, 1879.

——:o:——
M B .
Who held the tempting apple nigh
And always tried to make me cry,
And stuck the scissors in my eye?
My Brother.
Who left us all on Christmas Day
And to the cupboard made his way
And on the tree left not a spray?
My Brother.

Who threw my playthings on the floor.

And broke my doll behind the door,
And my best ribbons always tore?
My Brother.

Who pinched my kitten’s ear, or tail,

And ducked her in the water-pail
And pinched my cheek for turning pale?
My Brother.

Who spilt his coffee on his lap,

And tore his mother’s new lace cap,
And blurred with ink my atlas map?
My Brother.

Who’s glad he is at school now,

And not at home to make a row
I know who’s happy, anyhow,
His Sister.

——:o:——
V .
Why at my church do I select a pew,
Commanding always one particular view
Alas! I fear it is to look at you
The Curate.

When do I shun the theatre or the ball,

For spinsters’ tea that’s weak, and talk that’s small
’Tis when I think it probable you’ll call
Our Curate.
 Why, by my hands, industriously were tied
The holly wreaths in church at Christmas-tide?
Because I loved to labour by your side
Dear Curate.

And when the living fat shall fall to thee,

Shall all thy flock forgotten be,
Or wilt thou then begin to think of me
My Curate.

——:o:——
M B .
Who teaches me to go abroad
To Paris, Rome, or Venice-ward,
Or Norway’s fjeld and deep fjord?
My Baedeker.

Who gives the annals of each nation,

Maps, money, language, vegetation,
And what’s about the population?
My Baedeker.

Who says what galleries there may be

For which one pays, which open free
From ten to four, or nine to three?
My Baedeker.

Who says what churches I’m to visit

And if a picture’s framed which is it?
And puts a star lest I should miss it?
My Baedeker.
rom Tracks in Norway.

Who are the anxious watchers o’er

 The slumbers of a little bore,
That screams whene’er it doesn’t snore
Why, Mothers.

Whose pity wipes its piping eyes,

And stills maturer childhood’s cries,
Stopping its mouth with cakes and pies?
Oh, Mothers!
he Humorist, 1861.

——:o:——
M T .
Who was’t when I came fresh from School
Up here, was so polite and cool,
And showed me each Collegiate rule?
My Tutor.

Who bade me shun those friends of vice

Which undergraduates entice,
In shape of billiards, cards, and dice?
My Tutor.

Let Paley be my constant friend,

Eight hours each day in studies spend,
And chapels night and morn attend?
My Tutor.

By such a course that worthy planned

First class in Little Go I’d land,
A credit to my College, and
My Tutor.

But who next day, by all that’s odd,

Happened to note me as I trod
Across the grassplots in the quad?
My Tutor.
 And saw (what fools some people are!)
Me puffing at my first cigar,
And called it “most irregular”?
My Tutor.

Who’s now my foe inveterate,

Who every night at half-past eight
Keeps me within the College gate?
My Tutor.

Because I chanced to skip, you know,

And thought intolerably slow
His lectures on the Little Go?
My Tutor.

Who is so shy he shuns to meet

One of his College in the street?
Who dare not let you see his feet?
My Tutor.

Who always is agreable with

Lord Jones, but keeps a great broad frith
Between himself and Sizar Smith?
My Tutor.

Who is it whom I ought to dread

And hang on every word he’s said
But whom I caricature instead?
My Tutor.
rom Paulopostprandials, published by
Jones and Piggott, Cambridge, 1883.

Illustration: Mask with cherubs