Test Bank for Introduction to Audiologic Rehabilitation, 6/E 6th Edition : 0132582570

Test Bank for Introduction to Audiologic Rehabilitation, 6/E

6th Edition : 0132582570
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Description
What students and clinicians need to know about the most recent advances in the
changing state of audiology is presented in this accessible resource. Included is
coverage of important contemporary issues such as professional practice
documents, evidence based practice, multicultural issues, and advances in
computer and web-based rehabilitation activities. Written by a renowned team of
experts and highly regarded in the field, Introduction to Audiologic Rehabilitation,
6/e is a reader-friendly, well-organized, cohesive treatment based on a proven
model, framed within the concepts of the World Health Organization.

About the Author

Ronald Schow is Professor Emeritus at Idaho State University (ISU) where he has
taught since 1975. Although semi-retired he continues to teach in the Audiology
program in the Division of Health Sciences. Dr. Schow received his Bachelor of
Science in Biology from Utah State University and then earned a Ph.D. in
Audiology from Northwestern University in 1974, with Raymond Carhart as his
major professor. Before coming to ISU, he taught at Illinois State University (1972-
75). Dr. Schow is the co-author of numerous books and journal articles including
“Communication Disorders of the Aged” and the five previous editions
of Introduction to Audiologic Rehabilitation. He has been awarded Fellow status
in ASHA and in the International Collegium of Rehabilitative Audiology, where he
was inducted as one of the original charter members.
Michael Nerbonne is Professor Emeritus in the Department of Communication
Disorders at Central Michigan University, where he taught from 1981-2011. Prior
to that, he was a professor in the Department of Speech Pathology and Audiology
at Idaho State University for eleven years. Dr. Nerbonne received his
undergraduate degree from Michigan State University, where he also earned his
M.A. and Ph.D. in Audiology. He has published widely during his career in
audiologic rehabilitation and is a Fellow of ASHA.

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 Language : English

 Hardcover : 576 pages

 ISBN-10 : 0132582570

 ISBN-13 : 978-0132582575

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 T A R .
I.
The aisles of Rome! the aisles of Rome!
Where burning censers oft are swung,
Where saints are worshipp’d ’neath the dome,
Where banners sway and mass is sung—
In Papal Sees these aisles have place,
But English churches they disgrace.
II.
The vestments, many-hued and quaint,
The alb, the stole, the hood, the cope,
The prayers to Virgin and to saint—
These are for them who serve the Pope:
Shame! that such mummeries besmirch
The ritual of the English Church!
III.
I took the train to Farringdon,
From Farringdon I walked due E.;
And musing there an hour alone,
I scarce could think such things could be.
At Smithfield—scene of martyrs slain—
I could not deem they died in vain.
IV.
And is it so? and can it be,
My country? Is what we deplore
Aught but a phase of idiocy?
Is England Protestant no more?
Is she led captive by a man—
The dotard of the Vatican?
V.
Must we but weep o’er days more blest?
Must we but blush?—our fathers bled.
Earth, render back from out thy breast
 A remnant of our martyred dead!
Of all the hundreds grant but three
To fight anew Mackonochie.
From Jon Duan, by the authors of The Coming K—— and The Siliad.
Weldon and Co., London, 1874.
Another imitation of the same original commencing—
“The isles decrease, the isles decrease,
The last fog-signal now has rung,”
occurs in Faust and Phisto, Beeton’s Christmas Annual for 1876, but it has
no literary interest, nor merit as a parody.
 T C G .
The Claims of Greece! The Claims of Greece!
No doubt Miss S loved and sung,
But how can Europe keep the peace,
The wily Greek and Turk among:
Eternal summer may be there,
But noise of war is in the air.

The nations look on Marathon,

And wonder sometimes will there be
A fight like that which erst went on
Between the mountains and the sea:
Where Turk and Greek may find a grave,
If neither party will behave.

AB sat with furrowed brow,

And scanned the Treaty of Berlin,
Quoth he, “There’ll be a fearful row,
My interference must begin.
We’ll arbitrate.” He spoke, when lo!
Both Greece and Turkey answered “No!”

“Trust not for freedom to the Franks,”

Was B ’ sage remark to Greece
He bids the Hellenes close their ranks,
Their only hope for full release.
They’ve ta’en his counsel it would seem;
Yet surely ’tis an idle dream?

“Fill the high bowl with Samian wine,”

Whatever Samian wine may be;
And still let Grecian temples shine,
Be Greece inviolate and free:
But ne’er shall European peace
Be broken for the claims of Greece!
unch, January 29, 1881.
 N M 1874.
“The town of Nice! the town of Nice!
Where once mosquitoes buzzed and stung
And never gave man any peace,
The whole year round, when he was young!
Eternal winter chills it yet;
It’s always cold, and mostly wet.

Lord Brougham sat on the rocky brow

Which looks on sea-girt Cannes, I wis;
But wouldn’t like to sit there now,
Unless ’twere warmer than it is.
I went to Cannes the other day,
But found it much too damp to stay.

The mountains look on Monaco,

And Monaco looks on the sea
And, playing their some hours ago,
I meant to win enormously;
But, though my need of coin was bad
I lost the little that I had.

Ye have the Southern charges yet

Where is the Southern climate gone
Of two such blessings, why forget
The cheaper and the better one?
My weekly bill my wrath inspires;
Think ye I meant to pay for fires?

Why should I stay? no worse art thou,

My country! On the genial shore
The local east winds whistle now,
The local fogs spread more and more;
But in the sunny South the weather
Beats all you know of put together.

I cannot eat—I cannot sleep—

 The waves are not so blue as I;
Indeed, the waters of the deep
Are dirty brown, and so’s the sky.
I get dyspepsia when I dine—
Oh, dash that pint of country wine!”

This parody appeared in Temple Bay for March 1886, in a paper entitled
Humours of Travel by Herman Merivale, but it had previously been printed
in a volume entitled “The White Pilgrim, and other Poems” by the same
author, and published by Chapman and Hall, London 1883.
 T S P .
The smiles of Peace, the smiles of Peace,
Which Gladstone in Midlothian sung!
A song we hope may never cease
Though Jingoes yell, with blatant tongue,
To fight—not for themselves, you bet!
And howl for blood, and—“Heavy Wet!”

We look up to the Grand Old Man,

And he looks out upon the sea
Of stormy politics, which can
Be still’d by none so well as he!
For standing at the Nation’s helm,
He safely guides the British Realm.

Fill high the bowl with Gladstone wine—

The sunny purple wine he gave—
Let fame and Bacchus round him twine
The wreaths that crown the good and brave!
His solid worth the nation rules,
Though worried by bombastic fools.

Trust not to Tories for a peace—

They have a chief who longs for war,
Let tax and income tax increase.
Pay! ’tis what we’re created for,
Better to fight, and glory win,
Than hoard a pile of useless “tin.”

Keep firm on Ministerial height

He who nor man nor nation fears—
He who seeks peace, yet fears not fight—
Whose strength and knowledge come with years—
Who knows that peace on earth’s divine!
Here’s Gladstone’s health in Gladstone wine!
Funny Folks May 23, 1885.
 R T P U C .
The Liberal seats! the Liberal seats!
That we in ’eighty proudly won!
Whence—while we suffered few defeats—
We saw the Stupid Party run!
Again we fight these borough’s, yet
Nothing, except disgrace, we get!

The Unionist and Tory crews,

Led on, alas! by honest Bright,
Have gained the day; and men refuse
To vote the Grand Old Chieftain right,
Save in the Island of the West,
Where scarce a Tory dares contest.

The Liberals look to Chamberlain,

And Chamberlain looks sour and glum;
Yet, seeing what he had to gain,
We’d hoped that Joseph round would come.
For, gazing back upon his past,
We could not think his—spleen?—would last.

The chief sat in St. Stephen’s, where

He’d nobly worked for fifty years;
He saw the Liberals crowded there,
And heard with joy their hearty cheers.
He looked at them one winter’s day—
And in the summer—where were they?

And where are they? And where art thou,

O Gladstone? In thy voiceless age
The heroic task comes harder now;
Soon must thou quit “the ungrateful stage.”
And must thy part, praised in all lands,
Degenerate into pigmy hands?

’Tis something, in this shameful hour,

 When beaten, with the fettered race,
To know at least that those in power
This question cannot choose but face.
And they may yield to craven fear,
However brave they now appear.

Why should we moan o’er times more blest?

Why should we wail? Our fathers worked!
The Tory must not peaceful rest,
The Irish Bill must not be burked!
’Tis but delayed, and time shall see
Another Ireland, glad and free!

Coercion now? Repression still?

Ah, no!—that sort of thing is dead!
You may reject our Home Rule Bill,
But tell us, what have you instead?
The eighty-six recruited come,—
Say, can coercion make them dumb?

In vain, in vain! Strike other chords!

Renounce your Paper Union Creed!
In spite of thirty thousand swords,
The Irish nation will be freed!
See! rising at their country’s call,
Who fronts you in St. Stephen’s Hall!

You have the Liberal leader yet;

Where is the Liberal phalanx gone?
You have two courses. Why regret
To take the nobler, manlier one?
You have the path that Justice shows—
And you’ve a nation to oppose!

Renounce the Paper Union creed!

You cannot govern men with this
Your Irish brethren you may need
When foreign foes around you hiss,
Renounce it, and the Irish then
Will prove themselves your countrymen.

The peasant of the sister Isle

has with our best and bravest bled,
That peasant now is all that’s vile—
Or—is your sense of justice dead?
Do right, and you perhaps will find
Him generous still, and brave, and kind.

No more these idle fictions whine!

On Liffey’s banks, on Shannon’s shore,
Exists the remnant of a line
Such as your English mothers bore.
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown
The British blood might proudly own.

Trust not the Tories and their pranks,

Despite the tales their leader tells;
In Irish hearts and Irish ranks
The old, strong love of justice dwells!
But Tory force and Tory fraud
Would crimson swift Rebellion’s sword!

Renounce the Paper Union Creed!

Our party, though now in the shade,
Shall still, with glorious Gladstone, lead!
Repulsed we are; not yet dismayed.
No isle whose shore the Atlantic laves
Can ever be the land of slaves.

Place what you will before the House,

There nothing, save an Irish bill,
Will pass. Meanwhile, let Liberals rouse—
Prove Liberal England’s Liberal still!
The Irish claim we must concede,
And have no Paper Union Creed.
 G.W.
all Mall Gazette. July 13, 1886.
 Warreniana, by Mr. William F. Deacon (London, 1824), contained an
excellent parody on Childe Harold, unfortunately it is too long to give in
full, but some stanzas may be quoted.
T C ’ P .
1.
Whileome in Limehouse docks there dwelt a youth,
Childe Higgins hight, the childe of curst ennui,
Despair, shame, sin, with aye assailing tooth,
Had worn his beauty to the bone.—Ah me!
A lone unloving libertine was he;
For reft of health and hope’s delusive wiles,
And tossed in youth on passion’s stormy sea,
He stood a wreck ’mid its deserted isles,
Where vainly pleasure wooes and syren woman smiles.
2.
He was a merchant, ’till ennui’d with toil
Of counting house turned but to small account,
Sated of home, and Limehouse leaden soil,
Nee more to his dried heart a freshening fount
Of kindly feelings; he aspired to mount
To intellectual fame, for when the brain
Is dulled by thoughts, aye fearful to surmount,
When youth, hope, love, essay their charms in vain,
The rake-hell turns a blue as doth his sky again.
3.
Thus turned the Childe, when in the Morning Post,
The Herald, Chronicle, and eke the Times,
He read with tasteful glee a daily host
Of the Strand bard’s self eulogistic rhymes;
He read, and fired with zeal, resolv’d betimes
A pilgrim to that minstrel’s shrine to move,
As Allah’s votaries in Arabian climes
To far Medina’s hallowed altar rove,
There low to bend before the idol of their love.
4.
He left his home, his wife without a sigh,
And trod with pilgrim-pace the Limehouse Road;
The morn beamed laughing in the dark blue sky,
And warm the sun on post and pavement glowed:
Each varied mile new charms and churches showed,
But sceptic Higgins jeered the sacred band;
For his full tide of thought with scorn o’erflowed,
Or deep immersed in objects grave and grand,
Dwelt on the Warren’s fame at number Thirty, Strand.
* * * * *
11.
Th’ Exchange is past, the Mansion House appears,
Surpris’d the Childe surveys its portly site,
Dim dreams assail him of convivial years,
And keener waxes his blunt appetite,
Luxurious visions whelm his fancy quite,
Of calipash and ekecalipee,
While sylphs of twenty stone steal o’er his sight,
Smiting their thighs with blythe Apician glee,
And licking each his lips right beautiful to see.
12.
’Twas here they tucked, these unctuous city sprites,
’Twas here like geese they fattened and they died.
Here turtle reared for them her keen delights,
And forests yielded their cornuted pride.—
But all was vain, ’mid daintiest feasts they sighed;
Gout trod in anger on each hapless toe;
Stern apoplexy pummelled each fat side,
And dropsy seconded his deadly blow,
’Till floored by fate they sunk to endless sleep below.
* * * * *
 15.
Something too much of this; but now ’tis past,
And Fleet Street spreads her busy vale below:
Lo! proud ambitious gutters hurry past,
To rival Thames in full continuous flow;
The inner temple claims attention now,
That Golgotha of thick and thread-bare skulls,
Where modest merit pines in chambers low,
And impudence his oar in triumph pulls
Along the stream of wealth, and snares its rich sea-gulls.
* * * * *
19.
Thus mused the Childe as thoughtful he drew near
The sacred shrine of number Thirty, Strand,
And saw bright glittering in the hemisphere
Like stars on moony nights—a sacred band
Of words that formed the bard’s cognomen grand
Each letter shone beneath the eye of day,
And the proud sign-boot, by spring breezes fanned,
Shot its deep brass reflections o’er the way,
As shoots the tropic morn o’er meads of Paraquay.
* * * * *
21.
But I forgot—my pilgrim’s shrine is won
And he himself—the lone unloving Childe
His Limehouse birth, his name, his sandal-shoon,
And scallop shell are dreams by fancy piled:
His dull despairing thoughts alone—once mild
As love—now dark as fable’s darkest hell,
Are stern realities; but o’er the wild
Drear desert of their blight the soothing spell
Of Warren’s verse flits rare as sun-beams o’er Pall Mall.
22.
 Farewell—a word that must be and hath been
Ye dolphin dames who turn from blue to grey
Ye dandy drones who charm each festive scene
With brainless buzz, and frolic in your May,
Ye ball-room bards who live your little day,
And ye who flushed in purse parade the town,
Booted or shod—to you my muse would say,
“B W ’ B ” as ye hope to crown
Your senseless souls or soulless senses with renown.
——:o:——
 A E .
I.
Without one lingering look he leaves
The spot of all his troubles past,
With thoughtful heart; for he believes
The dons have made this chance his last.
Those hated schools, brain-addling place,
That seems to haunt his mind for ever,
And sight of which before his face,
Makes all his limbs with horror shiver—
Shiver as though had fallen smack
A douche of water on his back
And arms and neck and head and face,
So hated was that awful place;
But it must come, and all must go
Where, sitting sternly in a row
Examiners, with looks that chill,
Pluck those that do their papers ill.
II.
And he has gone to his lonely room
To sit alone by the fireside;
He stirs the fire with the broom,
And does eccentric things beside.
For flurried by the exam, he seems,
And while his hissing kettle steams,
He mutters deep within his breast,
“What causes this delay?
If with Testamur I am blest,
It can’t be far away.”
And then the toasting-fork he takes,
And with it in the cinders rakes,
And makes it in a fearful mess,
And then he walks in restlessness
About his room, while minutes creep
More slowly than in prison keep.
III.
He plucked his toothpick in his pocket,
But sheathed it ere the point was bare;
He rolled his eye within its socket,
And passed his fat hand through his hair;
Nay more—he took his meerschaum then,
And gazed upon it with a look
Of absent wonder, then he took
And put it in its case again;
And mopped his brow all cold and damp,
And blew his nose, and lit his lamp,
Then in his arm chair sat and numbered
The weary minutes till he slumbered.
rom Lays of Modern Oxford. By Adon. London.
Chapman and Hall, 1874.
(These lines parody stanzas 4, 5, and 7 of Parasina. The same volume
contains a parody of The Prisoner of Chillon, entitled Snowed Up, but it is
not of sufficient interest to be quoted.)
——:o:——
M P L B ’ W .
A very large number of Parodies of Byron’s poems have been produced
in the form of small pamphlets, either on political or social events, or of
purely local interest. It will be sufficient to enumerate the principal of these,
the curious in such matters can easily refer to them in the Library of the
British Museum.
The Age of Soapsuds. A Satire, by Lord Vyron. London. W. Edwards, 1839;
pp. 15.
In his preface the author remarks: “We live in an age of bubbles, and if
the ‘Soapsud’ of the following lines seem blown about on the gale of fancy
—all I can say is, I write to please myself, and not the critics.”
Despair: A Vision. Derry Down and John Bull: A Simile. Being two
Political Parodies on “Darkness,” and a scene from “The Giaour,” by
Lord Byron. London. T. Hughes 1820.—Political, and of no interest at
present.
Arlis’s Pocket Magazine for 1825, contained a parody of “The Maid of
Athens,” entitled Sarah, I Love Thee.
Railway Adventures and Anecdotes, edited by Richard Pike, 1884,
contains a parody on the lines commencing—“There was a sound of
Revelry by night.”
The Mongrelites; or, The Radicals so-called. A Satiric Poem. By ——.
Published in New York, by Van Evrie, Horton and Co., in 1866 (59 pp.)
This is said by the author to be an imitation of Byron’s “English Bards
and Scotch Reviewers,” but as it relates to the party politics of the United
States it does not come within the scope of this collection.
Two prize poems, in imitation of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers
were printed in The World, April 14, 1880. The subject chosen was
Electioneering Speeches, the poems were therefore of merely passing
interest.
In 1834 a small sixpenny pamphlet was published by Chalmers and Son,
of Edinburgh, entitled Lays of Straiton House. It contained several poems,
written in imitation of Lord Byron, Thomas Moore, and of a few popular
songs. These were descriptive of the Caledonian Bazaar and its contents
were of local interest only, and are now quite out of date.
Abel: written, but with great humility, in reply to Lord Byron’s Cain. By
Owen Howell. London: John Mardon, 1843; pp. 22.
“The object of Lord Byron in his drama ‘Cain,’ was to embody all the
emotions of Despair as they act upon the human mind; in the present poem
(if it deserves the name) the author has endeavoured to personify Hope, and
to bring together as many pleasing expectations as possible.”
Cain: A Poem, intended to be published in Parts, containing an Antidote to
the Impiety and Blasphemy of Lord Byron’s Cain. By Henry Wilkinson,
Stone-gate, York. London: Baldwin, Cradock and Joy. 1824. pp. 97.
(A short poem, with voluminous notes, violently abusive of Lord
Byron’s poem, and his theological views.)
Several of Lord Byron’s poems have been produced upon the stage, the
most notable examples being Manfred, brought out at Drury Lane
Theatre some years since, with grand scenic effects; and Mazeppa, at
Astley’s Theatre, with Ada Isaacs Menken in the title rôle. Mazeppa has,
however, long been quite a stock piece with Circus proprietors, and as far
back as December 27, 1858, a burlesque of it (written by the late Henry
James Byron) was produced at the Olympic Theatre, with F. Robson, H.
Wigan, Miss Wyndham, and Mrs. Emden in the caste, which had a long
and successful run.
The late Mr. Gilbert Abbot a’Beckett wrote a burlesque, entitled Man-Fred
in 1828; and Mr. H. Such Granville wrote “Sardanapolus, or The Light
of other Days, an original Ninevitish Burlesque,” which was first
performed at St. George’s Hall, on December 23, 1868, when the author
performed the part of Zarina.
“The Bride of Abydos; or, The Prince, the Pirate, and the Pearl” was the title
of another Burlesque, written by the late Henry James Byron,[116] and
produced at the Strand Theatre, with a strong caste, including Mr. H. J.
Turner, Miss M. Oliver, and Miss Swanborough.
As a rule these burlesques merely give a ludicrous turn to the plot of the
original poems, and contain little which could be quoted as interesting
parodies.

Amongst the numerous Parodies, Imitations and continuations of Lord

Byron’s unfinished poem, Don Juan, the following may be mentioned:
Don Juan Unmasked, 1819.
Gordon, a review of Don Juan, 1821. The Templar. A Poem in
the Stanza and Spirit of Don Juan, with allusions to Lord Byron.