Test Bank for Principles of Macroeconomics, Seventh Canadian Edition

Principles of Macroeconomics, Seventh Canadian

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Principles of Macroeconomics, Seventh Canadian Edition, is designed to appeal to
all students through its breakdown of concepts, focus on big ideas, and user-friendly
language. As the market leader, its clear, concise, and consistent approach grounds
students in difficult concepts and links theory to real-world applications, assisting in
making the connection from page to action. Students receive a sophisticated
understanding of how the economy operates without losing the big ideas through
various pedagogical features that summarize major concepts, apply economic theory
to students’ experiences and lives, and develop the building blocks required to
achieve higher levels of understanding. As Mankiw states, “My goal in writing my
text was to try and remember and to write a text that I would have liked to have
read”, and this is the same approach he, Kneebone, and McKenzie have continued
with the Seventh Canadian Edition.

About the Author

N. Gregory Mankiw is Robert M. Beren Professor of Economics at Harvard

University. For 14 years he taught EC10 Principles, the most popular course at
Harvard. He studied economics at Princeton University and MIT. Prof. Mankiw is a
prolific writer and a regular participant in academic and policy debates. His research
includes work on price adjustment, consumer behaviour, financial markets,
monetary and fiscal policy, and economic growth. His published articles have
appeared in academic journals such as the American Economic Review, Journal of
Political Economy, and Quarterly Journal of Economics. His work has also appeared
in more widely accessible forums, including The New York Times, The Washington
Post, The Wall Street Journal, and Fortune. Prof. Mankiw has been a research
associate of the National Bureau of Economic Research, an adviser to the Federal
Reserve Bank of Boston and the Congressional Budget Office, and a member of the
ETS test development committee for the advanced placement exam in economics.
From 2003 to 2005, he served as chairman of the President’s Council of Economic
Advisers.

Ronald D. Kneebone is Professor in the Department of Economics and The School

of Public Policy at the University of Calgary. He received his Ph.D. from McMaster
University. Professor Kneebone has taught courses in public finance and in
macroeconomics from principles through to the Ph.D. level, and he is a two-time
winner of the Faculty of Social Sciences Distinguished Teacher Award at the
University of Calgary. His research interests are primarily in the areas of public-
sector finances and fiscal federalism, but he has recently worked on the problems of
homelessness and poverty reduction. He shared with Ken McKenzie the Douglas
Purvis Memorial Prize for the best published work in Canadian public policy in
1999. He is currently the Scientific Director of the Social Policy and Health research
division in The School of Public Policy, where he leads a group of researchers
investigating issues related to poverty, cognitive and physical disabilities, the
organization and financing of health care, and homelessness.

Kenneth J. McKenzie is Professor in the Department of Economics and The School

of Public Policy at the University of Calgary. He received his Ph.D. from Queen’s
University. Specializing in public economics with an emphasis on taxation and
political economy, Professor McKenzie has published extensively in these areas. He
is the winner of the 1996 Harry Johnson Prize (with University of Calgary colleague
Herb Emery) for the best article in the Canadian Journal of Economics, a two-time
winner of the Douglas Purvis Memorial Prize for a published work relating to
Canadian public policy (1999 with Ron Kneebone and 2011 with Natalia Sershun),
and a Faculty of Social Sciences Distinguished Researcher Award winner at the
 Another random document
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Is drown’d and soon forgot in good October.
But hush! my ’Phelia comes, the pretty dear!
Oh! think of me love—when you fetch your beer.
A .
 F P

Bret Harte.
——:o:——
T G M.P.
Which I wish to declare,
And my story is sad,
That for dealings unfair,
And for ways that are bad,
The Greenwich M.P. is peculiar—
Which the same is a terrible “Rad.”

’Twas an October day,

But a week or two back,
When the mob yelled “Hurray”
On the heath that is Black,
As they gazed from afar upon W ,
And harked to his voluble clack.

Which this W. G.,

You will all understand,
Is the Greenwich M.P.,
And his promise is bland;
But then, over his sinister shoulder,
He points with the thumb of his hand.

So free from all guile,

 From intent to deceive,
He seem’d all the while,
You could hardly believe
How, when talking to people of Greenwich,
He chuckled and laughed in his sleeve.

He was greatly concern’d

For the Greenwichers’ weal,
And he twisted and turn’d
With his words like an eel—
Praised himself, and the Radical party;
It little—himself a great deal.

Which is why I declare,

And my feelings are sad,
That for dealings unfair,
And for ways that are bad,
The Greenwich M.P. is peculiar—
Which that same is a stone that is glad.
udy, November 22, 1871.

——:o:——
T H M.P.
Which I wish to remark,
And my language is plain,
That for words that are dark
And for tricks that are vain
The Heathen M.P. is peculiar,
Which the same I would wish to explain.

Ben D——was his name,

And I shall not deny
That who went by the same
Was exceedingly sly;
But his smile it was pensive and child-like,
As I often remarked to Bill-y;
It was April the third,
And quite soft were the skies;
Let it not be inferred
That Ben D——was likewise;
Yet he played it that day upon William
In a way too adroit to be wise.

Which we had a debate,

And Ben D——took a part,
After begging to state
That it came from his heart;
But he smiled as he stood by the table
With a smile that was hollow and tart.

Now his speech it was stocked

In a way that I grieve,
(And my feelings were shocked
As you cannot believe,)
It was stuffed full of stories and crammers,
And the same with intent to deceive.

But the points that were made

By that Heathen Ben D——,
And the fibs he essayed
Were quite frightful to see,
Till at last he came out with a crammar
That was known to be such unto G——.

G—— looked to the skies,

(Which was sad for to see,)
And he rose up likewise,
And said, “Darling Ben D——,
“This is false what you say about Russia!”
And he went for that Heathen M.P.

In the scene that ensued

William took a large part,
For the way he’d been Jewed
 Had gone straight to his heart,
Like the fibs that Ben D——had been telling
In the speech that had come “from his heart.”

In which speech, which was long,

He had twenty-four packs,
Which was coming it strong
As departing from facts;
And they found in that speech, which was rant,
What is frequent in speeches—that’s cant?

Which is why I remark,

And my language is plain,
That for words that are dark
And for tricks that are vain
The Heathen M.P. is peculiar,
And the same I am free to maintain.
D——. H L D , 1876.

——:o:——
T P H C .
Ben Diz was his name,
And it were vain to deny
In respect of the same
What the name might imply:
For his nose had a hook that meant mischief,
But the hook was a fool to his eye.

“Heads I win, tails you lose,”

Was the “lie” of his game.
Turks, Afghans, Zulus—
No matter who came—
It was “beggar my neighbour” all round,
Which all neighbours got treatment the same.

Which he euchred the Turk—

 For he played from a hand
Of “reserves,” that did lurk
Underneath his wristband;
And an island he quietly nobbled,
With a smile diplomatic and bland.
its of Beaconsfield, or a new Series of Disraeli’s
Curiosities of Literature.
(Abel Heywood and Son, Manchester.)

——:o:——
O C , C G .
Which I beg you won’t doubt,
As you listen to me,
A man longer drawn out
You’re not likely to see
Than this very remarkable giant,
Which same was a heathen Chinee.

Mister C was his name,

All alive! O, alive!
From Fychow he came
In eighteen-sixty-five,
On the shillings of sight-loving public
For some time to gleefully thrive.

It was August, eighteen,

That he first came to town,
And by thousands was seen,
And won highest renown;
But so lofty was he, and so haughty,
On all of his friends he looked down.

When invited to sup

He’d not touch flesh of cows,
And he turned his nose up
At an English carouse,
 For he swallowed at dinner and breakfast
But bird’s-nests and little bow-wows.

But he fretted and fumed

As the shillings got few,
And his features assumed
A cerulean hue,
And he looked like a piece of blue china
Of a size that you don’t often view.
udy, August 20, 1879.

——:o:——
O B H .
(After “Jim”)
Say there, then,
Some of you men
Might read Bret Harte,
Not p’raps all through
But one or two,
Just a part?

Try first that one

Heathen Chinee,
Then just for fun
Take two or three
More from his works—
Rhyme all in jerks
Where frequently
Strange language lurks.

Humbug? not much

That ain’t his style,
Rather a touch
Of pathos, the while
Sympathy true.
Take Bret Harte’s Jim,
Sure you know him,
Says “D—n your eyes,”
Frequently tries
In manner most strange
Both a scamp to appear
And an angel that sheer
Has dropped from the skies.

Style?
Some times Bret Harte
Yes, that is he!
Dickens in Camp—
Wan Lee the scamp,
Stick in your brain
Live there as plain
As highest art.

You can’t say Good-bye

Not if you try
Eh?
What’s that you say?
You try to forget him
When once you’ve met him.
No? Yes! Ah well;
There they will stay
All thro’ life’s day
And Never depart!
Thanks to Bret Harte.
J. W. G. W.
F P
ON

H. W. Longfellow.
 AC P L .
Tell me not, thou soul that slumbers,
Christmas is an empty dream;
When these comic double numbers
With the flash of humour gleam.

Life is earnest, life is real,

In our Fleet Street and the Strand;
Many an honest heart and leal
Shall be moved by laughter’s wand.

“Sweet enjoyment and no damper”—

Motto fit for every grade,
[If my friends send me a hamper,
Let them mark it “Carriage paid.”]

Hearts which long with hope were beating

Now shall flock to Drury Lane,
There to give a friendly greeting
To the clown and “pants” again.

So in other fields of glory

Comes the genial feud and strife,
Each man, be he Whig or Tory,
Finding happiness in life.

Lives like S ’ should remind us

Life can still be made sublime,
Scattering all the trash behind us.
Pointing to a better time.
loper’s Christmas Number, 1884.
 AP T .
Tell us not in doleful numbers
Trade is done for evermore,
That supply, demand outnumbers,
And the drummer’s days are o’er.

Trade is real—trade is active,

Better times again we’ll see;
To remain stagnation’s captive,
Is against all history.

Time is long—bill maturing

Must be paid without delay;
Such the only way insuring
Better trade at early day.

Shun this reckless competition,

Look beyond the moment’s gain,
Learn that honest coalition
Is far better in the main.

Stop this scheme of future dating,

Ere it has become too late;
Act at once and cease all prating—
Leave consignments to their fate.

Lives of others all remind us,

If our dealing’s just and fair,
That a better time will find us
Getting all our honest share.
merican Exchange.
 AP L .
(The Yankee Merchant to his book-keeper.)
Tell me not in rows of numbers,
Of his assets as they seem,
That if I would loan 1,000
He could bridge the turbid stream.

Debts are real, debts are earnest,

No transferring makes them less;
“Dust” thou borrow, “dust” returnest
Still as great thy sore distress.

Trust no more the men who owe me,

Let the debts just due be paid;
Act, act promptly in collecting,
Ere the last faint hope shall fade.

Failures of great men remind us

How they bought their goods on time,
And departing left behind them
For each dollar’s debt a dime.

Seeing which perhaps another

Almost ready to collapse,
Takes a lesson from his brother—
Leaves behind a few old traps.

Let us then be up and doing,

With a cheek quite undismayed,
Every debtor close pursuing
Till his bills have all been paid.
merican Paper.
 AP L .
(As exhibited in Christmas Annuals.)
Tell me not, O Soul that slumbers,
“Life is placid, Life is pale!”
’Tis not so in Christmas Numbers;
There quite other views prevail.

Life is Foaming, Life is Frantic,

Here the dagger, there the bowl;
“Stick at nothing that’s romantic!”
Says my Printer to my Soul.

Not to live as boys and girls would

Is our men’s and maidens’ way;
But to act as if in Earlswood
You might find them any day.

Write of fire, and flood, and battle,

Write of Earls that gaily sin,
Write of Governesses—that’ll
Bring the sweet subscribers in!

Lives of Great Highwaymen show it,

How to make our tales sublime;
Bother sense and grammar. Go it—
Give us something new in Crime

Crimes that ne’er, perchance, another,

As he reached his volume’s end,
Dreamed of—give us these my brother,
Something fresh in guilt, my friend!

Let us then be up and raving,

Rave of ghosts, and sin, and fate;
These the gentle reader’s craving,
And he does not like to wait!
unch, January 10, 1885.
 ——:o:——
B !
I know a youth who can flirt and flatter,
Take care!
He loves with the ladies to gossip and chatter,
Beware! Beware
Trust him not
He is fooling thee!

He has a voice of varying tone

Take care!
It echoes many beside thine own,
Beware, &c.

He has a hand that is soft and white,

Take care!
It pressed another than thine last night,
Beware, &c.

His letters are glowing with love I ween,

Take care!
One half that he writes he does not mean,
Beware, &c.

He talks of truth and of deep devotion,

Take care!
Of loving truly he has no notion,
Beware, &c.

Your heart he will gain with his dangerous wiles,

Take care!
Of his whispered words, of his sighs, of his smiles.
Beware! Beware!
Trust him not.
He is fooling thee!
A .
 T B F .
I know a barber who in town doth dwell—
Take care!—
He has a lot of things to sell
For hair; forbear!
Buy them not,
Though he counsel thee.

For he will charge thee four-and-six

(Take care!)
For a bottle of wash, worth less than nix,
Beware, beware!
Of his pomade pot,
’Tis a fallacy.

And when thou goest to get a “crop,”

Don’t swear,
If he say thy hair is thin atop,
Somewhere, somewhere;
Believe him not,
He is fright’ning thee.

And if to take thee by thy nose

He dare,
Whilst sitting, in ungraceful pose,
On chair, on chair;
Resent it not,
He is shaving thee.

And he has dyes of every hue;

Take care
Lest russet locks be turned to blue,
Or fair, or fair—
To some hue not
Such as pleases thee.

He has bear’s grease in pots for thee

 (A snare).
If on thy face no whiskers be,
Don’t care, don’t care;
Hog’s lard will not
Make a man of thee.
udy, November 22, 1871.

——:o:——
F C “T .”
I know a maiden with a bag,
Take care!
She carries samples in a drag,
Beware! beware!
O Draper fond,
She is fooling thee!

She has the true “Commercial” style,

Take care!
To which she addeth woman’s guile,
Beware! beware!
O Grocer goose,
She is plucking thee!

And she has quite a flood of talk,

Take care!
She sells as cheese what’s only chalk,
Beware! beware!
O Dealer daft,
She’s deceiving thee!

Her eyes are really wondrous black,

Take care!
They make a shiver run down your back,
Beware! beware!
O Shopman soft,
She is ogling thee!
She sells you a silk of “perfect wear,”
Take care!
At it your customers will swear,
Beware! beware!
Trust her not,
This Travelling She!
unch, February, 1885.

——:o:——
S O L .
By a Longing Fellow.
“Oysters are abnormally dear in the New York market.” Daily News.
Into the Oyster Land!
Ah! who shall lead us thither?
Our hopes from the New World now pale and wither,
There is no joy in Cheapside and the Strand.
Who’ll lead us with a friendly hand,
Thither, oh thither,
Into the Oyster Land?

Into the Oyster Land!

To you, ye nameless regions
Of Native worth. Delicious daily visions
Of some Ostrealia, beautiful and bland.
Where at the bar a man might stand,
Gulping cheap bivalve beauties
Down, in the Oyster Land.

O Land! O Land!
No longer hopeful joy stirs
Within my bosom. Rubbish, tinned and potted,
Mocks one, by no bright herald now doth stand,
To lead us, with a liberal hand,
Into the land of the cheap good Oysters,
 Into the Oyster Land!
unch, October 21, 1882.

——:o:——
T B B .
(A sweet thing in Morals, not even remotely suggested by Longfellow’s
“Arrow and Song.”)
I blew a bubble into the air,
And bright and high it floated there;
Till all who gazed both near and far,
Declared the bubble was a star.

I shot a bullet into the air,

Worth twenty bubbles bright and fair;
But the bullet’s flight was all in vain,
It only fell to the earth again.

Learn hence, in catching the public eye—

Bullets are difficult things to fly;
So bubble on bubble upward send
And keep your lead for the heart of a friend!
W S .

——:o:——
T R P .
(From a Mediæval Legend.)
After Longfellow’s Norman Baron.
In his chamber grand and fitting,
Was the Roman Prelate sitting,
By his side St. Philip Neri
Stood, the window looking thro’
When a strange, unpleasant feeling,
O’er the Cardinal came stealing
While, as if by wand of fairy,
All things alter’d to his view.

Vanished street, and dome, and steeple,

Vanished crowds of priests and people,
Lo, instead, a place of torture
(Which politeness would not name),
There he saw the souls tormented,
Suffer all the pangs invented
By the old Arch-fiendish Scorcher,
He whose element is flame.

Writhing in and out among them,

Snakes and demons bit and stung them,
Never ceased, the victims, therefore,
Ne’er from anguish could be free,
In their midst a seat most splendid,
Seem’d for some great Prince intended,
Asked the Prelate—“What’s that chair for?”
Quoth St. Philip—“’tis for thee.”

Then the Cardinal, in terror,

Thought upon his life of error,
Ask’d the Saint on what condition
Heaven his soul would deign to spare,
“’Tis, relinquish worldly pleasure,
Love of sway and greed of treasure,
Banish envy and ambition,
Satan else will seat you there!”

Then the Cardinal repenting,

Soon the holy Saint, relenting,
Gave him pardon, warning, blessing,
Preaching, too, (without a text),
Vanish’d then the Prelate’s panic,
Vanish’d then that scene Satanic,
Never more his soul distressing