Test Bank for Occupational Therapy for Children, 6th Edition : Case-Smith

Test Bank for Occupational Therapy for

Children, 6th Edition: Case-Smith

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The sixth edition of Occupational Therapy for Children maintains its focus
on children from infancy to adolescence and gives comprehensive
coverage of both conditions and treatment techniques in all settings. Inside
you’ll discover new author contributions, new research and theories, new
techniques, and current trends to keep you in step with the changes in
pediatric OT practice. This edition provides an even stronger focus on
evidence-based practice with the addition of key research notes and
explanations of the evidentiary basis for specific interventions.

• Contents
CONTENTS
1. An Overview of Occupational Therapy for Children
2. Foundation for OT Practice with Children
3. Development of Childhood Occupations
4. In Transition to Adulthood: The Occupations and Performance
Skills of Adolescence
5. Working with Families
6. Common Diagnosis in Pediatric Occupational Therapy
Practice
7. Purposes, Processes, and Methods of Evaluation
8. Use of Standardized Tests in Pediatric Practice
9. Development of Postural Control
10. Development of Hand Skills
11. Sensory Integration
12. Visual Perception
13. Psychosocial and Emotional Domains
14. Behavioral Intervention and Behavioral Support
15. Feeding Interventions
16. Self-Care and Adaptations for Independent Living
17. Instrumental Activities of Daily living and Community
independence
18. Play
19. Prewriting and Handwriting Skills
20. Computers and Augmentative Communication
21. Mobility
22. Neonatal Intensive Case Unit
23. Early Intervention
24. School-Based Occupational Therapy
25. Services for Children with Visual or Auditory Impairments
26. Hospital Services and Pediatric Rehabilitation
27. Transition Services: From School to Adult Life
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 Upon the straw he’ll close his eyes,
And sleep with Dapple or the mare.

These lines were written in August, 1808, by Connop Thirlwall, a

precocious youth of eleven years of age, on the occasion of receiving the
present of a copy of Bloomfield’s poem, “The Plough Boy.” The little work
from which “The Pot-boy” is extracted, is entitled “Primitiæ; or Essays and
Poems,” by Connop Thirlwall, with a preface by his father, the Rev,
Thomas Thirlwall, M.A., who asserts that these Essays and Poems were
entirely composed by his son before he was eleven years of age, a statement
which requires considerable credulity from the reader.
 JOHN KEATS.
B Oct. 29, 1796. | D Dec. 27, 1820.
Who kill’d John Keats?
“I” says the Quarterly,
So savage and Tartarly;
“’Twas one of my feats.”

Who shot the arrow?

“The poet-priest Milman
(So ready to kill man),
Or Southey, or Barrow.”
L B . July, 1821.

The following imitation of two Odes by John Keats is taken from The
Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor:—
O J P .
.
A sweet, acidulous, down-reaching thrill
Pervades my sense: I seem to see or hear
The lushy garden-grounds of Greenwich Hill
In autumn, when the crispy leaves are sere:
And odours haunt me of remotest spice
From the Levant or musky-aired Cathay,
Or from the saffron-fields of Jericho,
Where everything is nice:
The more I sniff, the more I swoon away,
And what else mortal palate craves, forego.
.
Odours unsmelled are keen, but those I smell
Are keener; wherefore let me sniff again!
Enticing walnuts, I have known ye well
In youth, when pickles were a passing pain;
Unwitting youth, that craves the candy stem,
And sugar-plums to olives doth prefer,
And even licks the pots of marmalade
When sweetness clings to them:
But now I dream of ambergris and myrrh,
Tasting these walnuts in the poplar shade.
.
Lo! hoarded coolness in the heart of noon,
Plucked with its dew, the cucumber is here,
As to the Dryad’s parching lips a boon,
And crescent bean-pods, unto Bacchus dear;
And, last of all, the pepper’s pungent globe,
The scarlet dwelling of the sylph of fire,
Provoking purple draughts; and, surfeited,
I cast my trailing robe
O’er my pale feet, touch up my tuneless lyre,
And twist the Delphic wreath to suit my head.
.
Here shall my tongue in other wise be soured
Than fretful men’s in parched and palsied days;
And, by the mid-May’s dusky leaves embowered,
Forget the fruitful blame, the scanty praise.
No sweets to them who sweet themselves were born,
Whose natures ooze with lucent saccharine;
Who, with sad repetition soothly cloyed,
The lemon-tinted morn
Enjoy, and find acetic twilight fine:
Wake I, or sleep? The pickle-jar is void.
 L B D S M .
Oh, what can ail thee, seedy swell,
Alone, and idly loitering?
The season’s o’er—at operas
No “stars” now sing.

Oh, what can ail thee, seedy swell,

So moody! in the dumps so down?
Why linger here when all the world
Is “out of town?”

I see black care upon thy brow,

Tell me, are I.O.U.’s now due?
And in thy pouch, I fear thy purse
Is empty, too.

“I met a lady at a ball,

Full beautiful—a fairy bright;
Her hair was golden (dyed, I find!)
Struck by the sight—

“I gazed, and long’d to know her then:

So I entreated the M.C.
To introduce me—and he did!
Sad hour for me.

“We paced the mazy dance, and too,

We talked thro’ that sweet evening long,
And to her—it came to pass,
I breathed Love’s song.

“She promised me her lily hand,

She seemed particularly cool:
No warning voice then whispered low,
‘Thou art a fool!’

“Next day I found I lov’d her not,

And then she wept and sigh’d full sore,
 Went to her lawyer, on the spot,
And talked it o’er.

“She brought an action, too, for breach

Of promise—’tis the fashion—zounds!
The jury brought in damages
Five thousand pounds!

“And this is why I sojourn here

Alone, and idly loitering,
Tho’ all the season’s through and tho’
No ‘stars’ now sing!”
The Figaro. September 15, 1875.

B E A U T Y.
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and oer’darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils,
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
’Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms;
And such too is the grandeur of the domes
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read.
J K .
 K I .
“In his opinion, a railway was in itself a beautiful object.”—Mr.
Labouchere in the Debate on the Ambleside Railway Bill.
A Locomotive is a joy for ever:
It’s loveliness enchants us; it shall never
Be blamed for noisiness, but still will keep
The country quiet for us, and our sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and easy breathing.
Therefore in every Railway Bill we’re wreathing,
An iron band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of the sentimental, who to mirth,
More manly natures, spite of foggy days,
Of all the unhealthy and smoke-darkened ways,
Made for our travelling: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty makes the whistle’s squall,
Sweet to our spirits. Such the bellman’s tune,
Roofs, old and rotten, leaking, a shady boon
For passengers; and such Excursion bills,
With the waste walls they cling to; and loud shrills,
With which the drivers nightly shindy make,
Sharp shunting shocks, the grinding of the brake,
The rich soot-sprinkling that befouls our homes;
And such too is the grandeur of the domes,
Art hath imagined for the Engine shed.
All lovely tales that ever we have read,
Of Attic temples on the river’s brink,
Before that roof at Cannon Street must shrink!
 COVENTRY PATMORE.
The best known work of this poet “The Angel in the House,” published
in 1855, was the subject of the following parody written by Shirley Brooks
in 1860:
T B H .
By Poventry Catmore, author of the “Angel in the House,” etc.
T h e D o c t o r.
“A finer than your newborn child,”
The Doctor said, “I never saw,”
And I, but half believing, smiled
To think he thought me jolly raw.
And then I viewed the crimson thing,
And listened to its doleful squeal,
And rather wished the nurse would bring
The pap-boat with its earliest meal.
My wife remarked, “I fear, a snub,”
The Doctor, “Madam, never fear,”
“’Tis hard, Ma’am, in so young a cub
To say.” Then Nurse, “A cub! a Dear!”
The Glove.
“’Twere meet you tied the knocker up,”
The Doctor laughed, and said, “Good-bye.
And till you drown that yelping pup
Your lady will not close an eye.”
Then round I sauntered to the mews,
And Ponto heard his fate was near,—
Here few of coachmen will refuse
A crown to spend in beastly beer!
And then I bought a white kid glove,
 Lucina’s last and favourite sign,
Wound it the knocker’s brass above,
And tied it with a piece of twine.
The Advertisement.
“But, Love,” she said, in gentle voice,
(’Twas ever delicate and low,)
“The fact which makes our hearts rejoice
So many folks would like to know.
My Scottish cousins on the Clyde,
Your uncle at Northavering Gap,
The Adams’s at Morningside,
And Jane, who sent me up the cap.
So do.” The new commencing life
The Times announced, “May 31,
At 16, Blackstone Place, the wife
Of Samuel Bobchick, of a son.”
The Godfathers.
“Of course your father must be one,”
Jemima said, in thoughtful tones;
“But what’s the use of needy Gunn,
And I detest that miser Jones.”
I hinted Brown. “Well, Brown would do,
But then his wife’s a horrid Guy.”
De Blobbins? “Herds with such a crew.”
Well love, whom have you in your eye?
“Dear Mr. Burbot.” Yes, he’d stand,
And as you say, he’s seventy-three,
Rich, childless, hates that red-nosed band
Of nephews—Burbot let it be.
The Godmother.
“We ought to ask your sister Kate,”
“Indeed, I shan’t,” Jemima cried,
“She’s given herself such airs of late,
I’m out of patience with her pride.
Proud that her squinting husband (Sam,
You know I hate that little sneak)
Has got a post at Amsterdam,
Where luckily he goes next week.
No, never ask of kin and kith.
We’ll have that wife of George Bethune’s,
Her husband is a silver-smith,
And she’ll be sure to give some spoons.”
The Christening.
“I sign him,” said the Curate, Howe,
O’er Samuel Burbot George Bethune,
Then baby kicked up such a row,
As terrified that Reverend coon.
The breakfast was a stunning spread,
As e’er confectioner sent in,
And playfully my darling said,
“Sam costs papa no end of tin.”
We laughed, made speeches, drank for joy:
Champagne hath stereoscopic charms;
For when Nurse brought our little boy,
I saw two Babies in her arms.
 T S .
By Coventry Flatmore.
’Tis six o’clock: at Jones’s house,
That stands in Russell Square,
And in his dining room there sit
The guests, while on a chair
That’s placed at top sits Jones himself;
Near him a loving pair.

His daughter Bertha and her swain

Young Chintip, who’s a clerk
In the War-Office, and who’s got
Good interest: Reader, mark
How snowy-white his shirt front is;
Not like his hair—that’s dark.

How happy looks the festive board!

The dishes too invite
Those present to begin; these do
As bid, with all their might;
Meanwhile the wine smiles and the cloth
Looks comfortably bright.
* * * * *
And so the Tailor goes to Jones
And says “I know that he
In six weeks’ time your loving childs’
Liege lord forsooth will be
And therefore p’rhaps you’ll pay the bill
Its all the same to me.”

“Such may have been the case,” says Jones.

“But now since he has spent
So much, he ne’er shall have my child;
I only willed consent
When all who did not dance stood still,
And Gent knew less of Gent.
“And as for your request, I pray
You list, sir: no one cares
To pay another person’s debts
Who gives himself such airs,
And so depart instanter, if
You’d not be kicked downstairs.”
* * * * *
When Chintip learned that Bertha was
Another’s bride, he swore
He should do some rash action in
His grief, that he no more
Could call her his—nor else her wealth,
Which last perplexed him sore.

For creditors now dunned alway

Each day without respite;
And he could ne’er meet their demands,
For he was cleared out-quite;
And they refused to be put off
Which on their part was right.

And so unto a Coffee-house

He went to take some tea;
And looking in the next box p’rhaps,
Saw spoons in number three
Therein his pocket with hands red
With guilt perhaps put he.

And when the white tied waiter came,

He talked about the skies
In low and silent tones perhaps,
That drown’d all the cries
Bawled in the street; the waiter though
Said “Sir I keep my eyes

Full-orbed about me and I saw

You take them spoons and so
 You’ll perhaps be kind enough unto
The station house to go.”
* * * * *
And on the day on which his fate
In Newgate-list appears,
The lovely Bertha takes the Times
And reads “for seven years—”
Her rosy shoulders weep with grief,
Her tongue speaks only tears—

It was a very violent cold

That made her sight grow dim,
And o’er her shady eyes p’rhaps cast
A disagreeable film—
For Chintip figured as “Smith”
And so ’twas not for him.

From The Puppet Showman’s Album. Illustrated by Gavarni. No date.

 MISS JEAN INGELOW.
T A -W ’ S .
The marten flew to the finch’s nest,
Feathers, and moss, and a wisp of hay:
The arrow it sped to thy brown mate’s breast;
Low in the broom is thy mate to-day!

“Liest thou low, love! low in the broom?

Feathers, and moss, and a wisp of hay,
Warm the white eggs till I learn his doom.”
She beateth her wings, and away, away.

“Ah, my sweet singer, thy days are told,

(Feathers, and moss, and a wisp of hay,)
O mournful morrow! O dark to-day!”

The finch flew back to her cold, cold nest,

Feathers, and moss, and a wisp of hay.
Mine is the trouble that rent her breast,
And home is silent, and love is clay.

This little ballad, which is taken from Mopsa the Fairy, by Jean Ingelow
(London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1869) is supposed to have been the
original which C. S. Calverley had in his mind when he composed the
amusing parody commencing:—
The auld wife sat at her ivied door,
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
A thing she had frequently done before;
And her spectacles lay on her apron’d knees.
 This ballad has already been alluded to, and some imitations of it given
on p. 71 of this volume.
It will be found in Fly Leaves, by C. S. Calverley (London: George Bell
& Sons, 1878), in which there is another burlesque imitation of Miss Jean
Ingelow’s poetry, entitled—
L , R .
In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter
(And heaven it knoweth what that may mean;
Meaning, however, is no great matter),
Where woods are a-tremble, with rifts atween;

Thro’ God’s own heather we wonn’d together,

I and my Willie (O love my love):
I need hardly remark it was glorious weather,
And flitterbats wavered alow, above:

Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing

(Boats in that climate are so polite),
And sands were a ribbon of green endowing,
And O the sundazzle on bark and bight!

Thro’ the rare red heather we danced together,

(O love my Willie!) and smelt for flowers:
I must mention again it was glorious weather,
Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours;—

By rises that flushed with their purple favours,

Thro’ becks that brattled o’er grasses sheen,
We walked and waded, we two young shavers;
Thanking our stars we were both so green.

We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie,

In fortunate parallels! Butterflies,
Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly
Or marjoram, kept making peacock eyes:—
Songbirds darted about, some inky
As coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds;
Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky—
They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds!

But they skim over bents which the millstream washes,

Or hang in the lift ’neath a white cloud’s hem;
They need no parasols, no goloshes;
And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them.

Then we thrid God’s cowslips (as erst His heather)

That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms;
And snapt—(it was perfectly charming weather)—
Our fingers at fate and her goddess-glooms.

And Willie ’gan sing (oh, his notes were fluty;

Wafts fluttered them out to the white-wing’d sea)—
Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty,
Rhymes (better to put it) of “ancientry.”

Bowers of flowers encounter’d showers

In William’s carol—(O love my Willie!)
When he bade sorrow borrow from blithe to-morrow
I quite forgot what—say a daffodilly:

A nest in a hollow, “with buds to follow,”

I think occurred next in his nimble strain;
And clay that was “kneaden” of course in Eden—
A rhyme most novel, I do maintain:
* * * * *
O if billows and pillows and hours and flowers,
And all the brave rhymes of an elder day,
Could be furled together, this genial weather,
And carted, or carried on “wafts” away,
Nor ever again trotted out—ah me!
How much fewer volumes of verse there’d be.
 Admirers of Miss Ingelow’s fiction may be interested in knowing the
history of those funny little bits of verse with which she enlivened the later
chapters of “Fated to be Free.” There can be no doubt that they were
intended as a delicate kind of retaliation to Mr. Calverley. As he, who was a
cunning master of every kind of metre, had thought fit to directly parody
Miss Ingelow’s most popular pieces, by exposing and exaggerating all her
worst faults, it was only natural that she should seek to be revenged in kind.
But it is clear that the lady cannot cope with Calverley in parody. Her verses
read more like deliberate nonsense, and lack the faculty of imitation of style
in which he excelled. The following satirical lines, from “Fated to be Free”
illustrate this point, “Crayshaw” having been substituted for “Calverley,”
doubtless for the sake of the rhyme:—
That maiden’s nose, that puppy’s eyes,
Which I this happy day saw,
They’ve touched the manliest chords that rise
I’ the breast of Clifford Crayshaw.
* * * * *
All day she worked, no lover lent
His aid; and yet with glee
At dusk she sought her home, content,
That beauteous Bumble Bee.

A cell it was, nor more nor less,

But oh! all’s one to me,
Whether you write it with an S,
Dear girl, or with a C.
* * * * *
Then doth Tuck-man smile, “Them there
(Ho and Hi and futile Hum)
Jellies three-and-sixpence air,
Use of spoons an equal sum.”

Trees are rich. Sweet task, ’tis o’er,

“Tuck-man, you’re a brick,” they cry.
Wildly then, shake hands, all four
(Hum and Ho, the end is Hi).
 T S - .
Scarlet spaces of sand and ocean.
Gulls that circle and winds that blow;
Baskets and boats and men in motion,
Sailing and scattering to and fro.

Girls are waiting, their wimples adorning

With crimson sprinkles the broad gray flood;
And down the beach the blush of the morning,
Shines reflected from moisture and mud.

Broad from the yard the sails hang limpy,

Lightly the steersman whistles a lay;
Pull with a will, for the nets are shrimpy,
Pull with a whistle, our hearts are gay!

Tuppence a quart; there are more than fifty,

Coffee is certain, and beer galore:
Coats are corduroy, and minds are thrifty,
Won’t we go it on sea and shore?

See, behind, how the hills are freckled

With low white huts, where the lasses bide!
See, before, how the sea is speckled
With sloops and schooners that wait the tide!

Yarmouth fishers may rail and roister,

Tyne-side boys may shout “Give way!”
Let them dredge for the lobster and oyster,
Pink and sweet are our shrimps to-day!

Shrimps and the delicate periwinkle,

Such are the sea-fruits lasses love:
Ho! to your nets till the blue stars twinkle,
And the shutterless cottages gleam above!

From Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor.