Test Bank for Business: A Changing World, 8th Edition: O. C.

Ferrell

Chapter 01 - The Dynamics of Business and Economics

Business: A Changing World, 8th Edition: O. C. Ferrell

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Chapter 01
The Dynamics of Business and Economics

True / False Questions

1. Products have tangible attributes only.

True False

2. The primary goal of business activities is profit.

True False

3. Nonprofit organizations such as Habitat for Humanity do not engage in management,

marketing, or finance activities.
True False

4. Profit is what it costs to make and sell a product.

True False

5. Businesses have the right to keep and use their profits as they choose, without limitations.
True False

Multiple Choice Questions

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Chapter 01 - The Dynamics of Business and Economics

6. ____ is the primary goal of business.

A. Growth
B. Profit
C. IPO
D. Marketing
E. Strategy

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Chapter 01 - The Dynamics of Business and Economics

7. Businesses differ from nonprofit organizations in that a business's focus is on

A. price.
B. goods.
C. profit.
D. organization.
E. plans.

8. ____ have both tangible and intangible characteristics.

A. Products
B. Services
C. Businesses
D. Stakeholders
E. Organizations

9. Profit is the reward for business in exchange for the ____ taken in providing products.
A. expenses
B. time
C. energy
D. risks
E. markets

10. When purchasing, a consumer is actually buying a product's anticipated benefits and
A. satisfaction.
B. price.
C. costs.
D. productivity.
E. form.

11. If a business is to be successful in the long run, it must produce quality products, operate
efficiently, and be
A. fun.
B. socially responsible.
C. hard-working.
D. egalitarian.
E. transparent.

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 Another random document
un-related content on Scribd:
 T J ’ C .
I do believe that Gladstone likes
The triumph of our enemies.
Look how his tongue at “Interests” strikes
It simply full of venom is.
Now this belief, I’ll freely own,
Is what some folks would term “hot;”
But when has Gladstone ever shown
The spirit of Macdermott?

I do believe the Russian Czar’s

A tyrant scarcely human;
I do believe that each Pasha’s
A gentle and a true man.
I shouldn’t really like to try
And have one as a neighbour;
But, cutting Russian windpipes—why
They’ve saved us lots of labour.

I do believe, as Elcho says,

Ketchwayo’s a gorilla—
A brute who in his wars displays
The fury of a Scylla.
So just for peace, it’s evident
(The thing is gospel per se)
Our missionary troops are sent
To slay him without mercy.

I do believe in Beaconsfield,
In Bartle Frere, and Lytton;
I do believe all men should yield
T’ the half-almighty Briton.
We’re born to rule the human race,
And futurity shall see, oh,
’Mid the world’s heroes take their place
That half-immortal Trio.
Funny Folks. September 27, 1879.
 T U E ’ C .
We du believe in freedom’s cause,
Except when it in Dublin is;
We do detest Coercion laws,
But not when Erin troublin’ is.
It’s wal enough for men to spout
Of justice—in elections—
But when you’re snuffin’ Home Rule out—
You’re bound to make corrections!

We du believe the Irish want

To do away with juries—
And, for our methods, now we can’t
See what on airth more pure is.
When we bring men to common sense
We coax ’em—yes—with fetters.
But other things we reverence—
Partic’larly forged letters.

We du believe with all our hearts

In the great Press’s freedom;
We hit out straight—but poisoned darts
Reserve for such as need’ em.
Palsied the arm that forges lies!
Cussed be calumniators!
[N.B.—This rule nohow applies
When you fight agitators.]

We du believe whatever trash

’ll keep the people in blindness;
Thet we the Irishmen can thrash
Right inter brotherly kindness;
Thet Balfour’s bill, an’ powder an’ ball,
Air goodwill’s strongest magnets;
Thet peace, to make it stick at all,
Must be druv in with bagnets!
G. W.
Pall Mall Gazette. April 28, 1887.
 “J. C.” H .
From his favourite Poet.
“I du believe it’s wise an’ good
To sen’ out furrin missions;
Thet is, on sartin understood
An’ orthydox conditions;
I mean ‘£3,900’ per ann.,
‘Two thousan’’ more for outfit,
An’ me to recommend the man
The place ’ould jest about fit.”
T R H .
PROFESSOR CHAMBERLAIN,
G.C.B., M.P., ETC., ETC.,
Returns to town after a short voyage.

PROFESSOR CHAMBERLAIN
Undertakes any Fishy Business for the
N ,C , G ,
In the most distant
Foreign or Colonial Terri-tories.
Terms:—
First Mission £3,900, G.C.B., and Baronetcy.
Second “ £10,900, Dukedom, and all the Orders.
Third “ £100,900, and the Reversion of the Crown.
N.B.—The American language spoken.
The Liberal and Radical. March 10, 1888.
——:o:——
W D D , &c.
A number of doctors, with zeal hyperbolic,
 Have gravely consulted, and grandly decreed—
The improper prescription of things alcoholic
Is really very improper indeed:—
But Mr. F. C.
Skey says, says he,
This pompous announcement is fiddledee!

For you cannot prescribe—here he deals in ironics—

To skilful practitioners what they should give;
And the question must frequently turn upon topics
Of whether the patient’s to die, or to live.
And Mr. F. C.
Skey says, says he,
An empiric’s a quack though you write him M.D.

Let the Saturday shriek about drawing-room topers,

And tell us our wives ne’er go sober to bed;
I’ll laugh at such medical fumblers and gropers,
And list to what skill and experience have said.
And Mr. F. C.
Skey says, says he,
With that manifesto he cannot agree.
A .

——:o:——

ON RECRUITING.
Thrash away, you’ll hev to rattle
On them kittle drums o’ yourn—
’Taint a knowin’ kind o’ cattle
Thet is ketched with mouldy corn;
Put in stiff, you fifer feller,
Let folks see how spry you be—
Guess you’ll toot till you are yeller
’Fore you git ahold o’ me!
Thet air flag’s a leetle rotten,
Hope it aint your Sunday’s best;—
Fact! it takes a sight o’ cotton
To stuff out a soger’s chest:
Since we farmers hev to pay fer’t,
Ef you must wear humps like these
Sposin’ you should try salt hay fer’t,
It would du ez slick ez grease.

Them thet rule us, them slave-traders,

Haint they cut a thunderin’ swarth,
(Helped by Yankee renegaders[129])
Thru the vartu o’ the North!
We begin to think it’s nater
To take sarse an’ not be riled;—
Who’d expect to see a tater
All on eend at bein’ biled?

Ez fer war, I call it murder—

There you hev it plain an’ flat;
I don’t want to go no furder
Than my Testyment fer thet;
God hez sed so plump an’ fairly,
It’s ez long ez it is broad,
An’ you’ve gut to git up airly
Ef you want to take in God.

Wut’s the use o’ meetin’-goin’

Every Sabbath, wet or dry,
Ef it’s right to go amowin’
Feller-men like oats an’ rye?
I dunno but wut it’s pooty
Trainin’ round in bobtail coats—
But it’s curus Christian dooty
This ere cuttin’ folks’s throats.
* * * * *
From The Biglow Papers.
 R .
Thrash away, you’ll have to rattle
On that “Union” drum o’ “yourn”;
“’Tain’t” a knowin’ kind o’ cattle
That gets ketched with mouldy corn.
Put it stiff you turn-coat fellows,
You’re a darned nice liberal (?) set,—
Gone to blow the tory bellows
Now they want their irons “het,”

While their trusty chief’s been trying

To keep “the old state ship” afloat,
These backsliders ’ave been hieing
Into Joseph’s scuttled boat,
“Aint” they a prime set o’ fellows,
When they think on’t won’t they sprout,
Like a peach that’s got the “yellows”
With the meanness “bustin” out.

Tell you just the end I’ve come to

After ciphering pretty smart,—
And it makes a handy sum too,
Any “gump” may learn by heart.
Labouring man and labouring woman
Have one glory and one shame,
Every thing that’s done inhuman
Injures all of them the same,

“’Tain’t” by letting landlords loot folks,—

Nor the people being brained,—
Nor police being set to shoot folks,
That your own rights are maintained.
Those who Ireland hold in fetters,
Sure as one and one make two,
When they’ve used you (their abettors),
They’ll try hard to fetter you.
 “The People’s Tribune,” God forgive him!—
He’s a kneeling with the rest,
He that ought to ha’ clung while livin’
In his grand old eagle-nest,
He that ought to stand so fearless
While the wrecks around are hurled,—
Holding up a beacon peerless
To the oppressed of all the world—

Gone, to help the stealer stealing

Bigger pens to cram with slaves,—
Help the men who’re always dealing
Insults on their father’s graves,—
Help the strong to grind the feeble,—
Wrong the many for the few,—
Helping those who’d not be able,
Renegaders, but for you!

Let our staunch old leader proudly

Still plead on with trumpet tongue,
And proclaim for justice loudly
For the weak against the strong.
Clang the bells in every steeple,
Call all true men to disown
The traducers of the people,—
The deserters of their own.
W .G .
The Liberal and Radical. January 14, 1888.

——:o:——
T O E .
Anent the account of the interview with James Russell Lowell published
by Julian Hawthorne, the Chicago News had the following clever verses in
imitation of Hosea Biglow:—
 One night aside the fire at hum,
Ez I wus settin’ nappin’,
Deown from the lower hall there come
The seound of some one rappin’.
The son uv old Nat Hawthorne he—
Julian, I think his name wuz—
Uv course he feound a friend in me,
Not knowin’ what his game wuz.

And ez we visited a spell.

Our talk ranged wide an’ wider.
And ef we struck dry subjects—well,
We washed ’em deown with cider.
Neow, with that cider coursin’ thru
My system an’ a playin’
Upon my tongue, I hardly knew
Just what I was a sayin’.

I kin remember that I spun

A hifalutin’ story
Abeout the Prince of Wales, an’ one
About old Queen Victory.
But sakes alive! I never dreamed
The cuss would get it printed—
(By that old gal I’m much esteemed,
Ez she hez often hinted).

Oh, if I had that critter neow,

You bet your boots I’d larn him
In mighty lively fashion heow
To walk the chalk, gol darn him!
Meanwhile, between his folks an’ mine
The breach grows wide an’ wider,
And, by the way, it’s my design
To give up drinkin’ cider.

Received from the Milwaukee Public Library. December 24, 1886.

 ——:o:——
T ’ L .
(After Mr. Russell Lowell’s “The Rose.”)
In his chamber sat the poet,
Striving to make verses free.
“I’ve a poem,” said he; “I’ll show it—
They’ll stand anything from me!
Public praise I know is hollow,
But to publish I’m opprest;
Cash will publication follow,
And I’ve had too long a rest.”

Hies a reader on the morrow

Through the busy street called “Strand”;
Sees the notice—hastes to borrow
From a friend the verses grand.
Gets them—reads them; thinks he, “Surely,
Tennyson, not this your own?
‘Hands all Round’—’tis nonsense, purely,
Worthy Salisbury alone!”

In his chamber sits the poet—

Pale his face, his eye is dim;
See the table—gold o’erflows it—
Publishers have sent it him.
For a time no word he utters—
Fullest hearts the slowest speak—
But at length he feebly mutters,
“I’m astonished at my cheek!”
J. T. G.
The Weekly Dispatch. June 25, 1882.

——:o:——
T S A D .
Who hath not thought himself a poet? Who,
Feeling the stubbed pin-feathers pricking through
His greenish gosling-down, but straight misdeems
Himself anointed? They must run their course,
These later measles of the fledgling mind,
Pitting the adolescent rose with brown,
And after, leaving scars; and we must bear,
Who come of other stirp, no end of roil,
Slacken our strings, disorient ourselves,
And turn our ears to huge conchyliar valves
To hear the shell-hum that would fain be sea.

O guarding thorn of life’s dehiscent bud,

Exasperation! Did we clip thee close,
Disarm ourselves with non-resistent shears,
And leave our minds demassachusetted,
What fence ’gainst inroad of the spouting throng?

For Fame’s a bird that in her wayward sweep

Gossips to all; then, raven-like, comes home
Hoarse-voiced as autumn, and, as autumn leaves
Behind her, blown by all the postal winds,
Letters and manuscripts from unknown hands.
Thus came not Ahab’s: his he brought himself,
One morn, so clear with impecunious gold.
I said: “Chaucer yet lives, and Calderon!”
And, letting down the gangways of the mind
For shipment from the piers of common life,
O’er Learning’s ballast meant some lighter freight
To stow, for export to Macarian Isles
But it was not to be: a tauroid knock
Shook the ash-panels of my door with pain,
And to my vexed “Come in! “Ahab appeared.
Homespun, at least,—thereat I swiftly felt
Somewhat of comfort,—tall, knock-kneed, and gaunt:
Face windy-red, hands horny, large, and loose,
That groped for mine, and finding, dropped at once
As half ashamed: and thereupon he grinned.
I waited, silent, till the silence grew
Oppressive: but he bore it like a man;
Then, as my face still queried, opened wide
The stiff portcullis of his rustic speech,
Whence issued words: “You’d hardly kalkelate
That I’m a poet, but I kind o’ guess
I be one; so the people say to hum.”
Then from his cavernous armpit drew and gave
The singing leaves, not such as erst I knew.
But strange, disjointed, where the unmeasured feet
Staggered allwhither in pursuit of rhyme,
And could not find it: assonance instead,
Cases and verbs misplaced—remediable those—
Broad-shouldered coarseness, fondly meant for wit.

I turned the leaves; his small, gray, hungry eye

Stuck like a burr; agape with hope his mouth.
What could I say? the worn conventional phrase
We use on such occasions,—better wait,
Verse must have time; its seed, like timothy-grass,
Sown in the fall to sprout the following spring,
Is often winter-killed: none can decide;
A single rain-drop prints the eocene,
While crowbars fail on lias: so with song:
The Doom is born in each thing’s primitive stuff.

Perchance he understood not; yet I thrust

Some hypodermic hope within his flesh,
Unconsciously; erelong he came again.
Would I but see his latest? I did see;
Shuddered and answered him in a sterner wise.
I love to put the bars up, shutting out
My pasture from the thistle-cropping beasts
Or squealing hybrids, who have range enough
On our New England commons,—whom the Fiend,
Encouragement-of-Native-Talent, feeds,
 With windy provender, in Waverley,
And Flag, and Ledger, weakly manger-racks.

Months passed: the catbird on the elm-tree sang

What “Free from Ahab!” seemed, and I believed.
But, issuing forth one autumn morn, that shone
As earth were made October twenty-seventh
(Some ancient Bible gives the date), he shot
Across my path as sped from Ensign’s bow,
More grewsome, haggard-seeming than before.
Ere from his sinister armpit his right hand
Could pluck the sheets, I thundered forth, “Aroint!”

Not using the Anglo-Saxon shibboleth,

But exorcismal terms, unusual, fierce,
Such as would make a saint disintimate.
The witless terror in his face nigh stayed
My speech, but I was firm and passed him by.
Ah, not three weeks were sped ere he again
Waylaid me in the meadows, with these words:
“I saw thet suthin’ riled you, the last time;
Be you in sperrits now?”—and drew again—
But why go on? I met him yesterday,
The nineteenth time,—pale, sad, but patient still.

When Hakon steered the dragons, there was place,

Though but a thrall’s, beside the eagle-helms,
For him who rhymed instead of rougher work,
For speech is thwarted deed: the Berserk fire
But smoulders now in strange attempts at verse,
While hammering sword-blows mend the halting rhyme,
Give mood and tense unto the well-thewed arm,
And turn these ignorant Ahabs into bards!

From Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor.

 These somewhat ponderous lines are written in imitation of Lowell’s
serious poems, such as “The Cathedral.”
 Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes.
An English edition of The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table was published
some years ago by Messrs. Chatto and Windus, with an Introduction by Mr.
George Augustus Sala. Holmes was not then well known, or understood, in
this country, yet surely such a veteran litérateur as Sala might have found
some more appropriate opening sentence for his Introduction than this:
—“Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes is essentially what is termed a ‘funny
fellow.’”
Written of Artemus Ward, Bret Harte, or Mark Twain, the assertion
might have been true, though not new, as applied to Holmes it is neither the
one, nor the other.
Pathos there is in plenty, with dry humour and playful wit, which
occasionally tempt a smile, as in the following poem, though most
assuredly it cannot be termed “funny” in the ordinary acceptation of the
word.

CONTENTMENT.
“Man wants but little here below.”
Little I ask; my wants are few;
I only wish a hut of stone
(A very plain brown stone will do),
That I may call my own;—
And close at hand is such a one,
In yonder street that fronts the sun.

Plain food is quite enough for me;

Three courses are as good as ten:—
If Nature can subsist on three,
 Thank Heaven for three. Amen!
I always thought cold victual nice,—
My choice would be vanilla-ice.

I care not much for gold or land;—

Give me a mortgage here and there.
Some good bank-stock, some note of hand,
Or trifling railroad share,—
I only ask that Fortune send
A little more than I shall spend.

Honours are silly toys, I know,

And titles are but empty names;
I would, perhaps, be Plenipo—
But only near St. James;
I’m very sure I should not care
To fill our Gubernator’s chair.

Jewels are baubles; ’tis a sin

To care for such unfruitful things;—
One good-sized diamond in a pin,
Some, not so large, in rings,
A ruby, and a pearl, or so,
Will do for me;—I laugh at show.

My dame should dress in cheap attire

(Good, heavy silks are never dear);
I own perhaps I might desire
Some shawls of true Cashmere,—
Some marrowy crapes of China silk,
Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

I would not have the horse I drive

So fast that folks must stop and stare;
An easy gait—two, forty-five—
Suits me; I do not care;—
Perhaps, for just a single spurt,
Some seconds less would do no hurt.
 Of pictures, I should like to own
Titians and Raphaels three or four—
I love so much their style and tone—
One Turner, and no more
(A landscape, foreground golden dirt,
The sunshine painted with a squirt).

Of books but few,—some fifty score

For daily use, and bound for wear;
The rest upon an upper floor;—
Some little luxury there
Of red morocco’s gilded gleam,
And vellum rich as country cream.

Busts, cameos, gems,—such things as these,

Which others often show for pride,
I value for their power to please,
And selfish churls deride;
One Stradivarius, I confess,
Two Meerschaums I would fain possess.

Wealth’s wasteful tricks I will not learn,

Nor ape the glittering upstart fool;
Shall not carved tables serve my turn,
But all must be of buhl?
Give grasping pomp its double share,—
I ask but one recumbent chair.

Thus humble let me live and die,

Nor long for Midas’ golden touch;
If Heaven more generous gifts deny,
I shall not miss them much,—
Too grateful for the blessing lent
Of simple tastes and mind content!
From The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table.
 C .
(A Parody.)
Little I ask; my wants are few
I only wish a hut of stone,
Or one of good plain brick will do
That I may call my own.
And close at hand in Downing Street,
Is just the house my wants to meet.

I care not much for gold or land—

Give me an office fairly paid.
The Premiership was wisely planned
For statesmen such as I was made.
And then, perhaps, five thou’ a year
Is not too much of worldly gear.

Honours are silly toys, I know,

And titles are but empty names;
I could a marquis be, and so
Beat Beaconsfield at those small games.
I’m very sure I should not care
To fill our Sovereign’s royal chair.

As for the Commons, why require

A very large majority?
One member for each rural shire,
One for each town will do for me.
No small vexation turns me sour
When I am once installed in power.

Though fond of praise to some extent,

Unmingled flattery I despise,
So that it be sincerely meant,
A daily dose or two I prize—
There is no god that I can find
Whose cult extends to all mankind.