Test Bank For Modern Management 13th Edition Certo 0133059928 9780133059922

Test Bank for Modern Management 13th Edition Certo
0133059928 9780133059922
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Modern Management, 13e (Certo/Certo)

Chapter 2 Managing
1) Henri Fayol was a major contributor to the field of classical management theory.
Answer: TRUE
Page Ref: 27
Learning Outcome: Identify and discuss the components of the human resource management
process
Objective: 1, 2
Difficulty: Easy
Classification: Conceptual
2) Frederick W. Taylor is commonly called the "father of scientific management."

Answer: TRUE
Page Ref: 27
process
Objective: 2
Difficulty: Easy
3) The primary investigative tool in F.W. Taylor's research was motion study.
Answer: FALSE
Page Ref: 28
process
Objective: 2
Difficulty: Easy
4) Motion study consists of reducing each job to the most basic movements possible.
Answer: TRUE
Page Ref: 29
process
Objective: 2
Difficulty: Easy
1
Copyright © 2014 Pearson Education, Inc.
5) Taylor pioneered a system in which workers could earn a bonus in addition to the piece rate if
they exceeded their daily production quota.
Answer: FALSE
Page Ref: 29
process
Objective: 2
Difficulty: Easy
6) Henri Fayol is regarded as the pioneer of administrative theory.

Answer: TRUE
Page Ref: 31
process
Objective: 2
Difficulty: Easy
7) Henri Fayol was more aware of the human side of production. According to him, the interests
of one person should take priority over the interests of the organization as a whole.
Answer: FALSE
Page Ref: 31
process
Objective: 2
Difficulty: Easy
8) Fayol defined centralization as raising the importance of the subordinate role.

Answer: FALSE
Page Ref: 31
process
Objective: 2
Difficulty: Easy
9) According to Fayol, employee retention should not be given high priority as recruitment and
selection costs of hiring new workers is low.
Answer: FALSE
Page Ref: 31
process
Objective: 2
Difficulty: Easy
2
10) A drawback of the classical approach is that it does not adequately emphasize human
variables.
Answer: TRUE
Page Ref: 32
process
Objective: 1
Difficulty: Easy
11) The behavioral approach to management emphasizes increasing production through an

understanding of people.
Answer: TRUE
Page Ref: 32
process
Objective: 3
Difficulty: Easy
12) The Hawthorne studies concluded that lighting and temperature changes within organizations
could significantly influence production.
Answer: FALSE
Page Ref: 2-16
process
Objective: 4
Difficulty: Easy
13) One conclusion of the Hawthorne studies was that social groups in organizations could
effectively exert pressure to influence individuals to disregard monetary incentives.
Answer: TRUE
Page Ref: 32
process
Objective: 4
Difficulty: Easy
3
14) Abraham Maslow was a major contributor to the human relations movement in management.
Answer: TRUE
Page Ref: 33
process
Objective: 4
Difficulty: Easy
15) The behavioral science approach suggests that managers can best improve their organizations
by using the scientific method and mathematical techniques to solve operational problems.
Answer: FALSE
Page Ref: 35
process
Objective: 5
Difficulty: Easy
16) The use of mathematical models to investigate the decision situation is typical in
management science applications.
Answer: TRUE
Page Ref: 36
process
Objective: 5
Difficulty: Easy
17) The contingency approach is based on the premise that there is one best way to solve a
management problem in all organizations.
Answer: FALSE
Page Ref: 37
process
Objective: 9
Difficulty: Easy
4
18) The management science approach emphasizes "if-then" relationships: "If" this situational
variable exists, "then" a manager probably would take this action.
Answer: FALSE
Page Ref: 37
Learning Outcome: Identify the different types of decisions managers make and discuss how
they make decisions
Objective: 9
Difficulty: Easy
19) A closed system is not influenced by, and does not interact with, its environment.
Answer: TRUE
Page Ref: 37
Learning Outcome: Discuss the functions and tools of operations management
Objective: 7
Difficulty: Easy
20) The use of three sources of information — classical, behavioral, and management science
approaches — to analyze the management system is referred to as triangular management.
Answer: TRUE
Page Ref: 39
Learning Outcome: Discuss the functions and tools of operations management
Objective: 9
Difficulty: Easy
21) The approach to management was the product of the first concentrated effort to
develop a body of management thought. The management writers who participated in this effort
are considered the pioneers of management study.
A) behavioral
B) management science
C) classical
D) contingency
E) system
Answer: C
Page Ref: 27
process
Objective: 1
Difficulty: Easy
5
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the most minute rays, of that grace and harmony which bathes every
landscape in cloudless sunshine. The various groupings of the palms, the
shifting of the blue evening shadows on the rose-hued mountain-walls,
the green of the wheat and sugar-cane, the windings of the great river,
the alternations of wind and calm,—each of these is enough to content
us, and to give every day a different charm from that which went before.
We meet contrary winds, calms, and sand-banks, without losing our
patience; and even our excitement in the swiftness and grace with which
our vessel scuds before the north wind, is mingled with a regret that our
journey is drawing so much the more swiftly to its close. A portion of the
old Egyptian repose seems to be infused into our natures; and lately,
when I saw my face in a mirror, I thought I perceived in its features
something of the patience and resignation of the sphinx.
My friend, the Howadji, in whose “Nile Notes” the Egyptian

atmosphere is so perfectly reproduced, says that “conscience falls asleep
on the Nile.” If by this he means that artificial quality which bigots and
sectarians call conscience, I quite agree with him, and do not blame the
Nile for its soporific powers. But that simple faculty of the soul, native to
all men, which acts best when it acts unconsciously, and leads our
passions and desires into right paths without seeming to lead them, is
vastly strengthened by this quiet and healthy life. There is a cathedral-
like solemnity in the air of Egypt; one feels the presence of the altar, and
is a better man without his will. To those rendered misanthropic by
disappointed ambition, mistrustful by betrayed confidence, despairing by
unassuageable sorrow, let me repeat the motto which heads this chapter.
NATHANIEL PARKER
WILLIS.
, .
T is perhaps unfortunate for Willis that he was

such a devotee of fashion and form as to attain
a reputation for “foppishness.” Almost all men
of genius have some habit or besetting sin
which renders them personally more or less
unpopular and sometimes even odious to the public eye. The
noted poet, Coleridge, of England, had the opium habit, and
many people who know this cannot divest their minds of a
certain loathing for the man when they come to read his poems.
The drink habit of Edgar Allen Poe and other unfortunate facts
in his personal life have created a popular prejudice also against
this brilliant but erratic genius. A like prejudice exists against the
poet naturalist, Thoreau, whose isolation from men and attempt
to live on a mere pittance has prejudiced many minds against the
reading of his profitable productions; for it has been said that no
man ever lived closer to the heart of nature than did this friend of
the birds, the insects, animals, flowers, mountains and rivers. It
is doubtful if any man in literature has lived a purer life or
possessed in his sphere a more exalted genius, given us so close
an insight into nature, or awakened a more enthusiastic study of
the subject.
Therefore let us look with a deserving charity upon the
personal pride, or “foppishness,” if we may call it such, of the
poet, Willis. He certainly deserves more general reputation as a
poet than modern critics are disposed to accord him. Many of his
pieces are of an extraordinary grade of merit, signifying a most
analytical and poetic mind, and evincing a marked talent and
facility for versification and prose writing executed in a style of
peculiar grace and beauty.
Nathaniel Parker Willis was born in Portland, January 20th

1806. The family traces its ancestry back to the fifteenth century
in England, and for more than two hundred years prior to his
birth both his paternal and maternal ancestors had lived in New
England. The poet’s father was for several years publisher and
editor of the Easton “Argus,” a political paper established at
Portland, Maine, in 1803. He founded a religious paper, the
Boston “Recorder,” in 1816, which he conducted for twenty
years, and he was also the founder of the first child’s newspaper
in the world, which is the now famous and widely circulated
“Youth’s Companion.” Willis was six years old when his father
removed to Boston. He had the best educational facilities from
private tutors and select schools, completing his course at Yale
College, where he graduated in 1827. While in college he
published several religious poems ♦under the signature of “Roy,”
gaining in one instance a prize of fifty dollars for the best poem.
After his graduation Willis became the editor of a series of
volumes published by S. G. Goodrich, entitled “The Legendary.”
He next established the “American Monthly Magazine” which
he merged after two years into the New York “Mirror,” to which
paper his “Pencilings by the Way” were contributed during a
four year’s tour in Europe, on which journey he was attached to
the American legation at Paris, and with a diplomatic passport
visited the various capitals of Europe and the East. During this
sojourn, in 1835, he married Miss Mary Stace, daughter of a
Waterloo officer.
♦ ‘unter’ replaced with ‘under’
After his marriage Mr. Willis returned to this country with

his wife and established a home on the Susquehanna River,
which he called Glenmary, the latter part of the word being in
honor of his wife. Here he hoped to spend the remainder of his
days quietly in such literary work as pleased his taste, but the
resources from which his support came were swept away in a
financial disaster and he was forced to return to active life. He
disposed of his country seat, removed to New York, and in
connection with Dr. Porter established the “Corsair,” a weekly
journal. In the interest of this publication Mr. Willis made a
second journey to England, engaging Mr. Thackeray and other
well-known writers as contributors. While absent he published a
miscellany of his magazine stories with the title of “Loiterings of
Travel” and also two of his plays. On returning to New York he
found that Dr. Porter had suddenly abandoned their project in
discouragement and he formed a new connection with the
“Evening Mirror.” Soon after this the death of his wife occurred,
his own health failed, and he went abroad determining to spend
his life in Germany. On reaching Berlin he was attached to the
American legation, but went away on a leave of absence to place
his daughter in school in England. In the meantime his health
grew so precarious that instead of returning to Berlin he sailed
for America, where he spent the remainder of his life in
contributing to various magazines. He established a home,
“Idlewild,” in the highlands of the Hudson beyond West Point,
where he died in 1867 on his sixty-first birthday.
Throughout his life Mr. Willis was an untiring worker and
his days were no doubt ended much earlier than if he had taken
proper rest. “The poetry of Mr. Willis,” says Duyckinck, “is
musical and original. His religious poems belong to a class of
composition which critics might object to did not experience
show them to be pleasing and profitable interpreters to many
minds. The versification of these poems is of remarkable
smoothness. Indeed they have gained the author’s reputation
where his nicer poems would have failed to be appreciated. On
the other hand his novel in rhyme, ‘Lady Jane,’ is one of the
very choicest of the numerous poems cast in the model of ‘Don
Juan;’ while his dramas are delicate creations of sentiment and
passion with a relic of the old poetic Elizabethan stage.” As a
traveler Mr. Willis has no superior in representing the humors
and experiences of the world. He is sympathetic, witty,
observant, and at the same time inventive. That his labors were
pursued through broken health with unremitting diligence is
another claim to consideration which the public should be
prompt to acknowledge.
DAVID’S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM.

HE waters slept. Night’s silvery veil hung low
On Jordan’s bosom, and the eddies curled
Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still,
Unbroken beating of the sleeper’s pulse.
The reeds bent down the stream: the willow leaves
With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,
Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems

Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,
And leaned, in graceful attitude, to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells
By its light heed of human suffering,
That it was fashioned for a happier world.
King David’s limbs were weary. He had fled
From far Jerusalem: and now he stood
With his faint people, for a little space,
Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow,
To its refreshing breath; for he had worn
The mourner’s covering, and had not felt
That he could see his people until now.
They gathered round him on the fresh green bank
And spoke their kindly words: and as the sun
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,
And bowed his head upon his hands to pray.
Oh! when the heart is full,—when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor common words of courtesy,

Are such a very mockery—how much
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
He prayed for Israel: and his voice went up
Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those,
Whose love had been his shield: and his deep tones
Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom,—
For his estranged, misguided Absalom.—
The proud bright being who had burst away
In all his princely beauty, to defy
The heart that cherished him—for him he poured
In agony that would not be controlled
Strong supplication, and forgave him there,
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.
The pall was settled. He who slept beneath
Was straightened for the grave: and as the folds
Sank to the still proportions, they betrayed
The matchless symmetry of Absalom.
His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls
Were floating round the tassels as they swayed
To the admitted air, as glossy now
As when in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing

The snowy fingers of Judea’s girls.
His helm was at his feet: his banner soiled
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid,
Reversed, beside him; and the jeweled hilt
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,
Rested like mockery on his covered brow.
The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,
Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief,
The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier,
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,
As if he feared the slumberer might stir.
A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade
As if a trumpet rang: but the bent form
Of David entered, and he gave command
In a low tone to his few followers,
And left him with his dead. The King stood still
Till the last echo died: then, throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:

“Alas! my noble boy! that thou should’st die,—
Thou who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair—
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb;
My proud boy, Absalom!
“Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee—
How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,
Like a rich harp string, yearning to caress thee—
And hear thy sweet ‘My father,’ from these dumb
And cold lips, Absalom!
“The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young:
And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung,—
But thou no more with thy sweet voice shall come
To meet me, Absalom!
“And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,
How will its love for thee, as I depart,

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!
It were so sweet, amid death’s gathering gloom,
To see thee, Absalom!
“And now farewell. ’Tis hard to give thee up,
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee;
And thy dark sin—oh! I could drink the cup
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,
My lost boy, Absalom!”
He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child; then giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer:
And as if strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly and composed the pall
Firmly and decently,—and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.
THE DYING ALCHEMIST.

HE night-wind with a desolate moan swept by,
And the old shutters of the turret swung

Creaking upon their hinges; and the moon,
As the torn edges of the clouds flew past,
Struggled aslant the stained and broken panes
So dimly, that the watchful eye of death
Scarcely was conscious when it went and came.
The fire beneath his crucible was low,
Yet still it burned: and ever, as his thoughts
Grew insupportable, he raised himself
Upon his wasted arm, and stirred the coals
With difficult energy; and when the rod
Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye
Felt faint within its socket, he shrank back
Upon his pallet, and, with unclosed lips,
Muttered a curse on death!
The silent room,
From its dim corners, mockingly gave back
His rattling breath; the humming in the fire
Had the distinctness of a knell; and when
Duly the antique horologe beat one,
He drew a phial from beneath his head,
And drank. And instantly his lips compressed,

And, with a shudder in his skeleton frame,
He rose with supernatural strength, and sat
Upright, and communed with himself:
“I did not think to die
Till I had finished what I had to do;
I thought to pierce th’ eternal secret through
With this my mortal eye;
I felt,—Oh, God! it seemeth even now—
This cannot be the death-dew on my brow;
Grant me another year,
God of my spirit!—but a day,—to win
Something to satisfy this thirst within!
I would know something here!
Break for me but one seal that is unbroken!
Speak for me but one word that is unspoken!
“Vain,—vain,—my brain is turning
With a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick,
And these hot temple-throbs come fast and thick,
And I am freezing,—burning,—
Dying! Oh, God! if I might only live!
My phial――Ha! it thrills me,—I revive.

“Aye,—were not man to die,
He were too mighty for this narrow sphere!
Had he but time to brood on knowledge here,—
Could he but train his eye,—
Might he but wait the mystic word and hour,—
Only his Maker would transcend his power!
“This were indeed to feel
The soul-thirst slacken at the living stream,—
To live, Oh, God! that life is but a dream!
And death――Aha! I reel,—
Dim,—dim,—I faint, darkness comes o’er my eye,—
Cover me! save me!――God of heaven! I die!”
’Twas morning, and the old man lay alone.
No friend had closed his eyelids, and his lips,
Open and ashy pale, th’ expression wore
Of his death struggle. His long silvery hair
Lay on his hollow temples, thin and wild,
His frame was wasted, and his features wan
And haggard as with want, and in his palm
His nails were driven deep, as if the throe
Of the last agony had wrung him sore.

The storm was raging still. The shutter swung,
Creaking as harshly in the fitful wind,
And all without went on,—as aye it will,
Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart
Is breaking, or has broken, in its change.
The fire beneath the crucible was out.
The vessels of his mystic art lay round,
Useless and cold as the ambitious hand
That fashioned them, and the small rod,
Familiar to his touch for threescore years,
Lay on th’ alembic’s rim, as if it still
Might vex the elements at its master’s will.
And thus had passed from its unequal frame
A soul of fire,—a sun-bent eagle stricken.
From his high soaring, down,—an instrument
Broken with its own compass. Oh, how poor
Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies,
Like the adventurous bird that hath outflown
His strength upon the sea, ambition wrecked,—
A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits
Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest.

THE BELFRY PIGEON.
N the cross-beam under the Old South bell
The nest of a pigeon is builded well,
In summer and winter that bird is there,
Out and in with the morning air.
I love to see him track the street,
With his wary eye and active feet;
And I often watch him as he springs,
Circling the steeple with easy wings,
Till across the dial his shade has passed,
And the belfry edge is gained at last.
’Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note,
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;
There’s a human look in its swelling breast.
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;
And I often stop with the fear I feel,
He runs so close to the rapid wheel.
Whatever is rung on that noisy bell,
Chime of the hour or funeral knell,
The dove in the belfry must hear it well.

When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon,
When the sexton cheerily rings for noon,
When the clock strikes clear at morning light,
When the child is waked with “nine at night,”
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,
Filling the spirit with tones of prayer,
Whatever tale in the bell is heard,
He broods on his folded feet, unstirred,
Or, rising half in his rounded nest,
He takes the time to smooth his breast;
Then drops again, with filmed eyes,
And sleeps as the last vibration dies.
Sweet bird! I would that I could be
A hermit in the crowd like thee!
With wings to fly to wood and glen,
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men;
And daily, with unwilling feet,
I tread, like thee, the crowded street;
But, unlike me, when day is o’er,
Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar;
Or, at a half-felt wish for rest,

Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast,
And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.
I would that in such wings of gold,
I could my weary heart up-fold;
I would I could look down unmoved,
(Unloving as I am unloved,)
And while the world throngs on beneath,
Smooth down my cares, and calmly breathe;
And never sad with others’ sadness,
And never glad with others’ gladness,
Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime,
And, lapped in quiet, bide my time.

RICHARD HENRY
STODDARD.
.
ITH no commanding antecedents to support him,

Richard Henry Stoddard has, step by step,
fought his way to a position which is alike
creditable to his indomitable energy and his
genius. Stoddard was born July 2, 1825, at
Hingham, Mass. His father was a sea-captain, who, while the
poet was yet in his early youth, sailed for Sweden. Tidings of his
vessel never came back,—this was in 1835. The mother
removed, the same year, with her son to New York, where he
attended the public schools of the city. Necessity compelled the
widow, as soon as his age permitted, to put young Stoddard to
work, and he was placed in an iron foundry to learn this trade.
“Here he worked for some years,” says one of his biographers,
“dreaming in the intervals of his toil, and even then moulding his
thoughts into the symmetry of verse while he moulded the
moulten metal into shapes of grace.” At the same time he
pursued a course of private reading and study, and began to write
poems and sketches for his own pleasure.
It was in 1847 that the earliest blossoms of his genius

appeared in the “Union Magazine,” which gave evidence that his
mind as well as his body was toiling. In 1848 he issued a small
volume of poems entitled, “Footprints,” which contained some
pieces of merit; but he afterwards suppressed the entire edition.
About this time his health failed and, to recuperate, he gave up,
temporarily, his mechanical vocation; but literature took such
possession of him that he never returned to the foundry.
In 1852 he issued his second volume entitled, “Poems,” and

became a regular contributor to the magazines. In 1860 he was
made literary editor of the “New York World,” which position he
retained until 1870, and since 1880 he has held a similar position
on the “New York Mail and Express.” He, also, from 1853 to
1873 held a government position in the Custom House of New
York. During this time Mr. Stoddard also edited a number of
works with prefaces and introductions by himself, among which
may be mentioned the “Bric-a-Brac Series.” Prominent titles of
the author’s own books are “Songs of Summer,” which appeared
in 1856; “The King’s Bell,” a series of most delicate suggestive
pictures, (1862); “Abraham Lincoln, A Horatian Ode,” (1865);
“The Book of the East,” poems, (1871); a collective edition
entitled, “Poems,” (1880), and “The Lion’s Cub,” poems, (1890).
One of our most eminent literary critics declares: “Mr.

Stoddard’s mind is essentially poetical. All his works are
stamped with earnestness. His style is characterized by purity
and grace of expression. He is a master of rythmical melody and
his mode of treating a subject is sometimes exquisitely subtle. In
his poems there is no rude writing. All is finished and highly
glazed. The coloring is warm, the costumes harmonious, the
grouping symmetrical. His poetry always possesses a spiritual
meaning. Every sound and sight in nature is to him a symbol
which strikes some spiritual chord. The trees that wave at his
window, and the moon that silvers his roof are to him things that
play an intimate part in his existence. Thus in all his poems will
be found an echo from an internal to an external nature, the
harmony resulting from the intimate union of both.”
Mrs. Elizabeth Stoddard, the wife of the author, has shared

heartily in the literary labors of her husband, assisting him in his
compilations, and is, herself, author of numerous contributions
to the magazines and a number of pleasing poems. She has also
written several novels.
A dinner was given to Mr. Stoddard by the Author’s Club at

the Hotel Savoy on March 25th, 1897, at which more than one
hundred and fifty persons gathered to do honor to the venerable
poet. Mr. E. C. Stedman, the poet, presided, and good talk
abounded. It is impossible in this space to give any extended
note of the addresses. Letters of regret were received from many
friends of Mr. Stoddard who were unable to be present, including
Bishop Potter, Professor Charles Eliot Norton, Dr. Andrew D.
White, William Allen Butler, Donald G. Mitchell, James
Whitcomb Riley and others.
The admirable letter of Donald G. Mitchell (the famous Ik

Marvel), closed in these words:
“There is not one of you who has a truer relish for the
charming ways in which that favorite poet can twist our good
mother-English into resonant shapes of verse. I pray you to tell
him so, and that only the weakness of age—quickened by this
wintry March—keeps me from putting in an ‘Adsum,’ at the
roll-call of your guests.”
The “Hoosier Poet” sent these lines to represent him:
O princely poet! kingly heir
Of gifts divinely sent—
Your own—nor envy anywhere,
Nor voice of discontent.
Though, of ourselves, all poor are we,
And frail and weak of wing,
Your height is ours—your ecstasy,
Your glory, where you sing.
Most favored of the gods and great
In gifts beyond our store,
We covet not your rich estate,
But prize our own the more.
The gods give as but gods may do;
We count our riches thus—
They gave their richest gifts to you,
And then gave you to us.
J W R .
Mr. Stoddard responded to Mr. Riley and others in the poem

quoted below, which shows the vigor of mind and spirit enjoyed
by this venerable poet of three score years and ten and five, on
whom the snows of three-quarters of a century have fallen so
lightly that they seem but to have mellowed rather than
weakened his powers.
A CURTAIN CALL.
ENTLEMEN: If I have any right
To
come before you here to-night
It is conferred on me by you,
And more for what I tried to do
Than anything that I have done.
A start, perhaps, a race not won!
But ’tis not wholly lost, I see,
For you, at least, believe in me.
Comrades, nay, fellows, let me say,
Since life at most is but a play,
And we are players, one and all,
And this is but a curtain call,
If I were merely player here,
And this assumption of his part,
I might pretend to drop a tear,
And lay my hand upon my heart

And say I could not speak, because
I felt so deeply your applause!
I cannot do this, if I would;
I can but thank you, as I should,
And take the honors you bestow—
A largess, not a lawful claim;
My share thereof is small, I know,
But from your hands to-night is fame—
A precious crown in these pert days
Of purchased or of self-made bays;
You give it—I receive it, then,
Though rather for your sake than mine.
A long and honorable line
Is yours—the Peerage of the Pen,
Founded when this old world was young,
And need was to preserve for men
(Lost else) what had been said and sung,
Tales our forgotten fathers told,
Dimly remembered from of old,
Sonorous canticles and prayers,
Service of elder gods than theirs

Which they knew not; the epic strain
Wherein dead peoples lived again!
A long, unbroken line is ours;
It has outlived whole lines of kings,
Seen mighty empires rise and fall,
And nations pass away like flowers—
Ruin and darkness cover all!
Nothing withstands the stress and strain,
The endless ebb and flow of things,
The rush of Time’s resistless wings!
Nothing? One thing, and not in vain,
One thing remains: Letters remain!
Your art and mine, yours more than mine,
Good fellows of the lettered line,
To whom I owe this Curtain Call,
I thank you all, I greet you all.
Noblesse oblige! But while I may,
Another word, my last, maybe:
When this life-play of mine is ended,
And the black curtain has descended,
Think kindly as you can of me,

And say, for you may truly say,
“This dead player, living, loved his part,
And made it noble as he could,
Not for his own poor personal good,
But for the glory of his art!”
HYMN TO THE BEAUTIFUL.

Y heart is full of tenderness and tears,
And tears are in mine eyes, I know not why;
With all my grief, content to live for years,
Or even this hour to die.
My youth is gone, but that I heed not now;
My love is dead, or worse than dead can be;
My friends drop off like blossoms from a bough,
But nothing troubles me,
Only the golden flush of sunset lies
Within my heart like fire, like dew within my eyes!
Spirit of Beauty! whatsoe’er thou art,
I see thy skirts afar, and feel thy power;
It is thy presence fills this charméd hour,
And fills my charmed heart;

Nor mine alone, but myriads feel thee now,
That know not what they feel, nor why they bow;
Thou canst not be forgot,
For all men worship thee, and know it not;
Nor men alone, but babes with wondrous eyes,
New-comers on the earth, and strangers from the skies!
We hold the keys of Heaven within our hands,
The gift and heirloom of a former state,
And lie in infancy at Heaven’s gate,
Transfigured in the light that streams along the lands!
Around our pillows golden ladders rise,
And up and down the skies,
With winged sandals shod,
The angels come, and go, the messengers of God!
Nor do they, fading from us, e’er depart,—
It is the childish heart;
We walk as heretofore,
Adown their shining ranks, but see them nevermore!
Not Heaven is gone, but we are blind with tears,
Groping our way along the downward slope of years!
From earliest infancy my heart was thine;

With childish feet I trod thy temple aisle;
Not knowing tears, I worshipped thee with smiles,
Or if I ever wept, it was with joy divine!
By day, and night, on land, and sea, and air,—
I saw thee everywhere!
A voice of greeting from the wind was sent;
The mists enfolded me with soft white arms;
The birds did sing to lap me in content,
The rivers wove their charms,
And every little daisy in the grass
Did look up in my face, and smile to see me pass!
Not long can Nature satisfy the mind,
Nor outward fancies feed its inner flame;
We feel a growing want we cannot name,
And long for something sweet, but undefined;
The wants of Beauty other wants create,
Which overflow on others soon or late;
For all that worship thee must ease the heart,
By Love, or Song, or Art:
Divinest Melancholy walks with thee,
Her thin white cheek forever leaned on thine;

And Music leads her sister Poesy,
In exultation shouting songs divine!
But on thy breast Love lies,—immortal child!—
Begot of thine own longings, deep and wild:
The more we worship him, the more we grow
Into thy perfect image here below;
For here below, as in the spheres above,
All Love is Beauty, and all Beauty, Love!
Not from the things around us do we draw
Thy light within; within the light is born;
The growing rays of some forgotten morn,
And added canons of eternal law.
The painter’s picture, the rapt poet’s song,
The sculptor’s statue, never saw the Day;
Not shaped and moulded after aught of clay,
Whose crowning work still does its spirit wrong;
Hue after hue divinest pictures grow,
Line after line immortal songs arise,
And limb by limb, out-starting stern and slow,
The statue wakes with wonder in its eyes!
And in the master’s mind

Sound after sound is born, and dies like wind,
That echoes through a range of ocean caves,
And straight is gone to weave its spell upon the waves!
The mystery is thine,
For thine the more mysterious human heart,
The temple of all wisdom, Beauty’s shrine,
The oracle of Art!
Earth is thine outer court, and Life a breath;
Why should we fear to die, and leave the earth?
Not thine alone the lesser key of Birth,—
But all the keys of Death;
And all the worlds, with all that they contain
Of Life, and Death, and Time, are thine alone;
The universe is girdled with a chain,
And hung below the throne
Where Thou dost sit, the universe to bless,—
Thou sovereign smile of God, eternal loveliness!
A DIRGE.
FEW frail summers had touched thee,
As they touch the fruit;

Not so bright as thy hair the sunshine,
Not so sweet as thy voice the lute.
Hushed the voice, shorn the hair, all is over:
An urn of white ashes remains;
Nothing else save the tears in our eyes,
And our bitterest, bitterest pains!
We garland the urn with white roses,
Burn incense and gums on the shrine,
Play old tunes with the saddest of closes,
Dear tunes that were thine!
But in vain, all in vain;
Thou art gone—we remain!
THE SHADOW OF THE HAND.

OU were very charming, Madam,
In your silks and satins fine;
And you made your lovers drunken,
But it was not with your wine!
There were court gallants in dozens,
There were princes of the land,
And they would have perished for you

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Test Bank for Modern Management 13th Edition Certo

Modern Management, 13e (Certo/Certo)

2) Frederick W. Taylor is commonly called the "father of scientific management."

6) Henri Fayol is regarded as the pioneer of administrative theory.

8) Fayol defined centralization as raising the importance of the subordinate role.

11) The behavioral approach to management emphasizes increasing production through an

My friend, the Howadji, in whose “Nile Notes” the Egyptian

T is perhaps unfortunate for Willis that he was

Nathaniel Parker Willis was born in Portland, January 20th

♦ ‘unter’ replaced with ‘under’

After his marriage Mr. Willis returned to this country with

DAVID’S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM.

On Jordan’s bosom, and the eddies curled

Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still,

Unbroken beating of the sleeper’s pulse.

The reeds bent down the stream: the willow leaves

With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,

Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems

Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,

And leaned, in graceful attitude, to rest.

How strikingly the course of nature tells

By its light heed of human suffering,

That it was fashioned for a happier world.

King David’s limbs were weary. He had fled

From far Jerusalem: and now he stood

With his faint people, for a little space,

Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind

Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow,

To its refreshing breath; for he had worn

The mourner’s covering, and had not felt

That he could see his people until now.

They gathered round him on the fresh green bank

And spoke their kindly words: and as the sun

Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,

And bowed his head upon his hands to pray.

Oh! when the heart is full,—when bitter thoughts

Come crowding thickly up for utterance,

And the poor common words of courtesy,

The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!

He prayed for Israel: and his voice went up

Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those,

Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom,—

For his estranged, misguided Absalom.—

The proud bright being who had burst away

In all his princely beauty, to defy

The heart that cherished him—for him he poured

In agony that would not be controlled

Strong supplication, and forgave him there,

Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.

The pall was settled. He who slept beneath

Was straightened for the grave: and as the folds

Sank to the still proportions, they betrayed

The matchless symmetry of Absalom.

His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls

Were floating round the tassels as they swayed

To the admitted air, as glossy now

As when in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing

His helm was at his feet: his banner soiled

With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid,

Reversed, beside him; and the jeweled hilt

Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,

Rested like mockery on his covered brow.

The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,