Using simulation output data to estimate system performance…
Questions
Using simulаtiоn оutput dаtа tо estimate system performance (e.g., customer waiting time) by a range (e.g., between 4 and 6min) is called:
(LC) Frоm "The Tyrаnny оf Things" by Elizаbeth Mоrris Once upon а time, when I was very tired, I chanced to go away to a little house by the sea. "It is empty," they said, "but you can easily furnish it." Empty! Yes, thank Heaven! Furnish it? Heaven forbid! Its floors were bare, its walls were bare, its tables there were only two in the house were bare. There was nothing in the closets but books; nothing in the bureau drawers but the smell of clean, fresh wood; nothing in the kitchen but an oil stove, and a few a very few dishes; nothing in the attic but rafters and sunshine, and a view of the sea. After I had been there an hour there descended upon me a great peace, a sense of freedom, of in finite leisure. In the twilight I sat before the flickering embers of the open fire, and looked out through the open door to the sea, and asked myself, "Why?" Then the answer came: I was emancipated from things. There was nothing in the house to demand care, to claim attention, to cumber my consciousness with its insistent, unchanging companionship. There was nothing but a shelter, and outside, the fields and marshes, the shore and the sea. These did not have to be taken down and put up and arranged and dusted and cared for. They were not things at all, they were powers, presences. And so I rested. While the spell was still unbroken, I came away. For broken it would have been, I know, had I not fled first. Even in this refuge the enemy would have pursued me, found me out, encompassed me. If we could but free ourselves once for all, how simple life might become! One of my friends, who, with six young children and only one servant, keeps a spotless house and a soul serene, told me once how she did it. "My dear, once a month I give away every single thing in the house that we do not imperatively need. It sounds wasteful, but I don't believe it really is. Sometimes Jeremiah mourns over missing old clothes, or back numbers of the magazines, but I tell him if he doesn't want to be mated to a gibbering maniac he will let me do as I like." The old monks knew all this very well. One wonders sometimes how they got their power; but go up to Fiesole, and sit a while in one of those little, bare, white-walled cells, and you will begin to understand. If there were any spiritual force in one, it would have to come out there. I have not their courage, and I win no such freedom. I allow myself to be overwhelmed by the invading host of things, making fitful resistance, but without any real steadiness of purpose. Yet never do I wholly give up the struggle, and in my heart I cherish an ideal, remotely typified by that empty little house beside the sea. Based on her statements, the reader knows Morris's friend feels serene because she (4 points)
(LC) "The Old Swimmin' Hоle" by Jаmes Whitcоmb Riley OH! the оld swimmin'–hole! whаre the crick so still аnd deepLooked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest belowSounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to knowBefore we could remember anything but the eyesOf the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise;But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle,And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'–hole. Oh! the old swimmin'–hole! In the happy days of yore,When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tideThat gazed back at me so gay and glorified,It made me love myself, as I leaped to caressMy shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness.But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his tollFrom the old man come back to the old swimmin'–hole. Oh! the old swimmin'–hole! In the long, lazy-daysWhen the humdrum of school made so many run-a-ways,How plesant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so planeYou could tell by the dent of the heel and the soleThey was lots o'fun on hands at the old swimmin'–hole.But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow rollLike the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'–hole. There the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall,And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;And it mottled the worter with amber and goldTel the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled;And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered byLike the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky,Or a wounded apple-blossom in the breeze's controleAs it cut acrost some orchurd to'rds the old swimmin'–hole. Oh! the old swimmin'—hole! When I last saw the place,The scene was all changed, like the change in my face;The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spotWhare the old divin'–log lays sunk and fergot.And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be –But never again will theyr shade shelter me!And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'–hole. Read this stanza again: Oh! the old swimmin'–hole! In the happy days of yore,When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tideThat gazed back at me so gay and glorified,It made me love myself, as I leaped to caressMy shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness.But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his tollFrom the old man come back to the old swimmin'–hole. The second stanza of the poem (4 points)
(HC) Frоm The Adventures оf Tоm Sаwyer by Mаrk Twаin There was a rustling of dresses, and the standing congregation sat down. The boy whose history this book relates did not enjoy the prayer, he only endured it—if he even did that much. He was restive all through it; he kept tally of the details of the prayer, unconsciously—for he was not listening, but he knew the ground of old, and the clergyman's regular route over it—and when a little trifle of new matter was interlarded, his ear detected it and his whole nature resented it; he considered additions unfair, and scoundrelly. In the midst of the prayer a fly had lit on the back of the pew in front of him and tortured his spirit by calmly rubbing its hands together, embracing its head with its arms, and polishing it so vigorously that it seemed to almost part company with the body, and the slender thread of a neck was exposed to view; scraping its wings with its hind legs and smoothing them to its body as if they had been coat-tails; going through its whole toilet as tranquilly as if it knew it was perfectly safe. As indeed it was; for as sorely as Tom's hands itched to grab for it they did not dare—he believed his soul would be instantly destroyed if he did such a thing while the prayer was going on. But with the closing sentence his hand began to curve and steal forward; and the instant the "Amen" was out the fly was a prisoner of war. His aunt detected the act and made him let it go. The minister gave out his text and droned along monotonously through an argument that was so prosy that many a head by and by began to nod—and yet it was an argument that dealt in limitless fire and brimstone and thinned the predestined elect down to a company so small as to be hardly worth the saving. Tom counted the pages of the sermon; after church he always knew how many pages there had been, but he seldom knew anything else about the discourse. However, this time he was really interested for a little while. The minister made a grand and moving picture of the assembling together of the world's hosts at the millennium when the lion and the lamb should lie down together and a little child should lead them. But the pathos, the lesson, the moral of the great spectacle were lost upon the boy; he only thought of the conspicuousness of the principal character before the on-looking nations; his face lit with the thought, and he said to himself that he wished he could be that child, if it was a tame lion. Read these lines from the excerpt again: There was a rustling of dresses, and the standing congregation sat down. The boy whose history this book relates did not enjoy the prayer, he only endured it—if he even did that much. He was restive all through it; he kept tally of the details of the prayer, unconsciously—for he was not listening, but he knew the ground of old, and the clergyman's regular route over it—and when a little trifle of new matter was interlarded, his ear detected it and his whole nature resented it; he considered additions unfair, and scoundrelly. Based on the information provided in this excerpt, how would you characterize the minister? Answer in two to three complete sentences using supporting details from the text. (10 points)