Free Year 7 Aesthetic and social value of liter... Practice | Skillo

READ THE PASSAGE — THE QUICK-CHANGE ARTISTS OF WHYALLA BAY

Each winter, the cool waters off a quiet stretch of South Australian coast fill with one of the ocean's strangest performers: the giant cuttlefish. Though it is often mistaken for a squid, the cuttlefish is a master of disguise unlike any other animal in these waters, and divers who travel from across the country to watch it never forget the spectacle. The secret lies in the cuttlefish's skin. Just beneath the surface sit millions of tiny sacs of colour called chromatophores. By squeezing or relaxing the muscles around each sac, the animal can flash from a sandy brown to a deep, rippling crimson in less than a second. Beneath these sit reflecting cells that scatter light, allowing the cuttlefish to mimic the silvery shimmer of the seabed or the dull green of swaying weed. The effect is so convincing that a curious diver can swim within an arm's length of one and fail to recognise it at all. What makes this talent more remarkable is that the giant cuttlefish is, as far as scientists can tell, colourblind. It cannot perceive the very hues it produces. Instead, researchers believe it reads the brightness and texture of its surroundings and matches them with astonishing accuracy, as though painting by feel rather than by sight. The displays are not only for hiding. During the breeding season, males put on dazzling shows, sending waves of colour pulsing along their bodies to impress a watching female or warn off a rival. A smaller male, unable to win such a contest by size alone, may disguise his colours to resemble a female and slip quietly past his larger competitors — a clever trick that often succeeds. After this brief, brilliant gathering, the cuttlefish drift away into deeper water, and the bay grows still once more. They live only a year or two, yet in that short span they have favoured these shallows with a performance found almost nowhere else on Earth. For the scientists and photographers who return each winter, the lesson is plain: some of nature's greatest wonders are not the largest or the loudest, but the ones quick enough, and clever enough, to vanish before your eyes.

READ THE PASSAGE — JORDAN'S SOURDOUGH STALL

When Jordan first heard that his class would be running a stall at the school market day, he knew exactly what he wanted to sell: bread. Not just any bread, but sourdough, the chewy loaf with the crackly golden crust that his nana made every single weekend. The only problem was that Jordan had never baked a loaf in his life. His nana laughed warmly when he telephoned her. "Sourdough begins with a starter," she explained. "It is a living mixture of flour and water that catches wild yeast from the air. You have to feed it every day, a little like a pet." That weekend, Jordan mixed flour and water in a clean glass jar and left it on the kitchen bench. For two days nothing happened, and he began to worry that his plan had failed. Then, on the third morning, he noticed tiny bubbles rising through the paste. By the end of the week the mixture was foaming and smelled pleasantly sour. His starter was alive. Feeding it became part of Jordan's daily routine. Each afternoon he tipped away half the mixture, stirred in fresh flour and water, and watched it swell again overnight. His little brother named the jar "Bubbles" and insisted on saying good morning to it. Baking the actual loaf was harder than Jordan expected. His first attempt came out flat and dense, like a doorstop. His mum reminded him that nobody masters a new skill on the very first try. He read more, practised his folding, and let the dough rest for longer. The second loaf rose tall and proud, its crust singing softly as it cooled on the rack. On market day, Jordan arrived early and arranged his loaves on a chequered cloth. The warm, tangy smell drifted across the playground and drew a steady queue. Within an hour every loaf had sold, and several customers asked whether he would be baking again next term. Counting the coins in the tin, Jordan felt enormously proud. He had started with nothing but flour, water, and patience, and turned it into something people genuinely treasured. Best of all, Bubbles was still happily growing on the bench at home, ready for the next adventure.

READ THE PASSAGE — THE FOREST'S GREATEST MIMIC

Deep in the cool, shady forests of eastern Australia lives one of the most surprising performers in the natural world. The superb lyrebird is a large, ground-dwelling bird about the size of a chicken, with brownish feathers and a long, elegant tail. Yet it is not the lyrebird's appearance that amazes people the most. It is the astonishing sounds this clever bird can make. The superb lyrebird is famous for being one of nature's greatest mimics. A mimic is an animal that copies sounds it hears around it. Most birds can only sing their own special song, but the lyrebird can imitate the calls of dozens of other birds. It listens carefully to the forest and then weaves these borrowed songs into a long, flowing performance that can last for many minutes. What truly surprises visitors is that the lyrebird does not stop at copying other birds. Over many years, scientists have recorded lyrebirds imitating all sorts of unusual noises. Some have copied the whirr of a camera, the bark of a dog, or even the distant hum of machinery in the forest. The bird simply listens, remembers, and reproduces the sound with remarkable accuracy. Why does the lyrebird put on such a grand show? Mostly, it is the male bird that performs. During the cooler months, he clears a small mound of earth on the forest floor to use as a stage. Standing on his mound, he spreads his beautiful tail forward over his head like a shimmering fan and begins to sing. The richer and more varied his performance, the more likely he is to impress a female lyrebird watching nearby. Although the superb lyrebird is shy and not often seen, it plays an important part in the forest. By scratching through the leaf litter to find insects and worms to eat, it turns over the soil and helps the forest stay healthy. So the next time you walk quietly through an Australian forest and hear what sounds like a whole flock of different birds, remember this: it might just be one talented lyrebird, practising its favourite tunes.

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