Datasets:
quail

Task Categories: multiple-choice
Languages: English
Multilinguality: monolingual
Size Categories: 10K<n<100K
Language Creators: found
Annotations Creators: crowdsourced
Source Datasets: original
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id (string)context_id (string)question_id (string)domain (string)metadata (dict)context (string)question (string)question_type (string)answers (sequence)correct_answer_id (int32)
"f001_0"
"f001"
"0"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"Why was this character sent away after each school year?"
"Causality"
[ "not enough information", "to visit family", "parents had problems", "for tutoring" ]
3
"f001_1"
"f001"
"1"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"What is true about the narrator?"
"Unanswerable"
[ "She is old", "She is married", "She is an orphan", "not enough information" ]
3
"f001_2"
"f001"
"2"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"What is obvious about the father's personality?"
"Entity_properties"
[ "not enough information", "he is shy", "he is a little vain", "he is funny" ]
2
"f001_3"
"f001"
"3"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"During what time of the year was this character sent to their cousins house?"
"Temporal_order"
[ "not enough information", "winter", "fall", "summer" ]
1
"f001_4"
"f001"
"4"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"The author believes that the cousin's father:"
"Belief_states"
[ "is incompetent", "not enough information", "is a liar", "is a jack-ass" ]
3
"f001_5"
"f001"
"5"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"What is probably true about the cousin's father?"
"Entity_properties"
[ "not enough information", "he is a bad father", "he is dumb", "he is extremely smart" ]
3
"f001_6"
"f001"
"6"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"What did the main character do for a living?"
"Factual"
[ "not enough information", "English Professor", "head distributor of softdrink maufacture", "Magician" ]
2
"f001_7"
"f001"
"7"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"Heading back to New Jersey took roughly how long?"
"Event_duration"
[ "a year", "not enough information", "one week", "a few hours" ]
3
"f001_8"
"f001"
"8"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"Who was the English Professor?"
"Character_identity"
[ "mother", "not enough information", "immortal light kids", "father" ]
3
"f001_9"
"f001"
"9"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"What is my mom's profession?"
"Unanswerable"
[ "head of distribution", "English professor", "a magician", "not enough information" ]
3
"f001_10"
"f001"
"10"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"What is the relation to Nona?"
"Unanswerable"
[ "not enough information", "grandmother", "aunt", "sister" ]
0
"f001_11"
"f001"
"11"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"Who went back to New Jersey?"
"Character_identity"
[ "immortal light baby", "I did", "my father", "not enough information" ]
1
"f001_12"
"f001"
"12"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"The author was planning to travel to New Jersey when:"
"Temporal_order"
[ "school was about to start.", "not enough information", "after the divorce,", "school year was over," ]
3
"f001_13"
"f001"
"13"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"Whose house was on the coast?"
"Character_identity"
[ "Parent's,", "Nonna's", "not enough information", "Cousin's," ]
3
"f001_14"
"f001"
"14"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"Why was this character surprised their cousin was their maid of honor?"
"Causality"
[ "they were enemies", "she lived far away", "she hadn't been very nice", "not enough information" ]
2
"f001_15"
"f001"
"15"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"What did their father always say about the place?"
"Factual"
[ "it was borring", "there was magic there", "not enough information", "there was too many people to talk to" ]
1
"f001_16"
"f001"
"16"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"What was the name of the Maid of Honor:"
"Unanswerable"
[ "not enough information", "Elizabeth", "Mary", "Lily" ]
0
"f001_17"
"f001"
"17"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"Where was cousin's house located?"
"Factual"
[ "Near the lake", "not enough information", "Near the mountains", "On the coast" ]
3
"f001_18"
"f001"
"18"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"Where did author go to school?"
"Factual"
[ "New Jersey", "california", "not enough information", "Michigan" ]
3
"f001_19"
"f001"
"19"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"After the events in the text what does the author think about the cousin?"
"Subsequent_state"
[ "the cousin is not friendly", "the cousin could have been pretier", "not enough information", "the cousin was too nice" ]
0
"f001_20"
"f001"
"20"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"Where did the main character go immediately after school was out?"
"Subsequent_state"
[ "England", "Michigan", "not enough information", "New Jersey" ]
3
"f001_21"
"f001"
"21"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"What would the father claim to have some power and control over?"
"Factual"
[ "First job", "not enough information", "first kiss", "School" ]
2
"f001_22"
"f001"
"22"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"The author believes that their cousin:"
"Belief_states"
[ "could have been nicer", "could have been more productive", "not enough information", "could have been meaner" ]
0
"f001_23"
"f001"
"23"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"My summer stay in New Jersey probably lasted:"
"Event_duration"
[ "4 days", "a few months", "not enough information", "two weeks" ]
1
"f001_24"
"f001"
"24"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"Who is described as a jack-ass:"
"Character_identity"
[ "father", "not enough information", "me", "cursed kiddies 2nd Coming" ]
0
"f001_25"
"f001"
"25"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"When Fall came I went back to:"
"Factual"
[ "not enough information", "New Eden", "Illinois", "Michigan" ]
3
"f001_26"
"f001"
"26"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"Who is described as a Jack-Ass?"
"Character_identity"
[ "Biology Professor", "not enough information", "father", "cousin" ]
2
"f001_27"
"f001"
"27"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Joseph Devon", "title": "Black Eyed Susan", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html" }
"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm not even sure if I was officially asked, I just wound up heading back to New Jersey when school was out. I think my parents thought it was a good enough deal. They were already having some problems and without Nonna there anymore to take care of me I think my cousin's house on the coast seemed like as good a spot as any to stick me for the summer. It certainly wasn't because of any great love between me and my cousin. We weren't really very good friends at that point. I think she saw me as sort of foisted off on her and getting in the way of her summers. Which was a fair enough judgment. But she could have been nicer. It's pretty amazing that she wound up as my Maid of Honor. Time does strange things. Your lovable jack-ass of a father would mention something about magic in here. You know if you took a group of fifty strangers, had them chat with your father for half an hour then with me for half an hour, then told them that one of us was an English Professor and one of us was head of distribution in the northeast for a large soft drink manufacturing concern, I'm pretty sure all fifty would peg your father as the English Professor and me as the head of distribution. He's honestly so good at what he does that I can almost allow him to claim it's magic except that it'd be nice if he took credit for some of the things he's done with his life. Of course he has this idea that he deserves credit for all sorts of things that he had no control over. Like our first kiss."
"How long were they forced to interact with the cousin who later be ame maid of honor?"
"Unanswerable"
[ "not enough information", "5 years", "many summers", "a year" ]
0
"f002_0"
"f002"
"0"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"What is probably true about the beast's bite?"
"Entity_properties"
[ "it is harmless", "not enough information", "it is extremely dangerous", "it helps people" ]
2
"f002_1"
"f002"
"1"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"Where did the arrow pierced Ranur?"
"Factual"
[ "Into his chest", "Through his leg", "Through his hand", "not enough information" ]
0
"f002_2"
"f002"
"2"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"Who was the largest of the tree:"
"Character_identity"
[ "Lorfel", "the old man with raspy voice", "the one carrying an axe", "not enough information" ]
0
"f002_3"
"f002"
"3"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"Who held a curved sword?"
"Character_identity"
[ "Ranur", "Lorfel", "Char", "not enough information" ]
2
"f002_4"
"f002"
"4"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"Ranur probably died:"
"Event_duration"
[ "not enough information", "a month later", "instantly", "a year later" ]
2
"f002_5"
"f002"
"5"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"What was done with Ranur's body?"
"Unanswerable"
[ "left abandoned along with the beasts's corpse", "burned to avoid spreading disease", "buried in the ground", "not enough information" ]
3
"f002_6"
"f002"
"6"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"What was the color of the beast's fur?"
"Factual"
[ "white", "black", "not enough information", "brown" ]
3
"f002_7"
"f002"
"7"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"How long did the silence last for?"
"Event_duration"
[ "A few hours", "not enough information", "A few minutes", "The entire night" ]
2
"f002_8"
"f002"
"8"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"Why did Lorfel and Ranur hunted beasts?"
"Unanswerable"
[ "Because the beasts clawed them", "Because they were hurt", "Because the beasts were cute", "not enough information" ]
3
"f002_9"
"f002"
"9"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"Why Char killed Ranur?"
"Causality"
[ "Because it bit Ranur, infecting him", "He mistaken him for the beast", "not enough information", "in self-defense when Ranur attempted to hit him with his pike" ]
0
"f002_10"
"f002"
"10"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"What is true about Char?"
"Entity_properties"
[ "He liked hunting", "He has children", "He likes Jessy", "not enough information" ]
0
"f002_11"
"f002"
"11"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"Who bit Ranur?"
"Character_identity"
[ "the beast", "Lorfel", "not enough information", "Char" ]
0
"f002_12"
"f002"
"12"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"Why was Ranur the one who was hurt?"
"Unanswerable"
[ "He was targeted by the beasts", "He is the slowest of the three", "He didn't see the arrow coming", "not enough information" ]
3
"f002_13"
"f002"
"13"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"Who became a murderer?"
"Character_identity"
[ "Char", "Ranur", "not enough information", "all three men" ]
0
"f002_14"
"f002"
"14"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"When did the roar happen?"
"Temporal_order"
[ "before the cry", "when Char was speaking", "not enough information", "after the silence" ]
0
"f002_15"
"f002"
"15"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"The conversation between Char, Ranur and Lorfel probably lasted:"
"Event_duration"
[ "not enough information", "1 minute", "5 seconds", "2 hours" ]
2
"f002_16"
"f002"
"16"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"Why was there blood?"
"Causality"
[ "not enough information", "because Lorfel had an axe", "because Char shot something", "because Char had a sword" ]
2
"f002_17"
"f002"
"17"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"Immediately after the end of this text, Ranur is:"
"Subsequent_state"
[ "on the ground", "in the sky", "standing up", "not enough information" ]
0
"f002_18"
"f002"
"18"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"When did an arrow pierced through the darkness?"
"Temporal_order"
[ "After the explosion", "After a cry broke out", "After the silence", "not enough information" ]
0
"f002_19"
"f002"
"19"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"Who spoke with urgency?"
"Belief_states"
[ "Char", "Ranur", "not enough information", "Lorfel" ]
3
"f002_20"
"f002"
"20"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"Where was Ranur's body disposed?"
"Unanswerable"
[ "not enough information", "In the lake", "On the ground", "In the fire" ]
0
"f002_21"
"f002"
"21"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"Who probably killed the beast?"
"Entity_properties"
[ "Char", "not enough information", "Lorfel", "Ranur" ]
3
"f002_22"
"f002"
"22"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"From what or whom did the roar came from?"
"Character_identity"
[ "Char", "not enough information", "A beast", "Ranur" ]
2
"f002_23"
"f002"
"23"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"Who was concerned about his companions' injuries?"
"Belief_states"
[ "Char", "not enough information", "Lorfel", "Ranur" ]
0
"f002_24"
"f002"
"24"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"The balloon was filled with:"
"Unanswerable"
[ "steel", "marbles", "pumpkin", "not enough information" ]
3
"f002_25"
"f002"
"25"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"After the end of this text, Ranur is:"
"Subsequent_state"
[ "standing up", "in the sky", "not enough information", "on the ground" ]
3
"f002_26"
"f002"
"26"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"Who struck down the beast by shooting an arrow?"
"Character_identity"
[ "Lorfel", "Ranur", "not enough information", "Char" ]
0
"f002_27"
"f002"
"27"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"The beast was infected with:"
"Unanswerable"
[ "disease", "a venom", "not enough information", "it was a vampire" ]
2
"f002_28"
"f002"
"28"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Michael E. Shea", "title": "The Bear", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/sheamother08the_bear/0.html" }
"The air exploded in a flash of bone and steel and blood. The clash of metal rang through the forest. An arrow pierced through the darkness, its barbed head tearing through flesh and muscle. A roar echoed off of the mountains far to the west. A cry broke through soon after. Then silence. Char stood over a pile of black fur and red blood. He held a curved sword, jagged half way down the wide blade and hilted in bone. He held a large thick bow in the other. Lorfel and Ranur stood behind him, panting. Lorfel, a short man of twenty six held a large axe in both hands and still prepared to swing it hard. Ranur, the largest of the three held a pike in one hand, its tip hanging low towards the ground. He buried his other hand in his gray tunic. "Did it get either of you?" Char's voice rasped low in the silence of the night. "No" Lorfel said. He planted his axe head on the ground with a thud and leaned on the tall handle. There was a pause. Char turned towards Ranur. "Are you hurt?" "Mm...My hand." Ranur took his hand out of his tunic. Moonlight gleamed red off of the ragged wound. Char thought he saw a glimmer of bone. "Did he claw you or bite you?" Char's voice held an urgency that set both Lorfel and Ranur on edge. Ranur paused and then spoke low. "He bit me." Char picked Lorfel and Ranur as his hunting partners for their speed and sharpness in battle. They had hunted beasts of the deep woods all of their lives. They hunted the beasts that hunted men. They all knew the risks of battling such creatures. The old man dropped his curved sword, drew his bow, and fired. The arrow hammered into Ranur's chest, burying itself in his heart. Lorfel saw the gleaming arrow head sticking almost a foot out of his companion's back. Ranur fell face first to the ground."
"Who held a curved sword?"
"Character_identity"
[ "Lorfel", "Char", "Ranur", "not enough information" ]
1
"f003_0"
"f003"
"0"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"Why was Patch hungry?"
"Causality"
[ "It was cold out", "He hadn't found a nut in two days", "not enough information", "The grass was all dry" ]
1
"f003_1"
"f003"
"1"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"Winter probably lasted:"
"Event_duration"
[ "not enough information", "all year long", "two weeks", "at least four months" ]
3
"f003_2"
"f003"
"2"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"Who is Patch's friend?"
"Unanswerable"
[ "The hawk", "not enough information", "The grub", "The dog" ]
1
"f003_3"
"f003"
"3"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"What was very comfortable for Patch?"
"Factual"
[ "the hollowed out canoe at the edge of the lake", "his bench on Central Park", "not enough information", "his drey in an old oak tree" ]
3
"f003_4"
"f003"
"4"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"When was Patch awakened?"
"Temporal_order"
[ "end of a long summer", "start of a winter", "end of a long winter", "not enough information" ]
2
"f003_5"
"f003"
"5"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"Who was hungry?"
"Character_identity"
[ "a dog", "a squirrel", "a hawk", "not enough information" ]
1
"f003_6"
"f003"
"6"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"After emerging from his drey, Patch:"
"Temporal_order"
[ "not enough information", "climbed up a tree in Central Park", "was attacked by a dog in Central Park", "found acorns to satisfy his hunger" ]
3
"f003_7"
"f003"
"7"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"What kind of animal is Patch?"
"Factual"
[ "a squirrel", "not enough information", "a porcupine", "a chipmunk" ]
0
"f003_8"
"f003"
"8"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"What is probably true about Patch?"
"Entity_properties"
[ "he is not a squirrel", "he is reckless", "he is careful", "not enough information" ]
2
"f003_9"
"f003"
"9"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"What is probably true about Patch?"
"Entity_properties"
[ "He is cautious", "not enough information", "He is careless", "He is reckless" ]
0
"f003_10"
"f003"
"10"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"Why was Patch hungry?"
"Causality"
[ "It had been 2 days since he found nut.", "The last acorn he found was over a month ago.", "not enough information", "It had been a week since he had last eaten." ]
0
"f003_11"
"f003"
"11"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"Immediately after the end of this text, how safe was Patch?"
"Subsequent_state"
[ "surrounded by dogs", "about to die", "not enough information", "very safe" ]
3
"f003_12"
"f003"
"12"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"What is in Patch's home?"
"Factual"
[ "not enough information", "wet things", "dry materials", "nothing" ]
2
"f003_13"
"f003"
"13"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"Patch began to look for acorns:"
"Temporal_order"
[ "not enough information", "in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep", "right after he woke up in the morning", "right before going to bed late at night" ]
2
"f003_14"
"f003"
"14"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"What was Patch afraid of?"
"Factual"
[ "getting caught in a snowstorm", "losing his way back home to his drey", "being caught by a dog or a bird", "not enough information" ]
2
"f003_15"
"f003"
"15"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"Immediately after the end of this text, how hungry was Patch?"
"Subsequent_state"
[ "not hungry", "starving", "not enough information", "full" ]
1
"f003_16"
"f003"
"16"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"What is a squirrels home called?"
"Factual"
[ "a drey", "a nest", "a tree", "not enough information" ]
0
"f003_17"
"f003"
"17"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"How often does Patch need to eat to avoid feeling hungry:"
"Unanswerable"
[ "not enough information", "every hour on the hour", "six times a day", "twice a day" ]
0
"f003_18"
"f003"
"18"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"When was the last time it snowed?"
"Unanswerable"
[ "a day ago", "not enough information", "a month ago", "2 weeks ago" ]
1
"f003_19"
"f003"
"19"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"The wind blew for:"
"Event_duration"
[ "years", "not enough information", "months", "hours" ]
3
"f003_20"
"f003"
"20"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"How many other animals live with Patch?"
"Unanswerable"
[ "not enough information", "Patch and his wife", "Patch and his whole family", "just Patch" ]
0
"f003_21"
"f003"
"21"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"When he emerges from his drey, Patch believes that:"
"Belief_states"
[ "there is no food anywhere", "not enough information", "there are no dangers nearby", "there are dangers everywhere" ]
2
"f003_22"
"f003"
"22"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"Patch will probably eat:"
"Entity_properties"
[ "not enough information", "an acorn", "the ice", "bits of newspaper" ]
1
"f003_23"
"f003"
"23"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"Patch left the drey:"
"Temporal_order"
[ "before he was hungry", "before checking for danger", "after checking for danger", "not enough information" ]
2
"f003_24"
"f003"
"24"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"Why was Patch hungry?"
"Causality"
[ "not enough information", "a bird had stolen his food", "he had given his last nut to another squirrel", "it was two days since he had found a nut" ]
3
"f003_25"
"f003"
"25"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"Who was hungry?"
"Character_identity"
[ "the unleashed dog", "Patch", "the grub", "not enough information" ]
1
"f003_26"
"f003"
"26"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"On which planet does this story take place?"
"Entity_properties"
[ "Jupiter", "Earth", "not enough information", "Mars" ]
1
"f003_27"
"f003"
"27"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"How does Patch get to his drey?"
"Unanswerable"
[ "he scurries up the tree", "his owner carries him", "not enough information", "he swings from branch to branch" ]
2
"f003_28"
"f003"
"28"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Jon Evans", "title": "Beasts of New York", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/evansjother07beasts_of_new_york/0.html" }
"A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words!"
"Patch believed his drey was:"
"Belief_states"
[ "nonexistant", "not enough information", "warm and dry", "uncomfortable" ]
2
"f004_0"
"f004"
"0"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
"April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?"
"Who did the author describe as "a little crazy?":"
"Character_identity"
[ "Martha", "Walter", "not enough information", "Sylvia" ]
1
"f004_1"
"f004"
"1"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
"April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?"
"Why was Martha in hysterics?"
"Causality"
[ "Her husband Walter died.", "Her dog died.", "not enough information", "She got into a car accident." ]
0
"f004_2"
"f004"
"2"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
"April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?"
"Why did the writer think he might hear Walter's voice?"
"Causality"
[ "because he got a package", "because he went to the funeral.", "not enough information", "because he believed in ghosts," ]
0
"f004_3"
"f004"
"3"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
"April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?"
"How many days after Walter's death was his funeral held?"
"Event_duration"
[ "1 day", "3 days", "2 days", "not enough information" ]
2
"f004_4"
"f004"
"4"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
"April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?"
"What type of condition was it awkward to observe someone in?"
"Factual"
[ "standing up", "not enough information", "vulnerable", "strong." ]
2
"f004_5"
"f004"
"5"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
"April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?"
"What did the writer say after shaking Martha's hand?"
"Factual"
[ "he told her he was sorry", "not enough information", "he hugged her", "he sat down" ]
0
"f004_6"
"f004"
"6"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
"April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?"
"Whose name was on the package?"
"Factual"
[ "not enough information", "Martha", "Walter", "Sylvia" ]
2
"f004_7"
"f004"
"7"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
"April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?"
"Breakfast lasted most likely:"
"Event_duration"
[ "all day", "20 minutes", "10 seconds", "not enough information" ]
1
"f004_8"
"f004"
"8"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
"April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?"
"Immediately after the end of this text, the package is:"
"Subsequent_state"
[ "not enough information", "burned", "unopened", "at Walter's house" ]
2
"f004_9"
"f004"
"9"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
"April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?"
"Martha is now a:"
"Entity_properties"
[ "mother", "widow", "not enough information", "art critic" ]
1
"f004_10"
"f004"
"10"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
"April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?"
"What was the author expecting from Walter the day after he died?"
"Factual"
[ "A package", "For Walter to contact him", "not enough information", "Another joke" ]
1
"f004_11"
"f004"
"11"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
"April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?"
"Are art professors valued in the writer's community?"
"Unanswerable"
[ "no", "sometimes", "yes", "not enough information" ]
3
"f004_12"
"f004"
"12"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
"April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?"
"What did the writer get the day before the funeral?"
"Factual"
[ "flowers", "cake", "a packaged item from Walter", "not enough information" ]
2
"f004_13"
"f004"
"13"
"fiction"
{ "author": "Albert Berg", "title": "The Beach Scene", "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/bergaother10Beach_Scene/0.html" }
"April 1, 2006 Walter died today. Found out this morning over breakfast. Suicide. Walter. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Suicide. Walter wasn't suicidal. I know that, know it for a fact. But he is dead. Why? I am not foolish enough to suspect "foul play" as they say in the mystery stories. No one cares enough about a community college art teacher to murder him. But suicide? Something is wrong here. Very wrong. April 2, 2006 I didn't realize until this morning that yesterday was April Fools day. Some kind of sick joke? But that's not like Walter either. He was a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy. Still I keep half expecting to pick up my voice and hear his voice yell, "Gotcha!" But it is no joke. I know he is dead. (Later) Got a package today. From Walter. Scary considering what I wrote about expecting him to call. I can't express the chill I got when I saw his name on the label. A message from the dead. Surely it's not a good Omen. It's a painting. Or at least I think it is. The package is the right shape, and knowing Walter it seems likely, but...I haven't yet worked up the courage to open it yet. I'm afraid of what I might find. April 3, 2006 Went to the funeral today. Walter's wife, Martha, was in hysterics. Can't say I blame her. It was awkward being there seeing someone in the most vulnerable possible condition. I didn't know her that well. Walter and I rarely interacted outside of work, so I have very little knowledge of his personal life. Sylvia went up to her and hugged her even though she'd never met her before in her life. It must be something with women to be able to make that kind of spontaneous connection. I just shook her hand, and told her I was sorry. I don't make a habit of crying in public, but seeing her so shaken up brought tears to the edges of my eyes, and I did nothing to wipe them away. After five years of friendship it's the least Walter deserves of me. One other thing. The package. It's still sitting there in my study. Mocking me. That's how it feels anyway. Should I open it?"
"Who did the author not know that well?"
"Character_identity"
[ "Walter's wife", "Patch", "Marsha", "not enough information" ]
0
End of preview (truncated to 100 rows)

Dataset Card for "quail"

Dataset Summary

QuAIL is a reading comprehension dataset. QuAIL contains 15K multi-choice questions in texts 300-350 tokens long 4 domains (news, user stories, fiction, blogs).QuAIL is balanced and annotated for question types.

Supported Tasks and Leaderboards

More Information Needed

Languages

More Information Needed

Dataset Structure

Data Instances

quail

  • Size of downloaded dataset files: 6.11 MB
  • Size of the generated dataset: 28.25 MB
  • Total amount of disk used: 34.36 MB

An example of 'train' looks as follows.

This example was too long and was cropped:

{
    "answers": ["the cousin is not friendly", "the cousin could have been pretier", "not enough information", "the cousin was too nice"],
    "context": "\"That fall came and I went back to Michigan and the school year went by and summer came and I never really thought about it. I'm...",
    "context_id": "f001",
    "correct_answer_id": 0,
    "domain": "fiction",
    "id": "f001_19",
    "metadata": {
        "author": "Joseph Devon",
        "title": "Black Eyed Susan",
        "url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/devonjother08black_eyed_susan/0.html"
    },
    "question": "After the events in the text what does the author think about the cousin?",
    "question_id": "19",
    "question_type": "Subsequent_state"
}

Data Fields

The data fields are the same among all splits.

quail

  • id: a string feature.
  • context_id: a string feature.
  • question_id: a string feature.
  • domain: a string feature.
  • author: a string feature.
  • title: a string feature.
  • url: a string feature.
  • context: a string feature.
  • question: a string feature.
  • question_type: a string feature.
  • answers: a list of string features.
  • correct_answer_id: a int32 feature.

Data Splits

name train challenge validation
quail 10246 556 2164

Dataset Creation

Curation Rationale

More Information Needed

Source Data

Initial Data Collection and Normalization

More Information Needed

Who are the source language producers?

More Information Needed

Annotations

Annotation process

More Information Needed

Who are the annotators?

More Information Needed

Personal and Sensitive Information

More Information Needed

Considerations for Using the Data

Social Impact of Dataset

More Information Needed

Discussion of Biases

More Information Needed

Other Known Limitations

More Information Needed

Additional Information

Dataset Curators

More Information Needed

Licensing Information

More Information Needed

Citation Information

@inproceedings{DBLP:conf/aaai/RogersKDR20,
  author    = {Anna Rogers and
               Olga Kovaleva and
               Matthew Downey and
               Anna Rumshisky},
  title     = {Getting Closer to {AI} Complete Question Answering: {A} Set of Prerequisite
               Real Tasks},
  booktitle = {The Thirty-Fourth {AAAI} Conference on Artificial Intelligence, {AAAI}
               2020, The Thirty-Second Innovative Applications of Artificial Intelligence
               Conference, {IAAI} 2020, The Tenth {AAAI} Symposium on Educational
               Advances in Artificial Intelligence, {EAAI} 2020, New York, NY, USA,
               February 7-12, 2020},
  pages     = {8722--8731},
  publisher = {{AAAI} Press},
  year      = {2020},
  url       = {https://aaai.org/ojs/index.php/AAAI/article/view/6398},
  timestamp = {Thu, 04 Jun 2020 13:18:48 +0200},
  biburl    = {https://dblp.org/rec/conf/aaai/RogersKDR20.bib},
  bibsource = {dblp computer science bibliography, https://dblp.org}
}

Contributions

Thanks to @sai-prasanna, @ngdodd for adding this dataset.

Models trained or fine-tuned on quail