Sample for Audiobook/Children's Book
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North American (General)Transcript
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Gwendolyn. Pet garden. Gwendolyn. Newbury frets wanted a pet more than polka dotted rain boots more than a telescope. More than anything. Gwendolyn. Grouch and pouted, pestered and pleaded, argued and bartered. But Gwendolyn parents simply would not budge. Certainly not. For a pet with two legs. Can I have a cockatoo? Can I have a two? Can, can I have a mccall? Birds throw feathery fits? Said father, Under no circumstances for a pet with four legs. Can I have a gerbil? Can I have a hedgehog? Can I have a chunky leela for makes my nose sneeze, son, Mother, And never in a million years for a pet with eight or 10 legs. Can I have a tarantula? Can I have a lobster? Can I have a crab? Can I have a Schremp spiders? Give me nightmares? Said Father. Shellfish. Give me hives, said Mother, I want a pet to keep me company, said Gwendolyn. You have us? Said her parents, I want a pet to teach it tricks, said Gwendolyn. Your little brother fetches and rolls over said her parents, I want a pet to care for, said Gwendolyn. Well, said her parents, you can take care of this. It's a box of dirt. It's like Gwendolyn, it's a bed of soil, said her parents. It smells of a swamp, said Gwendolyn. It smells of possibilities, said her parents. So Gwendolyn started digging. But all she found was more dirt. A dead beetle and a peculiar piece of root. Are you growing frustrated? Asked her parents. I'm sprouting an idea, said Gwendolyn. Gwendolyn went to the library and borrowed the great book of gardening. She became savvy about soil, seeds, sunlight and shade, and when Gwendolyn had read all she could, she borrowed seeds from the seed lending library. She even offered to trade them for her marbles and seashell collection. But the librarian said the seeds were free. Gwendolyn made rows of little holes in the soil and sprinkled them with marigold seeds, basil and fennel seeds, and finally zucchini seeds. Then she filled the holes up, giving each one a pat of encouragement, splash of water. She crossed her fingers and toes and whispered, Please grow some days. The soil needed more watering. Other days is soaked up the sun, and every day Gwendolyn talked to it. Did you know Pickle? Our neighbor's dog has pets. He has fleas, but nothing happened. And when Pickle tried to bury his bone in the soil, Gwendolyn told him to bury it in his own backyard, but still nothing happened until the day the soil did a trick. It pushed up to tiny leaves that slowly unfolded and turned their place to the sun. Then the soil did more tricks. More leaves peaked out, sniffed the air and stretched upward on thin stems. The stems butted the butts bloomed vines and tendrils like hairs of wild beasts inched along the soil, and delicate shoots of fennel and basil scented the air with a peppery licorice perfume. Gwendolyn named the plants. Good morning gore truth. Good morning Boris. Good morning, mortimer. Good morning. She studied them daily, measuring each one as it grew, and recorded the changes in her notebook. The bed of soil was now carpeted with fiery marigolds, blossoming zucchinis and herbs that shimmied in the wind. It fluttered with butterflies and bees and sang with the chirps of the cicadas and crickets. It did not have two legs, four legs, or any legs at all, but it was alive, and Gwendolyn could talk to it, care for it and watch it grow.