text_original: He told us there was no fear of redskins here, yet, when the scream of a painter or the hoot of an owl stirred me from my exhausted slumber, I caught sight of him with his back to a tree, staring into the forest, his rifle at his side.
text_transcription: HE TOLD US THERE WAS NO FEAR OF REDSKINS HERE YET WHEN THE SCREAM OF A PANTHER OR HOOT OF AN OWL STIRRED ME FROM MY EXHAUSTED SLUMBER I CAUGHT SIGHT OF HIM WITH HIS BACK TO A TREE STARING INTO THE FOREST HIS RIFLE AT HIS SIDE
phonemes: hiː tˈoʊld ˌʌs ðɛɹwˌʌz nˈoʊ fˈɪɹ ʌv ɹˈɛdskɪnz hˈɪɹ, jˈɛt, wˌɛn ðə skɹˈiːm əvə pˈeɪntɚ ɔːɹ ðə hˈuːt əvən ˈaʊl stˈɜːd mˌiː fɹʌm maɪ ɛɡzˈɔːstᵻd slˈʌmbɚ, aɪ kˈɔːt sˈaɪt ʌv hˌɪm wɪð hɪz bˈæk tʊ ɐ tɹˈiː, stˈɛɹɪŋ ˌɪntʊ ðə fˈɔːɹɪst, hɪz ɹˈaɪfəl æt hɪz sˈaɪd.