text_original: A cold like that of eternal space settled in our bones. Even Terence McCann grumbled. "Begob," said he, "'tis fine weather for fishes, and the birrds are that comfortable in the threes. 'Tis no place for a baste at all, at all."
text_transcription: A COLD LIKE THAT OF ETERNAL SPACE SETTLED IN OUR BONES EVEN TERENCE MECHAN GRUMBLED BEGOB SAID HE TIS FINE WEATHER FOR FISHES AND THE BIRDS ARE THAT COMFORTABLE IN THE TREES TIS NO PLACE FOR A BASTE AT ALL AT ALL
phonemes: ɐ kˈoʊld lˈaɪk ðæt ʌv ɪtˈɜːnəl spˈeɪs sˈɛɾəld ɪn ˌaʊɚ bˈoʊnz. ˈiːvən tˈɛɹəns mə kˈæn ɡɹˈʌmbəld. "bᵻɡˈɑːb," sˈɛd hiː, "tˈɪz fˈaɪn wˈɛðɚ fɔːɹ fˈɪʃᵻz, ænd ðə bˈɜːɹədz ɑːɹ ðæt kˈʌmftəbəl ɪnðə θɹˈiːz. tˈɪz nˈoʊ plˈeɪs fɚɹə bˈeɪst æɾ ˈɔːl, æɾ ˈɔːl."