text_original: When the tents of the summer camp are shining on the field—the flag, with its blood bright stripes, waving against the foliage of the hills—the trumpet echoing from bluff to bluff, and the compact batallion cutting its trim line across the greensward—there are few more fairy spots in this working day world.
text_transcription: WHEN THE TINTS OF THE SUMMER CAMP ARE SHINING ON THE FIELD THE FLAG WITH ITS BLOOD BRIGHT STRIPES WAVING AGAINST THE FOLIAGE OF THE HILLS THE TRUMPET ECHOING FROM BLUFF TO BLUFF AND THE COMPACT BATTALION CUTTING ITS TRIM LINE ACROSS THE GREENSWARD THERE ARE FEW MORE FAIRY SPOTS IN THIS WORKING DAY WORLD
phonemes: wˌɛn ðə tˈɛnts ʌvðə sˈʌmɚ kˈæmp ɑːɹ ʃˈaɪnɪŋ ɔnðə fˈiːld—ðə flˈæɡ, wɪð ɪts blˈʌd bɹˈaɪt stɹˈaɪps, wˈeɪvɪŋ ɐɡˈɛnst ðə fˈoʊlɪɪdʒ ʌvðə hˈɪlz—ðə tɹˈʌmpɪt ˈɛkoʊɪŋ fɹʌm blˈʌf tə blˈʌf, ænd ðə kəmpˈækt bætˈæliən kˈʌɾɪŋ ɪts tɹˈɪm lˈaɪn əkɹˌɑːs ðə ɡɹˈiːnswɚd—ðɛɹˌɑːɹ fjˈuːmˌɔːɹ fˈɛɹi spˈɑːts ɪn ðɪs wˈɜːkɪŋ dˈeɪ wˈɜːld.