Hi, I'm Al Gore and this is part of the BookPALS program, sponsored by the Screen Actors Guild Foundation.
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And today, I'm going to read you this book, written and illustrated by William Steig, it's called "Brave Irene."
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Here's how it begins...
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Mrs. Bobbin, the dressmaker, was tired and had a bad headache, but she still managed to sew the last stiches in the gown she was making.
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"It's the most beautiful dress in the whole world!" said her daughter, Irene. "The duchess will love it."
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"It is nice," her mother admitted. "But, dumpling, it's for tonight's ball, and I don't have the strength to bring it. I feel sick."
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"Poor Mama," said Irene. "I can get it there!"
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"No, cupcake, I can't let you," said Mrs. Bobbin.
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"Such a huge package, and it's such a long way to the palace. Besides, it's starting to snow."
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"But I love snow," Irene insisted.
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She coaxed her mother into bed, covered her with two quilts, and added a blanket for her feet.
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Then she fixed some tea with lemon and honey and put more wood in the stove.
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With great care, Irene took the splendid gown down from the dummy and packed it in a big box with plenty of tissue paper.
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"Dress warmly, pudding," her mother called in a weak voice, "and don't forget to button up. It's cold out there, and windy."
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Irene put on her fleece-lined boots, her red hat and muffler, her heavy coat, and her mittens.
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She kissed her mother's hot forehead six times, then once again, made sure she was tucked in snugly,
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and slipped out with the big box, shutting the door firmly behind her.
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It really was cold outside, very cold.
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The wind whirled the falling snow-flakes about, this way, that way, and into Irene's squinting face.
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She set out on the uphill path to Farmer Bennett's sheep pasture.
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By the time she got there, the snow was up to her ankles and the wind was worse.
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It hurried her along and made her stumble.
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Irene resented this; the box was problem enough.
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"Easy does it!" she cautioned the wind, leaning back hard against it.
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By the middle of the pasture, the flakes were falling thicker.
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Now the wind drove Irene along so rudely she had to hop, skip, and go helter-skeltering over the knobby ground.
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Cold snow sifted into her boots and chilled her feet.
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She pushed out her lip and hurried on. This was an important errand.
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When she reached Apple Road, the wind decided to put on a show.
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It ripped branches from trees and flung them about, swept up and scattered the fallen snow,
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got in front of Irene to keep her from moving ahead.
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Irene turned around and pressed on backwards.
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"Go home!" the wind squalled.
"Irene... go hooome..."
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"I will do no such thing," she snapped. "No such thing, you wicked wind!"
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"Go ho-o-ome," the wind yodeled.
"GO HO-WO-WOME," it shrieked, "or else."
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For a short second, Irene wondered if she shouldn't heed the wind's warning.
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But no! The gown had to get to the duchess!
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The wind wrestled her for the package-- walloped it, twisted it, shook it, snatched at it.
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But Irene wouldn't yield. "It's my mother's work!" she screamed.
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Then-- oh, woe!-- the box was wrenched from her mittened grasp and sent bumbling along in the snow.
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Irene went after it.
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She pounced and took hold, but the ill-tempered wind ripped the box open.
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The ball gown flounced out and went waltzing through the powdered air with tissue-paper attendants.
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Irene clung to the empty box and watched the beautiful gown disappear.
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How could anything so terribly wrong be allowed to happen? Tears froze on her lashes.
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Her dear mother's hard work, all those days of measuring, cutting, pinning, stitching... for this?
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And the poor duchess! Irene decided she would have to trudge on with just the box and explain everything in person.
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She went shuffling through the snow. Would her mother understand, she wondered, that it was the wind's fault, not hers?
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Would the duchess be angry? The wind was howling like a wild animal.
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Suddenly Irene stepped in a hole and fell over with a twisted ankle. She blamed it on the wind.
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"Keep quiet!" She scolded. "You've done enough damage already. You've spoiled everything! Everything!"
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The wind swallowed up her words.
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She sat in the snow in great pain, afraid she wouldn't be able to go on.
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But she managed to get to her feet and start moving. It hurt.
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Home, where she longed to be, where she and her mother could be warm together, was far behind.
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It's got to be closer to the palace, she thought. But where any place was in all this snow, she couldn't be sure.
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She plowed on, dragging furrows with her sore foot. The short winter day was almost done.
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"Am I still going the right way?" she wondered. There was no one around to advise her.
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Whoever else there was in this snow-covered world was far, far away, and safe indoors-- even the animals in their burrows. She went plodding on.
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Soon night took over. She knew in the dark that the muffled snow was still falling-- she could feel it.
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She was cold and alone in the middle of nowhere. Irene was lost.
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She had to keep moving. She was hoping she'd come to a house, any house at all, and be taken in.
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She badly needed to be in someone's arms. The snow was above her knees now.
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She shoved her way through it, clutching the empty box.
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She was asking how long a small person could keep this struggle up, when she realized it was getting lighter.
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There was a soft glow coming from somewhere below her.
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She waded toward this glow, and soon was gazing down a long slope at a brightly lit mansion.
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It had to be the palace!
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Irene pushed forward with all her strength and-- sloosh! thwump!-- she plunged downward and was buried.
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She had fallen off a little cliff.
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Only her hat and the box in her hands stuck out above the snow.
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Even if she could call for help, no one would hear her. Her body shook. Her teeth chattered.
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"Why not freeze to death," she thought, "and let all these troubles end."
Why not? She was already buried.
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And never see her mother's face again? Her good mother who smelled like fresh-baked bread?
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In an explosion of fury, she flung her body about to free herself and was finally able to climb up on her knees and look around.
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How to get down to that glittering palace? As soon as she raised the question, she had the answer.
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She laid the box down and climbed aboard.
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But it pressed into the snow and stuck.
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She tried again, and this time, instead of climbing on, she leaped. The box shot forward, like a sled.
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The wind raced after Irene but couldn't keep up. In a moment she would be with people again, inside where it was warm.
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The sled slowed and jerked to a stop on paving stones.
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The time had come to break the bad news to the duchess.
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With the empty box clasped to her chest, Irene strode nervously toward the palace.
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But then her feet stopped moving and her mouth fell open. She stared.
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Maybe this was impossible, yet there it was, a little way off and over to the right, hugging the trunk of a tree--
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The beautiful ball gown! The wind was holding it there.
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"Mama!" Irene shouted. "Mama, I found it!"
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She managed somehow, despite the wind's meddling, to get the gown off the tree and back in its box.
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And in another moment she was at the door of the palace. She knocked twice with the big brass knocker.
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The door opened and she burst in.
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She was welcomed by cheering servants and a delirious duchess.
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They couldn't believe she had come over the mountain in such a storm, all by herself.
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She had to tell the whole story, every detail. And she did.
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Then she asked to be taken right back to her sick mother.
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But it was out of the question, they said; the road that ran around the mountain wouldn't be cleared until morning.
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"Don't fret, child," said the duchess. "Your mother is surely sleeping now. We'll get you there first thing tomorrow."
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Irene was given a good dinner as she sat by the fire, the moisture steaming off her clothes.
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The duchess, meanwhile, got into her freshly ironed gown before the guests began arriving in their sleighs.
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What a wonderfull ball it was! The duchess in her new gown was like a bright star in the sky.
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Irene in her ordinary dress was radiant.
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She was swept up into dances by handsome aristocrats, who kept her feet off the floor to spare her ankle.
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Her mother would enjoy hearing all about it.
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Early the next morning, when snow had long since ceased falling, Mrs. Bobbin woke from a good night's sleep feeling much improved.
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She hurried about and got a fire going in the cold stove. Then she went to look in on Irene.
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But Irene's bed was empty! She ran to the window and gazed at the white landscape.
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No one out there. Snow powder fell from the branch of a tree.
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"Where is my child?" Mrs. Bobbin cried. She whipped on her coat to go out and find her.
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When she pulled the door open, a wall of drift faced her.
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But peering over it, she could see a horse-drawn sleigh hastening up the path.
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And seated on the sleigh, between two large footmen, was Irene herself, asleep but smiling.
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Would you like to hear the rest?
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Well, there was a bearded doctor in the back of the sleigh...
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and the duchess had sent Irene's mother a ginger cake with white icing, some oranges and a pineapple, and spice candy of many flavors,
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along with a note saying how much she cherished her gown, and what a brave and loving person Irene was.
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Which, of course, Mrs. Bobbin knew. Better than the duchess.
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I hope you enjoyed this book, "Brave Irene."
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