Can you read us a polaric stress?

Vanpecule, this polar question.

The polar express, written and illustrated by Chris Van Alzberg.

On Christmas Eve, many years ago, I lay quietly in my bed.

I did not rustle the sheets.

I breathed slowly and silently.

I was listening for a sound.

A sound a friend had told me I'd never hear.

The ringing bells of Santa's sleigh.

There is no Santa, my friend had insisted, but I knew he was wrong.

Late that night I did hear sounds, though not of ringing bells.

From outside came the sound of hissing steam and squeaking metal.

I looked through my window and saw a train standing perfectly still in front of my house.

It was wrapped in an apron and a steam. Snowflakes fell lightly around it.

A conductor stood at the open door of one of the cars.

He took a large pocket watch from his vest, then looked up at my window.

I put in my slippers and rolled.

I tipped toad downstairs and out the door.

All aboard the conductor cried out.

I ran up to him.

Well, you said, are you coming? Where, I asked?

Why? To the north pole, of course.

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