conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know a description for a book titled Double Fudge about Fudge-a-Mania with the genre: Children's Books, Growing Up & Facts of Life?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: on Fudge-a-Mania
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first paragraph for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Double Fudge
  When my brother Fudge was five, he discovered money in a big way. "Hey, Pete," he said one night as I was getting out of the shower. "How much would it cost to buy New York?"
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Buzzy said, "Tough love. That's the answer. Don't let him push you around, Fudge. Let him know who's boss."
  That night, after Tootsie went to sleep, we gathered in Fudge's room to find out if Mrs. Osterman was right. While the rest of us sat on the bed, Dad tiptoed across the room and slammed Fudge's door. Uncle Feather heard it all right. He jumped off his perch, flapped his wings, and jerked his head from side to side. You could tell he was really upset.
  The next day I went on-line and found a website called mynabird.com. I sent a message asking if anyone knew why a myna bird would stop talking. I got five messages back, but nobody could give me a definite answer.
  Henry Bevelheimer came up to have a look. He watched Uncle Feather for half an hour. "Uh-huh..." he said. "Just what I thought. Your bird's on strike, Fudge."
  What Mom meant is, mynas are known as frequent poopers, especially after they eat. So, when Uncle Feather's out of his cage, all the furniture has to be covered. We put old newspapers on the floor. Then we pull down the window shades and drape the mirrors because birds are attracted to light.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: At first I felt bad that I didn't get a goldfish too. Then Jimmy handed me a glass bowl. Inside there was some water and three rocks. A tiny green turtle was sleeping on the biggest rock. All the other guys looked at their goldfish. I knew what they were thinking. They wished they could have tiny green turtles too.
  I named my turtle Dribble while I was walking home from Jimmy's party. I live at 25 West 68th Street. It's an old apartment building. But it's got one of the best elevators in New York City. There are mirrors all around. You can see yourself from every angle. There's a soft, cushioned bench to sit on if you're too tired to stand. The elevator operator's name is Henry Bevelheimer. He lets us call him Henry because Bevelheimer's very hard to say.
  Our apartment's on the twelfth floor. But I don't have to tell Henry. He already knows. He knows everybody in the building. He's that smart! He even knows I'm nine and in fourth grade.
  Henry was right. My mother was really surprised. Her mouth opened when I said, "Just look at what I won at Jimmy Fargo's birthday party." I held up my tiny green turtle. "I've already named him... Dribble! Isn't that a great name for a turtle?"
  I went into my bedroom. I put Dribble on top of my dresser. I tried to pet him and tell him he would be happy living with me. But it isn't easy to pet a turtle. They aren't soft and furry and they don't lick you or anything. Still, I had my very own pet at last.