Fortune's Magic Farm by Suzanne Selfors Read Free Book Online Page A

necessities—except for umbrellas. Never, ever did Mr. Supreme’s Factory store sell umbrellas. Therefore, the people who actually made the umbrellas never got to use them, and that made no sense to Isabelle.
    With Gwen and Leonard’s help, Isabelle had made up a little song about Mr. Supreme. As he sneered at his employees, the song ran through her head.
The Mr. Supreme Song
    We work in your factory all day,
    in exchange for our pitiful pay.
    But what would we do if we didn’t have you?
    Three jeers for Mr. Supreme
    (he’s a stinker),
    three jeers for Mr. Supreme.
You seem like a mean sort of fella,
    standing under your big black umbrella.
    But what would we do if we didn’t have you?
    Three jeers for Mr. Supreme
    (he’s a pooper),
    three jeers for Mr. Supreme.
Mr. Supreme, Mr. Supreme,
    I bet your life is just like a dream.
    With your boots and cigars and your big fancy cars,
    you’re a stinker, Mr. Supreme.
    Gwen gave Isabelle a sharp poke with her elbow. “You’re humming too loud,” she whispered.
    Up and down the line the boss strode, smiling smugly at the quivering workers. “Good morning, Magnificently Supreme Factory Employees.” His voice rolled across the cement room like a tsunami.
    “Good morning, Mr. Supreme, sir,” the workers chanted.
    Isabelle shook her leg. That seed was driving her nuts.
    He halted, resting his hands behind his back, and cleared his throat disapprovingly. “I couldn’t hear you.”
    “GOOD MORNING, MR. SUPREME, SIR!”
    “That’s better, but not good enough.” He stuck out his cleft chin. “So, let’s try that again. Good morning, Magnificently Supreme Factory Employees.” He put his hand to his ear.
    The workers screamed, “GOOD MORNING, MAGNIFICENTLY SUPREME FACTORY EMPLOYEES!” Then they put their hands to their ears.
    Mr. Supreme frowned. “Stupidest bunch of workers I’ve got,” he murmured to one of his assistants.
    “Stupidest,” the assistant agreed.
    The boss stuffed his driving gloves into his pocket. “I have something glorious to show you,” he announced to the workers. “Something that will insure my factory’s future and thus,
your
futures.” He clapped his hands together.
    A smallish assistant scurried in, carrying a closed umbrella. Before taking the umbrella, Mr. Supreme whipped a canister from his pocket. It didn’t read: SALT , like Mama Lu’s canister. Rather, it read: ANTIBACTERIAL WIPES. He proceeded to wipe down the umbrella’s handle. “Magnificently Supreme Factory Employees, behold the future.”
    Mr. Supreme held the closed umbrella above his head. Isabelle and Gwen exchanged shrugs. It looked like the same black metal-framed umbrella the factory had produced for as long as they could remember. What could possibly be glorious about a black umbrella?
    Mr. Supreme pulled off the umbrella’s black sheath and pushed a little lever. The umbrella swooshed open. Transfixed, no one moved. No one breathed. Then a chorus of “Ahhhh,” and “Ooooh,” echoed off the cement walls. For what had appeared to be an ordinary black umbrella was neither ordinary nor black. Radiant red, brighter than the mysterious apples, shone above Mr. Supreme’s head.
    A trio of assistants hurried around the room, handing umbrellas to the workers. “These are the prototypes. Open them!” Mr. Supreme exclaimed.
    Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh.
    Isabelle removed her umbrella’s cover and pressed the lever. Royal purple erupted above her head. Silver beads dangled from the umbrella’s edges, tinkling magically. Gwen basked beneath gold, Mr. Wormbottom beneath amber. Mrs. Wormbottom twirled a turquoise number with yellow tassels. Lime, silver, chocolate, and vanilla danced in the air.The usually colorless faces of the factory’s workers reflected the umbrella colors in a way that was both awesome and terrifying. Everyone started talking at once.
    Isabelle closed her umbrella and darted between the excited workers. Sure, she felt as amazed as they did, but she