Fortune's Magic Farm by Suzanne Selfors (rainbow fish read aloud .txt) 📕

Isabelle giggled again. They loved making fun of Gertrude’s boyfriend, Mr. Hench. Whenever he kissed Gertrude, the slurping sound was so loud it seemed as if he might suck her face right off.

BEEP, BEEP.

Startled, Isabelle and Gwen scampered to the roadside, expecting a delivery truck to pass by. Trucks delivered supplies to the factory store, the only place in Runny Cove to buy food and sundries. Trucks hauled boxed umbrellas from the factory, taking them to towns that the workers had never seen.

BEEP, BEEP.

But it wasn’t a truck. Mr. Supreme’s sleek black roadster sped up the road. The license plate read: IMRICH. Mr. Supreme occasionally visited Runny Cove to inspect his factory. He didn’t live in the village. He didn’t have to.

BAROOO!

The factory’s horn sounded the five-minute warning. Mr. Supreme’s roadster churned up mud, splattering the fronts of the girls’ rain slickers. He neither stopped to apologize nor offered the girls a ride. He didn’t care about manners. He didn’t need to.

“We’d better hurry,” Isabelle said, coughing from the thick exhaust fumes.

The girls ran toward the factory.

And as they ran, the seed, still tucked inside Isabelle’s sock, began to vibrate.

After hanging up their slickers and tying their grimy aprons around their waists, the girls lined up with the other workers along the wall of a huge cement room. The apple seed continued to vibrate, just enough to make Isabelle want to scratch her leg. Mr. Hench stood on his security balcony. A metal badge shone on his gray uniform. Isabelle tapped her boot on the water-stained floor, trying to shake the seed into a less itchy position. Leonard stood at the far end of the line. I can hardly wait to tell him, she thought. He waved but there wasn’t time to give him the apple chunk. Mr. Supreme had sauntered into the room. Everyone froze.

Mr. Supreme handed his black umbrella to one of his many sniveling assistants—a nameless cluster of men who wore long white coats and stuck to the boss like barnacles. Mr. Supreme plunked a yellow hard hat on his head, then dropped a cigar stump onto the floor. His glossy black trench coat crunched as he walked up and down the line, twirling his driving gloves as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps having lots of money made it possible to live a life without worry.

Isabelle didn’t like Mr. Supreme, not because he sprayed mud on girls without apologizing, but because he was stingy. As owner of the Magnificently Supreme Umbrella factory, he controlled the paychecks of almost every person in Runny Cove and he barely paid them enough to survive. As owner of the only store in Runny Cove, he supplied life’s 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.