Fortune's Magic Farm (26 page)
Read Fortune's Magic Farm Online
Authors: Suzanne Selfors
“But I’ve got to practice. If I don’t learn how to make dead animals look like they ain’t dead, then how will I get a job as a Royal Taxidermist at the Museum of Natural History?”
“Gwendolyn said
ain’t
,” Squeak said, climbing next to Homer. “That’s bad.”
Mr. Pudding shook his head—a slow kind of shake that was heavy with worry. “Royal Taxidermist for the Museum of Natural History. What kind of job is that? Way off in The City, with all that noise and pollution. With all that crime and vagrancy. That’s no place for a Pudding.”
“Uncle Drake moved to The City,” Gwendolyn said, emphasizing her point with a dramatic sweep of the squirrel. “And he’s doing right fine.”
“How do you know?” Mr. Pudding asked with a scowl. “We don’t even know where he lives in The City. All he’s given us is a post office box for an address. And we haven’t heard a word from him since his last visit. Not a
letter. Not a postcard. What makes you think he’s doing right fine?”
“No news is good news,” Mrs. Pudding said. She set bowls of porridge in front of Mr. Pudding and Squeak, then set a bowl for Gwendolyn. “Now stop arguing, you two, and eat your breakfast. And put away that squirrel.”
Gwendolyn stomped her foot, then tucked the squirrel under her chair.
As Mr. Pudding stirred his porridge, steam rose from the bowl and danced beneath his chin. “I told him not to go. The City’s no place for a Pudding. That’s what I told him. But he said he had
important matters
to tend to. Said he had to find out about that pirate, Stinky somebody or other.”
“Rumpold Smeller,” Homer corrected, suddenly interested in the conversation. “Duke Rumpold Smeller of Estonia became a very famous pirate. His treasure has never been found. Uncle Drake wants to be the first person to find it.”
Mr. Pudding groaned. Gwendolyn rolled her eyes.
“Eat your porridge, Homer,” Mrs. Pudding said, setting an overflowing bowl in front of him. Then she planted a smooch on the top of his curly-haired head.
Mr. Pudding motioned to his wife. Though she bent close to him and though he whispered in her ear, everyone
at the table could hear. “Why’d you give him so much? Don’t you think he’s getting kind of…
chunky
?”
She put her hands on her hips. “He’s a growing boy. He needs to eat.” Then she smiled sweetly at Homer.
Now, Mrs. Pudding loved all three of her children equally, like any good mother. But love can be expressed in different ways. For instance, Mrs. Pudding knew that her eldest child had a mind of her own, so she gave Gwendolyn lots of room to be an individual. Mrs. Pudding knew that her youngest child wanted to be helpful, so she gave Squeak lots of encouragement and praise. And Mrs. Pudding knew, and it broke her heart to know, that her middle child was friendless, so she gave Homer extra helpings of food and more kisses than anyone else in the house.
“Growing boy,” Mr. Pudding grumbled. “How’s he ever gonna fit in if he can’t run as fast as the other boys? If all he talks about is treasure hunting? It’s my brother’s fault, filling his head with all that nonsense.”
It’s not nonsense,
Homer thought, shoveling porridge into his mouth. So what if he didn’t fit in with the other boys? All they cared about was fighting and getting into trouble. He pulled the bowl closer. And so what if he was chunky? A true treasure hunter would never pass up the chance to eat a warm breakfast. Near starvation while
stranded on a deserted island had forced more than a few treasure hunters to eat their own toes.
“I like twesure,” Squeak said, porridge dribbling down his chin.
“I like treasure, too,” Homer said.
Mr. Pudding drummed his calloused fingers on the table. “Could we go just one meal without talking about finding treasure? Or stuffing dead animals? I don’t know where I went wrong with you children.”
Mrs. Pudding poured herself a cup of coffee, then added a ladle of fresh milk. “There’s nothing wrong with having
interests
.”
“
Interests?
” Mr. Pudding scratched the back of his weathered neck. “Stuffing dead animals and finding lost treasure—what kind of interests are those? Why can’t they be interested in goat farming? Is that too much to ask? Who’s gonna run this farm when I’m too old to run it?”
“Me,” Squeak said. “I like goats.”
As sweet as that sounded, it gave Mr. Pudding no peace of mind. Squeak was only five years old. Yesterday he had wanted to be a dragon-slayer.
“Goat farming’s honest, solid work,” Mr. Pudding said, dumping brown sugar on his porridge. “You children don’t understand the importance of honest, solid work.”
Gwendolyn rolled her eyes again. Then she sank deeper, until her bottom was hanging off the edge of her chair. Homer was bored by the conversation again. He tried to dig a hole in his porridge but the sides kept caving in—like trying to dig for treasure in mud.
Now, Mr. Pudding loved all three of his children equally, like any good father. But he didn’t believe that giving them extra room to be individuals, or giving extra encouragement or extra food and kisses, did much good. Solid work meant a solid life, which in turn meant a roof, and a bed, and food on the table. What could be more important than that?
Mr. Pudding pushed his empty bowl aside, then unrolled the Sunday
City Paper
. “Wouldn’t surprise me one bit if I started reading and found out that my brother had been robbed or had fallen into a manhole. I’m sure something terrible’s gonna happen to him. The City’s a terrible place.”
As he read, muttering and shaking his head, the children finished their breakfast. Gwendolyn carried her bowl to the sink, as did Homer.
“Mom, when I’m done cleaning the stalls, can I go read my new map?” Homer asked.
“Of course.” Mrs. Pudding kissed Homer’s soft cheek, then whispered in his ear. “I believe in you, Homer. I know you’ll find treasure one day.”
Homer looked into his mother’s brown eyes with their
big flecks of gold—like coins half-buried in the sand. When he became a famous treasure hunter, he’d give all the jewels to her so she could wear a different necklace every day and buy new dresses and shoes. And one of those fancy crowns that beauty queens wear.
But chores came first. He started for the kitchen door when Mr. Pudding waved the newspaper and hollered, “I knew it! I knew something terrible would happen to him!”
Ready for more excitement?
More magic?
More FUN?
Collect all the adventures by Suzanne Selfors!
To Catch a Mermaid
Smells Like Dog
Smells Like Treasure
Four: The Room on the Fourth Floor
Eleven: How to Ride an Elephant Seal
Thirteen: The Island of Mysterious Holes
Eighteen: The Colors of Isabelle
Twenty-One: The Seed Depository
Twenty-Two: The Broken Promise
Twenty-Three: Daffodilly Fortune
Twenty-Five: Escape from Fortune’s Farm
Twenty-Seven: Cherries for Everyone
Twenty-Eight: Marmots to the Rescue
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Suzanne Selfors
Illustrations copyright © 2009 by Catia Chien
Excerpt of Smells Like Dog copyright © 2010 by Suzanne Selfors
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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Hachette Book Group
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Second e-book edition: February 2012
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ISBN 978-0-316-04095-2
