Hello, Invisible Minions.

While you’ve  been playing with Hoot and Who,

And the Blond Duck’s been busy twirling around at various bbq joints,

We’ve been trying to find the secret of this book.

Buy the paperback or e-book version here.

This book.

There’s something magical about it.

We just can’t figure out what.

We’ve sniffed and snuffled,

wafted and wuffled,

pawed and pounced.

And we still have no idea what the magical secret is.

Perhaps you can tell us.

We think it’s got something to do with reading it.

We’d also like to read the Blond Duck’s newest book.  It’s got PICTURES. That’s right!  Not only is it three glorious short stories geared for little ones about a magical toy shop and the enchanted toys that live in a world called the Land of the Flowered Bed in a little girl’s bedroom, but it’s illustrated by the fabulous Marie from A Year From Oak Cottage!

Buy it here! We promise, you’ll love it.  It’s got characters like Miss Moose McKinley…

Sandie the Stingray…

and Pumble the Bee!

Really, you’ll love it.  The illustrations Marie did are darling.

Until then, you can read us the Return of Miss Pickles.

Because it’s just as exciting and magical.

To read the previous Return of Miss Pickles, go to Neverending Stories or here.

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A storm of boot-clad, umbrella-wielding children raced down the hallway, hardly able to contain their whispers or giggles.  As Mr. Bumble twirled toward his office under Miss Pickles’ pink parasol and Ms. Guenther stormed back to her room, the class thundered after Miss Pickles.  Hopping in her own pink-polka dotted rainboots, Miss Pickles skipped past the kitchen, around the gym, ducked through the art rooms, made a grand detour around the music room and scurried through the closets of the science lab.

“Where is she taking us?” Don whispered, dodging a skeleton model and glass container of gerbils.

“Somewhere with food, hopefully,” Ralph muttered, tearing off a chunk of scone clutched in his plump hand.  “She didn’t give us time to pack like last time.”

“She’s probably not taking us anywhere,” Beatrice butted in, ignoring the boys’ glares.  “Which is good.  We have a history paper due tomorrow.”

“Have you ever had fun?” Mason interrupted, raising his eyebrow.  “Have you ever done something not for school?”

Beatrice’s mouth dropped open.  Her sallow face turned a very unpleasant shade of pink.  “Just because I don’t want to be idiots like the rest of you is no reason to be rude!” she hissed, flouncing towards some of the other girls in class.

“Come along, duckies!” Miss Pickles called.  Bursting through a door, she skipped through Mr. Peters’, the third grade science teacher’s class room.  “Hello, Mr. Peters!” she called as she wound through the aisles, the children duitifully scurrying after her.  “Just using your back door!  Have a lovely day!”

“You too, Miss Pickles!” Mr. Peters stuttered, his cheeks turning pink.  With a broad smile, he watched as Mason and his classmates hurried out the door in the back of his room.

“Where are they going?” one child asked.

“How come we can’t go?” another third grader scowled.

“I want to go outside too!” a third howled.

Mr. Peters shook his head, his stern teacher look returning to his face as Miss Pickles shut the door with a cheery wave.  “Because that is Miss Pickles, class.  Now turn to page 78….”

Once outside, the children shivered under a leaky metal awning.

“What do we do now, Miss Pickles?” Mason shouted over the howling wind.  “It’s raining!”

“Well, of course it’s raining, ducky,” Miss Pickles laughed.  Holding out her hands, she twirled under the pouring rain.  “What else would you call this?”

The class looked at Mason, then at Miss Pickles, worried and amazed looks scattered over their faces.

“How are we supposed to find an adventure?” Mason asked.  “We can’t exactly go out in the rain.  We’ll just get muddy.”

“And wet,” Don added.  “We’ll catch a cold.”

“And hungry,” Ralph piped up, rubbing his protruding belly.  “Cold weather makes you hungrier.  My mother said so.”

“Why duckies!” Miss Pickles admonished, placing her hands on her hips.  The rain beat down in her head, running down her face and sprinkling through her wild curls like tiny dew drops.  “Are you giving up before you’ve even started?  I’ve told you time and time again–you can’t plan an adventure.  You simply have to find one.  Adventures come to you when they’re ready, not the other way around!”

“And how are we supposed to find one?” Beatrice snapped nastily.  “We should just go back to the classroom and study for our test next week.”

Miss Pickles stuck out her tongue and blew a raspberry.  “Live a little, ducky!” she cried.  “It’s simple.  My hot air balloon is on the roof.  All we have to do is climb up and float away!  An adventure is bound to find us sooner or later, later or sooner.”

The children looked up at the raging skies.  They looked at the roof of the two story school, then back at Miss Pickles, then finally at Mason.

Mason cleared his throat.  “How do we get up there?”

“Yes, it was definitely time I came back,” Miss Pickles muttered to herself.  Cracking open her purse, she pulled out an identical pink parasol like she had given Mr. Bumble.  Opening it, she rose into the air.

“Simply open your umbrellas, duckies, and float to the roof!” she cried, rising higher and higher until the children could only see the toes of her pink rain boots.  “Come on, now!  Open them up and come on up!”

The class looked at Mason.

“This is not going to work,” Beatrice snarled.

“For once, I’m afraid I agree,” Don gulped, looking up at the roof.  “That’s a long way to fall.”

“I’ve heard hospital food is terrible,” Ralph muttered, wringing his hands.

Mason shook his head and waved his umbrella.  “Guys, this is exactly what Miss Pickles is talking about!  Don’t you see?  We’ve been drudging away so long at school we’ve lost all sense of fun.  Who cares if we fall a couple feet?  Can you imagine how fun it will be in the hot air balloon?”

“In the rain?” Beatrice sneered.  “In the cold?  Get real.”

The rest of the class muttered under their breath, nodding their heads in agreement.

“No,” Mason argued.  He stepped out in the rain and opened his umbrella.  “I don’t want to get real.  I want to have fun.”  Holding up his umbrella, he waited.

For a moment, nothing happened.  Water slithered down his arm and down his neck, running to the edge of his shirt.  Beatrice smirked, and the rest of the children’s faces fell.

“It was a good idea,” Don murmured.

“You tried,”  Ralph added helpfully.

“It’ll work,” Mason whispered, to them as much to himself.  “It has to work.”  Stomping his feet into the mud, he thrust his umbrella into the air.

And felt himself rising.  Suddenly, his toes were three inches off the floor.  Then five inches.  Then two feet.  Glancing up, Mason saw the edge of the roof crawling slower and slower toward him.

“It works!” he cried.  “It works!  Everyone, it works!”

Don was the first to open his umbrella and rush into the rain.  “Coming up!” he cried, stomping his feet into the mud and launching into the air.

“Wait for me!” Ralph cried, his umbrella in one hand, a half-eaten scone in the other.

One by one, each child rose into the air and floated onto the roof under their umbrellas.  Once there, they rushed into the grand hot pink hot air balloon.  Though Mason wouldn’t have thought it, all twenty children fit on the wide straw basket.  Each child placed their umbrella on the ground by their feet, next to their muddy boots.  In one corner of the basket, baskets of tiny cakes, cookies and fruit lay on a small table.  In another corner, a cat perched on an armchair cleaning itself.  In the third corner, next to metal containers of gas, lay several wrapped thin packages.

“Miss Pickles, why do you have a cat in an armchair?” Mason asked as Miss Pickles fiddled with the dials and controls of the balloon.

“Who doesn’t have a cat and a armchair?” Miss Pickles countered.

“On a hot-air balloon?” Mason asked, amazed.

“Why not?” Miss Pickles shrugged.  Turning and twisting the last knobs, she wrapped a thick silken cord around her hand.   “Ready, duckies?” Miss Pickles cried.  She lowered her aviator glasses and held up her thumb.

“Ready!”  The class cried, giving her thumbs up.

“Away we go!” Miss Pickles cried, yanking the cord.  The flamed roared under the great balloon, and it rose into the rain, the weighted cords holding it down simply sliding away.

As Mason leaned over the edge, he saw his school get smaller and smaller as the grey clouds grew closer and closer.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt pure joy.

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  Tomorrow we have a fun new adventure, Wednesday a new scary story and Thursday, a new delicious recipe that little girls will adore!  Stay tuned!