# I Know a Secret/Chapter 3

THE kittens were always delighted when the picnic season began. It was a family that believed in picnics, and from April to October one might expect, almost any fine day, to see Fourchette burst out of the kitchen door, sniff the air, and suddenly exclaim "I'm sickantired of ordering meals! Let's shut up the house and go for a picnic!"
Then there was hurrying to collect bathing suits, towels, sweaters, sun hats, water wings, tin spades, toy boats, pieces of string, the old steamer rug, paper drinking cups, all the odds and ends that fill up the car and make a picnic a success.
​But no food. It was understood that a picnic was to relieve Fourchette of the strain of housekeeping. When she went on a picnic she didn't even want to know what she was going to have to eat. That was to be a surprise.
There are all sorts of places to go picnicking, depending on the weather. You can go out the Parkway, where you see the airplanes over the flying fields and have a fine view across those wide grassy plains. Later on you get into the pine woods, or even go as far as Lake Ronkonkoma—a name the kittens found it hard to say. Or you can go to Lloyds Neck, a wonderful region they highly approved. If you knew the lanes and trails of Lloyds Neck you could find your way past that huge oak tree (the biggest on Long Island) to Target Rock. Donny used to remark, a little anxiously, as he drove the car, that all those wonderful lonely beaches on Lloyds Neck were "Private Property." But in those days the Neck was very quiet, they disturbed no one and were never moved off. Indeed the kittens came to believe that the words Private Property simply meant a fine place for a picnic.
Or there was the lighthouse at Eatons Neck, another excellent shore to visit. Donny really ​preferred that. Though it was farther to go, it belonged to the government, and he felt he had a right to use it. Once when the lighthouse keeper seemed a little doubtful Donny produced his license. It said: State of New York, Dog License Number 184525. Fee $2.25. Town of North Hempstead, County of Nassau. Dog's Name, Donny. Breed, English Sheep. Donny asserted that this proved him to be a tax-paying citizen, with a right to enjoy government property. The lighthouse keeper was so surprised at Donny's firmness that he let them go through and down to the beach.
But perhaps best of all were the picnics to the little Boat Club at Glen Cove. Because there, in case of a storm, you had the clubhouse to take shelter in. You were, so to speak, on your own ground and couldn't be turned off; and there was the catboat Platitude.
Hops and Malta, unlike most kittens, were very fond of the water. Even Fourchette, though she did not care much for sailing, admitted that a catboat was the most suitable kind of craft. A platitude simply means something flat and shallow, and she was. She had a centreboard, and was almost as broad as long. Donny used to say ​that she had submarine blood in her, for in a strong breeze she had a tendency to push her nose down into the water as if she was going right under. But on calm days, when there was a gentle breeze, Fourchette sat in a rocking chair on the verandah of the clubhouse while Donny and the kittens drifted about in the boat. Hops and Malta wore their little green bathing suits and they had old tire tubes, blown up with air, twisted round their waists in case of accident. If they were becalmed the kittens put their fishing lines overboard and hoped for a bite. They rarely caught anything, but they always hoped, and peered eagerly over the stern to watch their painted floats. Donny, who was not much interested in fish, smoked his pipe and watched the sky and looked quite like an old hairy sailor. Sometimes, if the wind failed altogether, he got out the oar and paddled the boat back to the dock. Then the kittens were always excited by the long spinning twirls of silver bubbles made by the blade of the oar in the still water. Fourchette always felt quietly relieved when they got safely back to the dock. In her own thoughts she was doubtful about water and once remarked that there was too much of it about Long Island. Donny said ​that was nonsense; that when you had an island you had to have enough water to go all the way round.
Wherever they went on a picnic, they always began by going to the same place—to Mr. Liverwurst's delicatessen store in Mineola. That was not his real name, but they called him so because Fourchette was extremely fond of his liverwurst sandwiches and said that all his meats were very reliable. She and the kittens sat in the car while Donny went into the shop to buy the lunch. No one was allowed to go in with him, so the food would always be a surprise. Donny tried to make it different each time, but he always got some liverwurst sandwiches (with rye bread, and no mustard). Among the things he enjoyed were sweet pickles, cheese cake, pork and bologna sandwiches, sardines, crackers, peanut butter, ginger ale, cream soda, stuffed olives, potato chips, chocolate, cream cheese, salted almonds, strawberry jam, and plain cake. Milk chocolate with cream cheese spread on it was an invention of his own which he liked enormously. Sometimes the night after a picnic, Donny growled a little in his sleep.
Mr. Liverwurst was a nice little German who ​had run this delicatessen store for a long time. All summer, every fine day, he was busy slicing sandwiches and making up bags of lunch for people who were going on picnics. On Saturdays and Sundays he must have cut hundreds of sandwiches. But he never had a chance to go on a holiday himself. Indeed he hardly knew just what a picnic was. He thought about this a great deal, until he got quite savage. If you think of a thing for a long time and do nothing about it you get yourself in a rather queer state. So it was with Mr. Liverwurst.
One fine day Donny came in grinning cheerfully and saying as usual, "What a grand day for a picnic." He began giving his regular order for liverwurst sandwiches and all the rest of it. Mr. Liverwurst flushed red and began playing with his long sharp knife. Donny did not notice, he was busy looking in the glass case to decide what kind of cheese to take. He always found it a bit difficult to talk while ordering the lunch, because the sight of all the meats filled his mouth with wetness. But he swallowed several times, and then said firmly, "And please don't put any mustard on the sandwiches."
This was more than Mr. Liverwurst could ​stand. Because he enjoyed putting mustard on the sandwiches, it was the only thing that made cutting sandwiches any fun for him. He lost his temper entirely. He thought of reaching over and spreading mustard on Donny's large moist black nose.
"I'll mustard you," he shouted. And then he suddenly ran round from behind the counter and threatened Donny very fiercely with the knife.
"See here!" he said. "Today you're going to stay here and run the store and cut up sandwiches. I'm going on a picnic instead."
Donny was greatly surprised, but Mr. Liverwurst's knife looked so dangerous he did not argue about it. Besides, all the different things in the glass case smelled delicious and he had often thought what fun it must be to weigh things on the scales and put pickles and potato salad in the little cardboard trays. So he agreed, on condition that Mr. Liverwurst would supply the lunch free. Mr. Liverwurst, sorry to have lost his temper, agreed to that. They explained politely to Fourchette the change of plan. Donny put on Mr. Liverwurst's white apron, and after making sure that the delicatessen man understood how to ​drive Dame Quickly, he waved them good-bye. Off they went along the Jericho Pike.
Mr. Liverwurst was in excellent spirits at first. This was his only holiday in ten years, he said, and he was anxious to learn what happened on picnics. But little by little things became difficult. Mr. Liverwurst, after all these years of delicatessen, smelt so strongly of meat and sausage and smoked fish that the kittens became riotous. Even Fourchette had to lean far over to the other end of the seat to control herself, and kept bursting into purrs of excitement. The kittens were leaning over from the back seat and smelling Mr. Liverwurst's coat collar, which made him nervous. When Hops, growing wild, jumped on his shoulder and began nibbling his ear the car almost crashed into a tree. As they went through Sea Cliff the traffic policeman reproached the delicatessen man severely for careless driving. But it was not really Mr. Liverwust's fault, for by this time all three cats were almost sitting in his lap, and pricking their claws into his knees with playful good humour.
The kittens were so hungry that when they got to the club they had to have lunch at once. ​It was eaten on the beach, so as not to disturb other members who were sitting quietly on the porch. Even so there was some scandal caused in the club by the way Fourchette and the kittens snuggled all over Mr. Liverwurst as he sat on the sand. There were complaints made to the Membership Committee.
Mr. Liverwurst did not eat much lunch. So much of his life was spent among food that he was glad not to think about it for a while. The heat on the beach bothered him, for in his shop in Mineola, among ice-boxes and electric fans, it was always cool. Also three active cats climbing up his back and rubbing against his fragrant trousers made him feel hotter still. But Fourchette and the kittens ate enormously. Then Fourchette, growing a little ashamed of the way she had behaved, became very stern with Hops and Malta. They were soon in tears. They had to be consoled by the story of the Paper Bag Tree that is always told at picnics. It is a story about a family that always left a mess behind them after a picnic. They scattered bread crusts and bits of paper and banana skins and empty bottles in the woods. Then one morning they ​woke up and found that a Paper Bag Tree had grown in their yard. A Paper Bag Tree is a great untidy straggly bush that has little paper bags blossoming on every branch. From a distance it looks picturesque, but when you get near you find that in each of the paper bags is an empty peanut shell, scraps of silver foil, orange peel, and the top of a ginger ale bottle. When you see a Paper Bag Tree growing in anyone's yard you know that those people are not at all congenial.
After lunch it was high tide. Hops and Malta insisted on going out in the boat. Fourchette, uncertain of Mr. Liverwurst's ability as a sailor, thought it best to go with them. Mr. Liverwurst put on Donny's bathing suit, in which he looked so odd that Fourchette feared the smarter members of the club were laughing at them. After some confusion they got into the club dinghy and rowed out to the Platitude's mooring. Fourchette had a feeling of coming disaster, but now it was too late to turn back. They got the sail up at last, but very untidily. They had started off and thought that all was well, but then they heard shouts from the dock. They were towing the club dinghy with them, instead of returning it to the
​pier as they were supposed to. Mr. Liverwurst tried to sail back, but they had forgotten to put down the centreboard and the Platitude went mostly sideways. Also he did not really know how to make a landing, which always needs some skill. He banged into the swimming-float on the windward side, almost hitting some of the bathers. The boat was jammed there by the breeze. Trying to push off, the wind got into the wrong side of the sail, the boom swung over and knocked both him and Fourchette into the water. The kittens, wild with excitement, swarmed up the mast and would not come down. They clung to the gaff, yowling. Fourchette was politely pulled out by the Commodore of the club himself, which was a great honour; but her pretty foulard dress was spoiled, and she was in a horrible temper.
They drove back in a very peevish state. Fourchette was extremely angry with Donny when they got to Mineola. Donny answered her crossly, for slicing meat all day had made him rather fierce too. And the adventure cured poor Mr. Liverwurst of any desire to go on picnics. If you go into his store and say anything about picnics he will laugh heartily and say he is happier at home with his carving knife.
​Fourchette laughed too, but not till she got home and the kittens were safely in bed. To this day her eyes grow a little wild when she thinks of the smell of Mr. Liverwurst's coat.