Picnicking

". . . after a short interval [Ratty] reappeared staggering under a fat, wicker luncheon basket.

.......'Shove that under your feet,' he observed to the Mole, as he passed it down into the boat. Then he untied the painter and took the sculls again.

.......'What's inside it?' asked the Mole, wiggling with curiosity.

.......'There's cold chicken inside it,' replied the Rat briefly; .......'coldtonguecoldhamcoldbeefpickledgherkinssaladfrenchrollscresssandwidgespottedmeatgingerbeerlemonadesodawater--'

.......'O stop, stop,' cried the Mole in ecstasies: 'This is too much!'

.......'Do you really think so?' inquired the Rat seriously. 'It's only what I always take on these little excursions; and the other animals are always telling me that I'm a mean beast and cut it very fine!'".......~KENNETH GRAHAME

.......PACKING THE BASKET . . .

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First--Cucumber Sailboats with cheese sails

"What is in that hamper?" asked Albert as he came running out of his house.

"I don't know," said Frances. "Nothing much. Hard-boiled eggs and whole fresh tomatoes. Carrot and celery sticks. There are some cream cheese-and-chives sandwiches, I think, and cream cheese-and-jelly sandwiches too, and salami-and-egg and pepper-and-egg sandwiches. Cole slaw and potato chips, of course. Ice-cold root beer packed in ice, and watermelon and strawberries and cream for dessert. And there are other things I forget, like black olives and pickles and Popsicles and probably some pretzels and things like that. And there are salt and pepper shakers and napkins and a checked tablecloth, which is the way girls do it."

"Could I come along on the eating?" said Albert.

"You mean outing," said Frances.

"Outing, I mean," said Albert. "Could I come along? . . .".......~RUSSEL HOBAN

. . . my brother and companion, supporting the forward end of our laden picnic basket.

~Our destination: or rather the view therefrom. . . the south side of the grove, open to the considerable sunshine and blue sky; the surroundings being dappled with leaf shadows, and subject to the mewing of the catbirds, and all the other regular birds, whose songs we are so accustomed to that we don't notice anymore, unless we remember to. The ripening corn still stretches into the blue heavens, the leaves rustle in the coolish and welcome breeze, and all the familiar plants are about--loads of milkweed, milky-milkweed with loaded pods; stinging nettles, there's loads of that too, but to be cautiously avoided; grass, hot grass, that had been so cool and wet when I took my morning walk; burdock of course, crowding the path and catching at my skirt; all of these constitute a normal amble or excursion in our patch of woods.

They could never keep me away of course. I always wonder why I don't do it more often once I'm out there. I love the birds and the wind in the trees; the dead-wood logs for benches, and the dry tickly grass. A certain part in the path crosses a sort of trench to jump over, that is almost always muddy, and in consequence it's banks are covered in rich moss. I love moss. . .

Unpacking. . . and the Ingestion of the basket's contents. . .

~ice-cold lemonade

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. . .and the conclusion

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"Packing the basket was not quite such pleasant work as unpacking the basket. It never is. But the Mole was bent on enjoying everything, and although just when he had got the basket packed and strapped up tightly he saw a plate staring up at him from the grass, and when the job had been done again the Rat pointed out a fork which anybody ought to have seen, and last of all, behold! the mustard pot, which he had been sitting on without knowing it--still, somehow, the thing got finished at last, without much loss of temper."....~KENNETH GRAHAME