Uncle Jed, Granny, Ellie, me, Mr. Drysdale, Mrs. Drysdale, Miss Jane.

They done captured Mr. Drysdale.

Mr. Drysdale give us a turkey.

I meant my chief, Mr. Drysdale.

The Beverly Hillbilly.

Mr. Drysdale gave us that bird for a meal, not a pen.

Miss Hathaway is out getting a kettle and Mr. Drysdale doesn't have his costume on as yet.

I declare Duke, if Mr. Drysdale give us a string of weenies, that girl'll make pets out of him.

When the Drysdale come to eat, they want to see that bird sitting on the table, not at it.

You see, Mr. and Mrs. Drysdale are posing as Governor and Mrs. Bradford in a recreation of the first Thanksgiving some 342 years ago, when the old Gonquins, Quanto and Massasoit befriended the beleaguered Pilgrims and so made it possible to perpetuate the Plymouth Colony and bring them to be what is now one of the most important holidays in the American calendar.

Hillbilly, that is.

They live around here in Beverly Hills?

That there is what you call a Beverly Hills billiard.

Well, how in the world could there be wild Indians in Beverly Hills?

So they loaded up the truck and they moved to Beverly Hills, that is.

Oh, you bet you can.

But aren't you taking Thanksgiving bittles with us?

Oh, yes, indeed.

I merely wanted to borrow the venerable vessel as a photographic prop.

What was it you wanted again?