"But did they think it so very wrong?" Her face grew suddenly grave.
"I suppose they did. They had some queer ideas in those days. They thought all exhibitions of affection out of place."
Doris looked thoughtfully out to the harbor. Perhaps that was the reason no one but Betty kissed her.
Then they drove around to the Green Dragon. This had been a famous inn, where, in the early days, the patriots came to plan and confer and lay their far-reaching schemes. It was said they went from here to the famous Tea Party. Uncle Winthrop repeated an amusing rhyme:
"'Rally, Mohocks, bring out your axes,
And tell King George we'll pay no taxes
On his foreign tea.
His threats are vain, he need not think
To force our wives and girls to drink,
His vile Bohea.'"
"I shouldn't like to be forced to drink it," said Doris, with a touch of repugnance in her small face.
"It does better when people get old and queer," said Uncle Winthrop. "Then they want some comfort. They smoke—at least, the men do—and drink tea. Now you can see the veritable Green Dragon."
The house was low, with small, old-time dormer windows. The dragon hung out over the doorway. He was made of copper painted green, his two hind feet resting on a bar that swung out of the house, his wings spread out as well as his front feet, and he looked as if he really could fly. Out of his mouth darted a red tongue.
"He is dreadful!" exclaimed Doris.
"Oh, he doesn't look as fierce now as I have seen him. A coat of paint inspires him with new courage."