“It’s certainly a bear place,” said the Donkey, hee-hawing at his own joke.
“I mean to have a hall-tree,” the Bear apologized; “but I can’t decide on the kind to get. Doctor Goose advises birch, but Doctor Fox claims poplar is the best. All the newest things, he says, are poplar.”
“What’s a hall-tree?” inquired Buddie. There was no such thing in her home.
“A hall-tree,” the Donkey explained, “is a tree that grows in the hall, just as a shade-tree is a tree that grows in the shade. The trouble with birch and poplar”—turning to the Bear—“is that they grow so fast you have to keep lopping them off, unless your hall is very high, and this one isn’t.”
“I must see about those thistles,” said the Bear, and hurried away. But he was back in a moment. “I forgot to tell you we dress for dinner,” he said, and was off again.
“I always carry a dinner-coat with me,” said the Donkey, and from one of his saddle-bags he drew out a remarkable jacket in red and green checks, embroidered all over with Scotch thistles.
“I forgot to say,” said the Bear, again poking his head inside the den, “it’s to be a birthday dinner.”
“Whose?” cried Buddie. But the Bear was out of hearing. “Let me help you,” she said to the Donkey, who was making such awkward work of getting into his dinner-coat that she scarcely could keep from laughing.
“Thank you,” he replied. “It is a little hard to manage. How do I look? There isn’t a glass in the room.”
“Very fine indeed,” Buddie assured him. And then it suddenly occurred to her that she had no dinner-coat, and she wondered what she should do.