“We’ll soon know,” laughed May, as Dixie was gently drawn to a standstill in front of Tilly Fenn’s home.
The well-trained little pony always stood without being tied, so the girls jumped from the sleigh and ran up the steps, moderating their gay laughter as they decorously pushed the door-bell.
“Come up to my room, girls,” called Tilly, over the banister, as they were admitted.
So in a few moments the three chums were busily talking of Betty’s project.
“A real old-fashioned Thanksgiving party,” said Betty, enthusiastically; “everything Puritan, you know. We’ll all wear plain gray dresses and white fichus and aprons, and dear little Puritan caps, and the boys must rig up the right kind of clothes. What did men wear then?”
“Oh, knee-breeches and long stockings, and bunches of bows at the knees,” said May, who was a history lover.
“Yes, and broad white collars, and sort of Norfolky jackets, and broad-brimmed hats,” added Tilly.
“With a feather?” suggested Betty.
“Oh, no; not a feather,—I think,—that isn’t Puritanish. But a buckle,—I think,—well, anyway we can look up pictures, and see.”
“Yes,” agreed Betty, “and I’ll fix up Jack’s clothes. Mother’ll help me. Then we’ll have the feast of the real old-timey kind. Baked beans, you know,—and doughnuts, and cider,—”