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.

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

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

By the way, Mr. Clampett, do you know you're eating on a billiard table?

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.

Heaven help him if he ever meets up with a billiard.

I declare, I never thought I'd see the day the Jet Clampett was scared to kill a turkey.

Hillbilly, that is.

Like dressing up in your Sunday go-to-meeting best and having middles in the fancy eating room.

They live around here in Beverly Hills?

That there is what you call a Beverly Hills billiard.

The pot.

The next is the most important picture of all, where the Indians give us the turkey.

Uh, the turkey.