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Rip Van Winkle - Washington Irving

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RIP VAN WINKLE

I

Whoever has made a voyage up theHudson must remember the CatskillMountains. They are a branch of the greatvAppalachian9-* family, and are seenaway to the west of the river, swelling upto a noble height, and lording it over thesurrounding country. Every change ofseason, every change of weather, indeed,every hour of the day, produces somechange in the magical hues and shapes ofthese mountains, and they are regarded byall the goodwives, far and near, as perfectvbarometers.

At the foot of these fairy mountains the

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traveler may have seen the light smokecurling up from a village, whose shingleroofs gleam among the trees, just wherethe blue tints of the upland melt away intothe[10] fresh green of the nearerlandscape. It is a little village of greatage, having been founded by some of theDutch colonists in the early times of theprovince, just about the beginning of thegovernment of the good Peter vStuyvesant(may he rest in peace!), and there weresome of the houses of the original settlersstanding within a few years, built of smallyellow bricks brought from Holland,having latticed windows and gable fronts,surmounted with weathercocks.

In that same village, and in one of thesevery houses, there lived, many years

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since, while the country was yet aprovince of Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip VanWinkle. He was a descendant of the VanWinkles who figured so gallantly in thevchivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, andaccompanied him to the siege of FortChristina. He inherited, however, but littleof the martial character of his ancestors. Ihave observed that he was a simple, good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kindneighbor and an obedient, henpeckedhusband.

Certain it is that he was a great favoriteamong all the goodwives of the village,who took his part in all family squabbles;and never failed, whenever they talkedthose matters over in their evening

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gossipings, to lay all the blame on DameVan Winkle. The children of the village,too, would shout with joy whenever heapproached. He assisted at their sports,made their playthings, taught them to flykites and shoot marbles,[11] and told themlong stories of ghosts, witches, andIndians. Whenever he went dodging aboutthe village, he was surrounded by a troopof them, hanging on his skirts, clamberingon his back, and playing a thousand trickson him; and not a dog would bark at himthroughout the neighborhood.

The great error in Rip’s composition wasa strong dislike of all kinds of profitablelabor. It could not be from the want ofperseverance; for he would sit on a wetrock, with a rod as long and heavy as a

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lance, and fish all day without a murmur,even though he should not be encouragedby a single nibble. He would carry afowling piece on his shoulder for hourstogether, trudging through woods andswamps, and up hill and down dale, toshoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. Hewould never refuse to assist a neighboreven in the roughest toil, and was aforemost man at all country frolics forhusking

Indian corn, or building stone fences; thewomen of the village, too, used to employhim to run their errands, and to do suchlittle odd jobs as their less obliginghusbands would not do for them. In aword, Rip was ready to attend toanybody’s business but his own; but as to

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doing family duty, and keeping his farm inorder, he found it impossible.

His children, too, were as ragged andwild as if they belonged to nobody. Hisson Rip promised to inherit the habits,with the old clothes, of his father. He wasgenerally seen trooping like a colt at hismother’s heels,[12] equipped in a pair ofhis father’s cast-off breeches, which hehad much ado to hold up with one hand, asa fine lady does her train in bad weather.

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one ofthose happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the worldeasy, eat white bread or brown,whichever can be got with least thought ortrouble, and would rather starve on a

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penny than work for a pound. If left tohimself, he would have whistled life awayin perfect contentment; but his wife keptcontinually dinning in his ear about hisidleness, his carelessness, and the ruin hewas bringing on his family. Morning,noon, and night, her tongue wasincessantly going, and everything he saidor did was sure to produce a torrent ofhousehold eloquence. Rip had but oneway of replying to all lectures of the kind,and that, by frequent use, had grown into ahabit. He shrugged his shoulders, shookhis head, cast up his eyes, but saidnothing. This, however, always provokeda fresh volley from his wife; so that hewas fain to draw off his forces, and taketo the outside of the house—the only sidewhich, in truth, belongs to a henpecked

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husband.

Rip’s sole vdomestic adherent was hisdog Wolf, who was as much henpecked ashis master; for Dame Van Winkleregarded them as companions in idleness,and even looked upon Wolf with an evileye, as the cause of his master’s going sooften astray. True it is, in all points ofspirit befitting an honorable dog, hewas[13] as courageous an animal as everscoured the woods; but what courage canwithstand the ever-enduring and all-besetting terrors of a woman’s tongue?The moment Wolf entered the house hiscrest fell, his tail drooped to the ground orcurled between his legs, he sneaked aboutwith a gallows air, casting many asidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and

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at the least flourish of a broomstick orladle he would fly to the door withyelping precipitation.

Times grew worse and worse with RipVan Winkle as years of matrimony rolledon. A tart temper never mellows with age,and a sharp tongue is the only edged toolthat grows keener with constant use. For along while he used to console himself,when driven from home, by frequenting akind of perpetual club of sages,philosophers, and other idle personages ofthe village, which held its sessions on abench before a small inn, designated by avrubicund portrait of His Majesty GeorgeIII. Here they used to sit in the shade of along, lazy summer’s day, talking listlesslyover village gossip, or telling endless

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sleepy stories about nothing. But it wouldhave been worth any statesman’s money tohave heard the profound discussionswhich sometimes took place, when bychance an old newspaper fell into theirhands from some passing traveler. Howsolemnly they would listen to the contents,as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel,the schoolmaster,—a dapper, learnedlittle man, who was not to be[14] dauntedby the most

gigantic word in the dictionary! and howsagely they would deliberate upon publicevents some months after they had takenplace!

The opinions of this vjunto werecompletely controlled by Nicholas

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Vedder, a patriarch of the village, andlandlord of the inn, at the door of which hetook his seat from morning till night, justmoving sufficiently to avoid the sun, andkeep in the shade of a large tree; so thatthe neighbors could tell the hour by hismovements as accurately as by a sun-dial.It is true, he was rarely heard to speak, butsmoked his pipe incessantly. Hisadherents, however (for every great manhas his adherents), perfectly understoodhim, and knew how to gather his opinions.When anything that was read or relateddispleased him, he was observed tosmoke his pipe vehemently, and to sendforth short, frequent, and angry puffs; but,when pleased, he would inhale the smokeslowly and tranquilly, and emit it in lightand placid clouds, and sometimes, taking

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the pipe from his mouth, and letting thefragrant vapor curl about his nose, wouldnod his head in approbation.

From even this stronghold the unlucky Ripwas at length routed by his vtermagantwife, who would suddenly break in uponthe tranquility of the assemblage, and callthe members all to naught; nor was thataugust personage, Nicholas Vedderhimself, sacred from the daring tongue ofthis terrible virago, who charged him withencouraging her husband in habits ofidleness.

[15]Poor Rip was at last reduced almostto despair; and his only valternative, toescape from the labor of the farm andclamor of his wife, was to take gun in

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hand and stroll away into the woods. Herehe would sometimes seat himself at thefoot of a tree, and share the contents of hiswallet with Wolf, with whom hesympathized as a fellow-sufferer inpersecution. “Poor Wolf,” he would say,“thy mistress leads thee a dog’s life of it;but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thoushalt never want a friend to stand by thee.”Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully inhis master’s face; and if dogs can feelpity, I verily believe he vreciprocated thesentiment with all his heart.

In a long ramble of the kind on a fineautumnal day, Rip had unconsciouslyscrambled to one of the highest parts ofthe Catskill Mountains. He was after hisfavorite sport of squirrel-shooting, and the

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still solitudes had echoed and reëchoedwith the reports of his gun. Panting andfatigued, he threw himself, late in theafternoon, on a green knoll, covered withmountain herbage, that crowned the browof a precipice. From an opening betweenthe trees he could overlook all the lowercountry for many a mile of rich woodland.He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson,far, far below him, moving on its silent butmajestic course, with the reflection of apurple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark,here and there sleeping on its glassybosom, and at last losing itself in the bluehighlands.

[16]On the other side he looked down intoa deep mountain glen, wild and lonely, thebottom filled with fragments from the

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overhanging cliffs, and scarcely lighted bythe reflected rays of the setting sun. Forsome time Rip lay musing on this scene;evening was gradually advancing; themountains began to throw their long blueshadows over the valleys; he saw that itwould be dark long before he could reachthe village, and he heaved a heavy sighwhen he thought of encountering theterrors of Dame Van Winkle.

As he was about to descend, he heard avoice from a distance, hallooing, “RipVan Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!” He lookedround, but could see nothing but a crowwinging its solitary flight across themountain. He thought his fancy must havedeceived him, and turned again todescend, when he heard the same cry ring

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through the still evening air: “Rip VanWinkle! Rip Van Winkle!”—at the sametime Wolf bristled up his back, and givinga low growl, skulked to his master’s side,looking fearfully down into the glen. Ripnow felt a vague apprehension stealingover him; he looked anxiously in the samedirection, and perceived a strange figureslowly toiling up the rocks, and bendingunder the weight of something he carriedon his back. He was surprised to see anyhuman being in this lonely andunfrequented place; but supposing it to besome one of the neighborhood in need ofhis assistance, he hastened down to yieldit.

[17]On nearer approach he was still moresurprised at the vsingularity of the

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stranger’s appearance. He was a short,square-built old fellow, with thick bushyhair, and a grizzled beard. His dress wasof the antique Dutch fashion,—a clothjerkin strapped round the waist, andseveral pair of breeches, the outer one ofample volume, decorated with rows ofbuttons down the sides. He bore on hisshoulder a stout keg that seemed full ofliquor, and made signs for Rip toapproach and assist him with the load.Though rather shy and distrustful of thisnew acquaintance, Rip complied with hisusual valacrity, and relieving one another,they clambered up a narrow gully,apparently the dry bed of a mountaintorrent.

As they ascended, Rip every now and then

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heard long, rolling peals, like distantthunder, that seemed to issue out of a deepravine, or rather cleft, between loftyrocks, toward which their rugged pathconducted. He paused for an instant, butsupposing it to be the muttering of one ofthose transient thundershowers whichoften take place in mountain heights, heproceeded. Passing through the ravine,they came to a hollow, like a smallvamphitheater, surrounded byperpendicular precipices, over the brinksof which trees shot their branches, so thatyou only caught glimpses of the azure skyand the bright evening cloud. During thewhole time Rip and his companion hadlabored on in silence; for though theformer marveled greatly,[18] what couldbe the object of carrying a keg of liquor up

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this wild mountain, yet there wassomething strange and incomprehensibleabout the unknown that inspired awe andchecked familiarity.

On entering the amphitheater new objectsof wonder presented themselves. On alevel spot in the center was a company ofodd-looking personages playing atninepins. They were dressed in a quaint,outlandish fashion; some wore shortdoublets, others jerkins, with long knivesin their belts, and most of them hadenormous breeches, of similar style withthat of the guide’s. Their visages, too,were peculiar: one had a large head,broad face, and small, piggish eyes; theface of another seemed to consist entirelyof nose, and was surmounted by a white

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sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little redcock’s tail. They all had beards, ofvarious shapes and colors. There was onewho seemed to be the commander. He wasa stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laceddoublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings,and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them.The whole group reminded Rip of thefigures in an old Flemish painting, in theparlor of vDominie Van Shaick, thevillage parson, which had been broughtover from Holland at the time of thesettlement.

What seemed particularly odd to Rip wasthat, though these folks were evidentlyamusing themselves, yet they maintained

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the gravest faces, the most mys[19]terioussilence, and were, withal, the mostmelancholy party of pleasure he had everwitnessed. Nothing interrupted thestillness of the scene but the noise of theballs, which, whenever they were rolled,echoed along the mountains like rumblingpeals of thunder.

As Rip and his companion approachedthem, they suddenly desisted from theirplay, and stared at him with such fixed,statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouthcountenances, that his heart turned withinhim, and his knees smote together. Hiscompanion now emptied the contents ofthe keg into large flagons, and made signsto him to wait upon the company. Heobeyed with fear and trembling; they

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quaffed the liquor in profound silence, andthen returned to their game.

By degrees Rip’s awe and apprehensionsubsided. He even ventured, when no eyewas fixed upon him, to taste the beverage,which he found had much of the flavor ofexcellent Hollands. He was naturally athirsty soul, and was soon tempted torepeat the draught. One taste provokedanother; and he repeated his visits to theflagon so often that at length his senseswere overpowered, his eyes swam in hishead, his head gradually declined, and hefell into a deep sleep.

II

On waking he found himself on the green

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knoll whence he had first seen the old manof the glen. He rubbed his eyes—it was abright, sunny morning. The[20] birds werehopping and twittering among the bushes,and the eagle was wheeling aloft, andbreasting the pure mountain breeze.“Surely,” thought Rip, “I have not slepthere all night.” He recalled theoccurrences before he fell asleep. Thestrange man with a keg of liquor—themountain ravine—the wild retreat amongthe rocks—the woe-begone party atninepins—the flagon—“Oh! that flagon!that wicked flagon!” thought Rip; “whatexcuse shall I make to Dame VanWinkle?”

He looked round for his gun, but in placeof the clean, well-oiled fowling piece, he

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found an old firelock lying by him, thebarrel incrusted with rust, the lock fallingoff, and the stock worm-eaten. He nowsuspected that the grave revelers of themountain had put a trick upon him and,having dosed him with liquor, had robbedhim of his gun. Wolf, too, haddisappeared, but he might have strayedaway after a squirrel or partridge. Hewhistled after him, and shouted his name,but all in vain; the echoes repeated hiswhistle and shout, but no dog was to beseen.

He determined to revisit the scene of thelast evening’s gambol, and if he met withany of the party, to demand his dog andgun. As he rose to walk, he found himselfstiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual

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activity. “These mountain beds do notagree with me,” thought Rip, “and if thisfrolic should lay me up with a fit of therheumatism, I shall have a blessed[21]time with Dame Van Winkle.” With somedifficulty he got down into the glen; hefound the gully up which he and hiscompanion had ascended the precedingevening; but to his astonishment amountain stream was now foaming downit, leaping from rock to rock, and fillingthe glen with babbling murmurs. He,however,

made shift to scramble up its sides,working his toilsome way through thicketsof birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, andsometimes tripped up or entangled by thewild grapevines that twisted their coils

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from tree to tree, and spread a kind ofnetwork in his path.

At length he reached to where the ravinehad opened through the cliffs to theamphitheater; but no traces of suchopening remained. The rocks presented ahigh, impenetrable wall, over which thetorrent came tumbling in a sheet offeathery foam, and fell into a broad, deepbasin, black from the shadows of thesurrounding forest. Here, then, poor Ripwas brought to a stand. He again calledand whistled after his dog; he was onlyanswered by the cawing of a flock of idlecrows sporting high in air about a dry treethat overhung a sunny precipice; and who,secure in their elevation, seemed to lookdown and scoff at the poor man’s

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perplexities. What was to be done?—themorning was passing away, and Rip feltfamished for want of his breakfast. Hegrieved to give up his dog and gun; hedreaded to meet his wife; but it would notdo to starve[22] among the mountains. Heshook his head, shouldered the rustyfirelock, and, with a heart full of troubleand anxiety, turned his steps homeward.

As he approached the village he met anumber of people, but none whom heknew, which somewhat surprised him, forhe had thought himself acquainted withevery one in the country round. Theirdress, too, was of a different fashion fromthat to which he was accustomed. They allstared at him with equal marks of surprise,and whenever they cast their eyes upon

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him, invariably stroked their chins. Theconstant recurrence of this gesture inducedRip, involuntarily, to do the same, when,to his astonishment, he found his beardhad grown a foot long!

He had now entered the skirts of thevillage. A troop of strange children ran athis heels, hooting after him, and pointingat his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one ofwhich he recognized for an oldacquaintance, barked at him as he passed.The very village was altered; it waslarger and more populous. There wererows of houses which he had never seenbefore, and those which had been hisfamiliar haunts had disappeared. Strangenames were over the doors—strange facesat the windows—everything was strange.

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His mind now misgave him; he began todoubt whether both he and the worldaround him were not bewitched. Surelythis was his native village, which he hadleft but the day before. There stood theCatskill Moun[23]tains—there ran thesilver Hudson at a distance—there wasevery hill and dale precisely as it hadalways been. Rip was sorely perplexed.“That flagon last night,” thought he, “hasaddled my poor head sadly!”

It was with some difficulty that he foundthe way to his own house, which heapproached with silent awe, expectingevery moment to hear the shrill voice ofDame Van Winkle. He found the housegone to decay—the roof fallen in, thewindows shattered, and the doors off the

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hinges. A half-starved dog that looked likeWolf was skulking about it. Rip calledhim by name, but the cur snarled, showedhis teeth, and passed on. This was anunkind cut indeed. “My very dog,” sighedRip, “has forgotten me!”

He entered the house, which, to tell thetruth, Dame Van Winkle had always keptin neat order. It was empty, forlorn, andapparently abandoned. He called loudlyfor his

wife and children—the lonely chambersrang for a moment with his voice, and thenall again was silence.

III

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He now hurried forth, and hastened to hisold resort, the village inn—but it, too, wasgone. A large, rickety wooden buildingstood in its place, with great gapingwindows, some of them broken andmended with old hats and petticoats, andover the door was painted, “The UnionHotel, by Jonathan Doolittle.” Instead ofthe great tree that used to shelter thequiet[24] little Dutch inn of yore, therenow was reared a tall, naked pole, withsomething on the top that looked like a rednightcap, and from it was fluttering a flag,on which was a singular assemblage ofstars and stripes; all this was strange andincomprehensible. He recognized on thesign, however, the ruby face of KingGeorge, under which he had smoked somany a peaceful pipe; but even this was

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singularly changed. The red coat waschanged for one of blue and buff, a swordwas held in the hand instead of a scepter,the head was decorated with a cocked hat,and underneath was painted in largecharacters, GENERAL WASHINGTON.

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk aboutthe door, but none that Rip recollected.The very character of the people seemedchanged. There was a busy, bustling toneabout it, instead of the accustomed drowsytranquility. He looked in vain for the sageNicholas Vedder, with his broad face,double chin, and long pipe, uttering cloudsof tobacco smoke instead of idlespeeches; or Van Bummel, theschoolmaster, doling forth the contents ofan ancient newspaper. In place of these, a

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lean fellow, with his pockets full ofhandbills, was haranguing vehementlyabout rights of citizens—elections—members of congress—Bunker’s Hill—heroes of seventy-six—and other words,which were a perfect jargon to thebewildered Van Winkle.

The appearance of Rip, with his long,grizzled beard, his rusty fowling piece, hisuncouth dress, and[25] an army of womenand children at his heels, soon attractedthe attention of the tavern politicians. Theycrowded round him, eyeing him from headto foot with great curiosity. The oratorbustled up to him, and, drawing him partlyaside, inquired “On which side he voted?”Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Anothershort but busy little fellow pulled him by

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the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired inhis ear, “Whether he was Federal orDemocrat?” Rip was equally at a loss tocomprehend the question; when aknowing, self-important old gentleman, ina sharp cocked hat, made his way throughthe crowd, putting them to the right andleft with his elbows as he passed, andplanting himself before Van Winkle, withone arm akimbo, the other resting on hiscane, his keen eyes and sharp hatpenetrating, as it were, into his very soul,demanded, in an austere tone, “Whatbrought him to the election with a gun onhis shoulder, and a mob at his heels; andwhether he meant to breed a riot in thevillage?”—“Alas! gentlemen,” cried Rip,somewhat dismayed, “I am a poor, quietman, a native of the place, and a loyal

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subject of the king, God bless him!”

Here a general shout burst from thebystanders—“A tory! a tory! a spy! arefugee! hustle him! away with him!” Itwas with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat restoredorder; and having assumed a tenfoldvausterity of brow,

demanded again of the unknown culprit,what he came there for,[26] and whom hewas seeking! The poor man humblyassured him that he meant no harm, butmerely came there in search of some of hisneighbors.

“Well—who are they? Name them.”

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Rip bethought himself a moment, andinquired, “Where’s Nicholas Vedder?”

There was a silence for a little while,when an old man replied, in a thin, pipingvoice, “Nicholas Vedder! why, he is deadand gone these eighteen years! There wasa wooden tombstone in the churchyard thatused to tell all about him, but that’s rottenand gone, too.”

“Where’s Brom Dutcher?”

“Oh, he went off to the army in thebeginning of the war; some say he waskilled at the storming of Stony Point;others say he was drowned in a squall atthe foot of Anthony’s Nose. I don’t know;he never came back again.”

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“Where’s Van Brummel, theschoolmaster?”

“He went off to the wars, too, was a greatmilitia general, and is now in congress.”

Rip’s heart died away at hearing of thesesad changes in his home and friends andfinding himself thus alone in the world.Every answer puzzled him, too, by treatingof such enormous lapses of time, and ofmatters which he could not understand:war—congress—Stony Point. He had nocourage to ask after any more friends, butcried out in despair, “Does nobody hereknow Rip Van Winkle?”

[27]“Oh, Rip Van Winkle!” exclaimedtwo or three, “oh, to be sure! that’s Rip

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Van Winkle yonder, leaning against thetree.”

Rip looked, and beheld a precisecounterpart of himself, as he went up themountain—apparently as lazy andcertainly as ragged. The poor fellow wasnow completely confounded. He doubtedhis own identity, and whether he washimself or another man. In the midst of hisbewilderment, the man in the cocked hatdemanded who he was, and what was hisname.

“God knows,” exclaimed he, at his wits’end; “I’m not myself—I’m somebody else—that’s me yonder—no—that’ssomebody else got into my shoes—I wasmyself last night, but I fell asleep on the

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mountain, and they’ve changed my gun,and everything’s changed, and I’mchanged, and I can’t tell what’s my name,or who I am!”

The bystanders began now to look at eachother, nod, wink significantly, and taptheir fingers against their foreheads. Therewas a whisper, also, about securing thegun, and keeping the old fellow fromdoing mischief, at the very suggestion ofwhich the self-important man in thecocked hat retired with someprecipitation. At this critical moment afresh, comely woman pressed through thethrong to get a peep at the gray-beardedman. She had a chubby child in her arms,which, frightened at his looks, began tocry.[28] “Hush, Rip,” cried she, “hush,

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you little fool; the old man won’t hurtyou.” The

name of the child, the air of the mother, thetone of her voice, all awakened a train ofrecollections in his mind. “What is yourname, my good woman?” asked he.

“Judith Gardenier.”

“And your father’s name?”

“Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was hisname, but it’s twenty years since he wentaway from home with his gun, and neverhas been heard of since—his dog camehome without him; but whether he shothimself, or was carried away by theIndians, nobody can tell. I was then but a

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little girl.”

Rip had but one question more to ask; buthe put it with a faltering voice:

“Where’s your mother?”

“Oh, she, too, had died but a short timesince; she broke a blood-vessel in a fit ofpassion at a New England peddler.”

There was a drop of comfort, at least, inthis intelligence. The honest man couldcontain himself no longer. He caught hisdaughter and her child in his arms. “I amyour father!” cried he—“Young Rip VanWinkle once—Old Rip Van Winkle now!Does nobody know poor Rip VanWinkle?”

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All stood amazed until an old woman,tottering out from among the crowd, puther hand to her brow, and peering under itin his face for a moment, exclaimed,[29]“Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle—it ishimself! Welcome home again, oldneighbor. Why, where have you been thesetwenty long years?”

Rip’s story was soon told, for the wholetwenty years had been to him but as onenight. The neighbors stared when theyheard it; some were seen to wink at eachother, and put their tongues in theircheeks: and the self-important man in thecocked hat, who when the alarm was overhad returned to the field, screwed downthe corners of his mouth, and shook hishead—upon which there was a general

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shaking of the head throughout theassemblage.

It was determined, however, to take theopinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, whowas seen slowly advancing up the road.He was a descendant of the historian ofthat name, who wrote one of the earliestaccounts of the province. Peter was themost ancient inhabitant of the village, andwell versed in all the wonderful eventsand traditions of the neighborhood. Herecollected Rip at once, and corroboratedhis story in the most satisfactory manner.He assured the company that it was a fact,handed down from his ancestor thehistorian, that the Catskill Mountains hadalways been haunted by strange beings. Itwas affirmed that the great Hendrick

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Hudson, the first discoverer of the riverand country, kept a kind of vigil thereevery twenty years, with his crew of theHalf-moon; being permitted in this way torevisit the scenes of his enter[30]prise,and keep a guardian eye upon the riverand the great city called by his name. Hisfather had once seen them in their oldDutch dresses playing at ninepins in ahollow of the mountain; and he himselfhad heard, one summer afternoon, thesound of their balls, like distant peals ofthunder.

To make a long story short, the companybroke up and returned to the moreimportant concerns of the election. Rip’sdaughter took him home to live with her;she had a snug, well-furnished house, and

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a stout, cheery farmer for a husband,whom Rip recollected for one of theurchins that used to climb upon his back.As to Rip’s son and heir, who was theditto of himself, seen leaning against thetree, he was employed to work on thefarm; but showed an hereditarydisposition to attend to anything else buthis business.

WASHINGTON IRVING.