The Literary World Seventh Reader | Page 2

traveler may have seen the light
smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle roofs gleam among the
trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh
green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great age, having
been founded by some of the Dutch colonists in the early times of the
province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter
[v]Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!), and there were some of the
houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, built of
small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows
and gable fronts, surmounted with weathercocks.
In that same village, and in one of these very houses, there lived, many
years since, while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a
simple, good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a
descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the
[v]chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the
siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial
character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple,
good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor and an obedient,
henpecked husband.
Certain it is that he was a great favorite among all the goodwives of the
village, who took his part in all family squabbles; and never failed,

whenever they talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to
lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too,
would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their
sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot
marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians.
Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a
troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and
playing a thousand tricks on him; and not a dog would bark at him
throughout the neighborhood.
The great error in Rip's composition was a strong dislike of all kinds of
profitable labor. It could not be from the want of perseverance; for he
would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a lance, and
fish all day without a murmur, even though he should not be
encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling piece on his
shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and
up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He
would never refuse to assist a neighbor even in the roughest toil, and
was a foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn, or
building stone fences; the women of the village, too, used to employ
him to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less
obliging husbands would not do for them. In a word, Rip was ready to
attend to anybody's business but his own; but as to doing family duty,
and keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible.
His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to
nobody. His son Rip promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes,
of his father. He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's
heels, equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off breeches, which he had
much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad
weather.
Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish,
well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or
brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would
rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he
would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept

continually dinning in his ear about his idleness, his carelessness, and
the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her
tongue was incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure to
produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of
replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown
into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes,
but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from
his wife; so that he was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the
outside of the house--the only side which, in truth, belongs to a
henpecked husband.
Rip's sole [v]domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much
henpecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as
companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an