The Literary World Seventh Reader | Page 3

evil eye,
as the cause of his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all points
of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as
ever scoured the woods; but what courage can withstand the
ever-enduring and all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue? The
moment Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail drooped to the
ground or curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air,
casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least
flourish of a broomstick or ladle he would fly to the door with yelping
precipitation.
Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of
matrimony rolled on. A tart temper never mellows with age, and a
sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use.
For a long while he used to console himself, when driven from home,
by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of sages, philosophers, and
other idle personages of the village, which held its sessions on a bench
before a small inn, designated by a [v]rubicund portrait of His Majesty
George III. Here they used to sit in the shade of a long, lazy summer's
day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy
stories about nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman's
money to have heard the profound discussions which sometimes took
place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands from
some passing traveler. How solemnly they would listen to the contents,

as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster,--a dapper,
learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic
word in the dictionary! and how sagely they would deliberate upon
public events some months after they had taken place!
The opinions of this [v]junto were completely controlled by Nicholas
Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the door of
which he took his seat from morning till night, just moving sufficiently
to avoid the sun, and keep in the shade of a large tree; so that the
neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accurately as by a
sun-dial. It is true, he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe
incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man has his
adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his
opinions. When anything that was read or related displeased him, he
was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short,
frequent, and angry puffs; but, when pleased, he would inhale the
smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds, and
sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant
vapor curl about his nose, would nod his head in approbation.
From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his
[v]termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquility of
the assemblage, and call the members all to naught; nor was that august
personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of
this terrible virago, who charged him with encouraging her husband in
habits of idleness.
Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only
[v]alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his
wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he
would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the
contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a
fellow-sufferer in persecution. "Poor Wolf," he would say, "thy
mistress leads thee a dog's life of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst I
live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee." Wolf would wag
his tail, look wistfully in his master's face; and if dogs can feel pity, I
verily believe he [v]reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart.

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had
unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Catskill
Mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel-shooting, and the
still solitudes had echoed and reëchoed with the reports of his gun.
Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green
knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a
precipice. From an opening between the trees he could overlook all the
lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance
the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic
course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging
bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing
itself in the blue