The Literary World Seventh Reader | Page 4

highlands.
On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild and
lonely, the bottom filled with fragments from the overhanging cliffs,
and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some
time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing;
the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys;
he saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and
he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of
Dame Van Winkle.
As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, hallooing,
"Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" He looked round, but could see
nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He
thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend,
when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air: "Rip Van
Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!"--at the same time Wolf bristled up his back,
and giving a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fearfully
down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over
him; he looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange
figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of
something he carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human
being in this lonely and unfrequented place; but supposing it to be some
one of the neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to
yield it.

On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the [v]singularity of
the stranger's appearance. He was a short, square-built old fellow, with
thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique
Dutch fashion,--a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist, and several pair
of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of
buttons down the sides. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg that seemed
full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with
the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance,
Rip complied with his usual [v]alacrity, and relieving one another, they
clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain
torrent.
As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long, rolling peals,
like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather
cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted.
He paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of
those transient thundershowers which often take place in mountain
heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a
hollow, like a small [v]amphitheater, surrounded by perpendicular
precipices, over the brinks of which trees shot their branches, so that
you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud.
During the whole time Rip and his companion had labored on in silence;
for though the former marveled greatly, what could be the object of
carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something
strange and incomprehensible about the unknown that inspired awe and
checked familiarity.
On entering the amphitheater new objects of wonder presented
themselves. On a level spot in the center was a company of
odd-looking personages playing at ninepins. They were dressed in a
quaint, outlandish fashion; some wore short doublets, others jerkins,
with long knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous
breeches, of similar style with that of the guide's. Their visages, too,
were peculiar: one had a large head, broad face, and small, piggish eyes;
the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was
surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock's tail.
They all had beards, of various shapes and colors. There was one who

seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a
weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet, 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 the figures
in an old Flemish painting, in the parlor of [v]Dominie Van Shaick, the
village parson, which had been brought over from Holland at the time
of the settlement.
What seemed particularly odd to Rip was that, though these folks were
evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces,
the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy
party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the
stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they
were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of
thunder.
As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted
from their play, and stared