The Literary World Seventh Reader | Page 6

beard had grown a foot long!
He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children
ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The
dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an old acquaintance,
barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered; it was larger
and more populous. There were rows of houses which he had never
seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had
disappeared. Strange names were over the doors--strange faces at the
windows--everything was strange. His mind now misgave him; he
began to doubt whether both he and the world around him were not
bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he had left but the
day before. There stood the Catskill Mountains--there ran the silver
Hudson at a distance--there was every hill and dale precisely as it had
always been. Rip was sorely perplexed. "That flagon last night,"
thought he, "has addled my poor head sadly!"
It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house,
which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear

the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to
decay--the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the
hinges. A half-starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about it.
Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and
passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed. "My very dog," sighed Rip,
"has forgotten me!"
He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle had
always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently
abandoned. He called loudly for his wife and children--the lonely
chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then all again was
silence.
III
He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village
inn--but it, too, was gone. A large, rickety wooden building stood in its
place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken and mended
with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, "The Union
Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used to
shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall,
naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red nightcap,
and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage
of stars and stripes; all this was strange and incomprehensible. He
recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under
which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe; but even this was
singularly changed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff,
a sword was held in the hand instead of a scepter, the head was
decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large
characters, GENERAL WASHINGTON.
There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip
recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There
was a busy, bustling tone about it, instead of the accustomed drowsy
tranquility. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his
broad face, double chin, and long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco
smoke instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster,
doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a

lean fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing
vehemently about rights of citizens--elections--members of
congress--Bunker's Hill--heroes of seventy-six--and other words, which
were a perfect jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.
The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his rusty fowling
piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children at his
heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. They
crowded round him, eyeing him from head to foot with great curiosity.
The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired
"On which side he voted?" Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short
but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe,
inquired in his ear, "Whether he was Federal or Democrat?" Rip was
equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when a knowing,
self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way
through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as
he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm
akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat
penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded, in an austere tone,
"What brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a
mob at his heels; and whether he meant to breed a riot in the
village?"--"Alas! gentlemen," cried