The Literary World Seventh Reader | Page 7

Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a
poor, quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king,
God bless him!"
Here a general shout burst from the bystanders--"A tory! a tory! a spy!
a refugee! hustle him! away with him!" It was with great difficulty that
the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and having
assumed a tenfold [v]austerity of brow, demanded again of the
unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking!
The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely
came there in search of some of his neighbors.
"Well--who are they? Name them."
Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's Nicholas
Vedder?"

There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin,
piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder! why, he is dead and gone these
eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that
used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone, too."
"Where's Brom Dutcher?"
"Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say he
was killed at the storming of Stony Point; others say he was drowned in
a squall at the foot of Anthony's Nose. I don't know; he never came
back again."
"Where's Van Brummel, the schoolmaster?"
"He went off to the wars, too, was a great militia general, and is now in
congress."
Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and
friends and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer
puzzled him, too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of
matters which he could not understand: war--congress--Stony Point. He
had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair,
"Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?"
"Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three, "oh, to be sure! that's
Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree."
Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he went up
the mountain--apparently as lazy and certainly as ragged. The poor
fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity,
and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his
bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and
what was his name.
"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wits' end; "I'm not myself--I'm
somebody else--that's me yonder--no--that's somebody else got into my
shoes--I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and
they've changed my gun, and everything's changed, and I'm changed,

and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am!"
The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink
significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was a
whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from
doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self-important man
in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical
moment a fresh, comely woman pressed through the throng to get a
peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms,
which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. "Hush, Rip," cried she,
"hush, you little fool; the old man won't hurt you." The name of the
child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train
of recollections in his mind. "What is your name, my good woman?"
asked he.
"Judith Gardenier."
"And your father's name?"
"Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's twenty years
since he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard
of since--his dog came home without him; but whether he shot himself,
or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a
little girl."
Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a faltering
voice:
"Where's your mother?"
"Oh, she, too, had died but a short time since; she broke a blood-vessel
in a fit of passion at a New England peddler."
There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The honest
man could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her
child in his arms. "I am your father!" cried he--"Young Rip Van
Winkle once--Old Rip Van Winkle now! Does nobody know poor Rip
Van Winkle?"

All stood amazed until an old woman, tottering out from among the
crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a
moment, exclaimed, "Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle--it is himself!
Welcome home again, old neighbor. Why, where have you been these
twenty long years?"
Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to