Rip Van Winkle

Whoever has travelled up the great Hudson River must remember the Catskill Mountains. They are a branch of the great Appalachian family, and may be seen far away to the west of the river, rising up to a noble height and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers.

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the traveller may have seen the light smoke curling up from a village whose roofs gleam among the trees. It is a little village of great age, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists in the early days of the province.

In that same village, and in one of these very houses, there lived many years since a simple, good-natured fellow by the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a kind neighbour, and an obedient, henpecked husband. He was a great favourite among all the good wives of the village, who took his part in all family quarrels, and never failed, whenever they talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on his wife. 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 and witches and Indians. Whenever he went walking about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his coat, clambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighbourhood.

The great error in Rip's character was a strong dislike of all kinds of useful labour. It could not be from 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.