"He went off to the wars too, was a great militia general, and isnow in congress."Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his homeand friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answerpuzzled him too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and ofmatters which he could not understand: war- congress- Stony Point;- hehad no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out indespair, "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 hewent up the mountain: apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. Thepoor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his ownidentity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst ofhis bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, andwhat was his name?
"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm not myself- I'msomebody else- that's me yonder- no- that's somebody else got intomy shoes- I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on themountain, and they've changed my gun, and every thing's changed, andI'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, winksignificantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. Therewas a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the oldfellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which theself-important man in the cocked hat retired with someprecipitation. At this critical moment a fresh comely woman pressedthrough the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had achubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began tocry. "Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush, you little fool; the old man won'thurt you." The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone ofher voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. "What isyour 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 yearssince he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard ofsince- his dog came home without him; but whether he shot himself,or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then buta little girl."Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a falteringvoice:
"Where's your mother?"
"Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she broke ablood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England peddler."There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. Thehonest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter andher child in his arms. "I am your father!" cried he "Young Rip VanWinkle once- old Rip Van Winkle now!- Does nobody know poor Rip VanWinkle?"All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among thecrowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his facefor a moment, exclaimed, "Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle- it ishimself! Welcome home again, old neighbor- Why, where have you beenthese twenty long years?"Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been tohim but as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard it; somewere seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues in theircheeks: and the self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when thealarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down the corners ofhis mouth, and shook his head- upon which there was a generalshaking of the head throughout the assemblage.
It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old PeterVanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was adescendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of theearliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancientinhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the wonderful eventsand traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected Rip at once, andcorroborated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He assured thecompany that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor thehistorian, that the Kaatskill mountains had always been haunted bystrange beings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson,the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigilthere every twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon; beingpermitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, andkeep a guardian eye upon the river, and the great city called by hisname. That his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dressesplaying at nine-pins in a hollow of the mountain; and that hehimself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls,like distant peals of thunder.
To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned tothe more important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took himhome to live with her; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and astout cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of theurchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir,who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he wasemployed to work on the farm; but evinced an hereditary disposition toattend to any thing else but his business.
Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found many ofhis former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear andtear of time; and preferred making friends among the risinggeneration, with whom he soon grew into great favor.
