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 Stoney-Point-others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know-he never came back again."

« Where's Van Bummel, 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-Stoney-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 every thing's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am!»

The byestanders 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?»

"

from

Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van Winkle; it's twenty years since he went away 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. then but a little girl.»

was

he

Rip had but one question more to ask; but 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 pedlar.

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 neighbour - Why, where have you been these twenty long years?»

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him but as one night. The neighbours stared when they heard it; some were seen to wink at each other, and

put their tongues in their cheeks: and the selfimportant man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head-upon which there was a general shaking of the head throughout the assemblage.

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighbourhood. He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, hand. ed down from his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill mountains had always been haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew