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curing 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! 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. 66 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 has never 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.

VIII.

- 14

“ 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. 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. To make a long story short, the company

broke

up, and returned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took him home to live with her. She had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout, cheery farmer for a husband. Rip soon found many of his former cronies; but preferred making friends among the rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favor.

WASHINGTON IRVING.

Adapted from The Sketch Book.

THE BELLS

HEAR the sledges with the the bells,

Silver bells !
What a world of merriment their melody foretells !
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

In the icy air of night!
While the stars, that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle

With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells —
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Hear the mellow wedding bells,

Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells !

Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight !
From the molten-golden notes,

And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats

On the moon !

Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells !

How it swells !

How it dwells
On the future ! how it tells

Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing

Of the bells, bells, bells,

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells !

Hear the loud alarum bells,

Brazen bells !
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!

In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!

Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,

Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,

Leaping higher, higher, higher,

With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.

Oh, the bells, bells, bells !
What a tale their terror tells

Of Despair !
How they clang, and clash, and roar!

What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air !

Yet the ear it fully knows,

By the twanging

And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,

In the jangling,

And the wrangling,

How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells,

Of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells bells —
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells.

- EDGAR ALLAN POE.

LITTLE GAVROCHE

YEARS ago there might have been noticed on the streets of Paris a boy of eleven or twelve years of age, who was known by the name of Little Gavroche. This child was dressed in a man's trousers and a woman's jacket, in which some kind persons had clothed him out of charity.

Little Gavroche was never so comfortable anywhere as in the street. He was a noisy, pale, active, sharp, impudent lad, with a cunning and sickly look. He came and went, sang, played at hopscotch, searched the gutters, stole a little, but gayly, like cats

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