[adapted]

by
Washington Irving

Introduction

This story was found among the papers of Mr. Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old man from New York. He was very curious about the Dutch history of the area and the ways of the people who came from the first settlers. He didn’t learn much from books, because there weren’t many books about his favorite topics. Instead, he learned from talking to people. The old Dutch townspeople—and especially their wives—knew many old stories that were very important to real history. Whenever he found a true Dutch family living quietly in a small farmhouse under a big sycamore tree, he treated it like a special old book and studied it with great excitement, just like a bookworm.

From all his studies, he wrote a history of the province during the time when Dutch governors ruled. He published it some years ago. People had different opinions about his book, and, to tell the truth, it wasn’t much better than it needed to be. Its best quality was that it was very carefully accurate. At first, some people questioned it, but later everyone agreed it was correct. Now, it is included in all important history collections and accepted as a book that tells true facts.

The old man died not long after his book was published. Now that he is gone, it doesn’t hurt to say that he might have used his time on more serious work. Still, he liked to follow his own interests. Even though sometimes he annoyed his neighbors and made some good friends sad, people now remember his mistakes kindly, feeling more sadness than anger. It is even believed that he never meant to upset anyone. Whatever critics say, many people still love and respect him. Some biscuit-makers even put his picture on their New Year’s cakes, giving him a kind of lasting fame—almost as good as having his face on a medal from the Battle of Waterloo or on an old Queen Anne’s coin.

Rip Van Winkle

Anyone who has traveled up the Hudson River must remember the Kaatskill Mountains. They are a broken-off part of the big Appalachian mountain chain and can be seen far to the west of the river, rising up high and proudly over the land around them. Every season, every change in the weather, even every hour of the day, makes the mountains look different, with magical colors and shapes. All the good housewives near and far think of them as perfect weather signs. When the weather is nice and calm, the mountains look blue and purple and stand out clearly against the evening sky. But sometimes, even when the land around them is clear, the mountains pull a hood of gray mist around their tops, and when the setting sun hits them, the mist glows and looks like a shining crown.

At the bottom of these magical mountains, a traveler might see light smoke rising from a village. The roofs of the houses shine among the trees, right where the blue of the hills changes into the fresh green of the lower land. It’s a little, very old village, founded by some Dutch settlers a long time ago, around the time when the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!) ruled the province. Even a few years ago, some of the first houses still stood, made of small yellow bricks from Holland, with lattice windows and slanted roofs topped with weather vanes.

In that same village, and in one of those old houses (which was very old and worn out by the weather), lived, many years ago, when the land still belonged to Great Britain, a simple, kind man named Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles, who had bravely fought in the exciting days of Peter Stuyvesant and went with him to attack Fort Christina. But Rip didn’t inherit much of their fighting spirit. As I said, he was a simple, good-hearted man. He was also a kind neighbor and a very obedient husband—too obedient, really. This might explain why he was so gentle and well-liked by everyone. Often, men who are bossed around by difficult wives at home become extra nice and easy-going when they are with others. Their tempers become soft after dealing with trouble at home, and being scolded teaches them a lot of patience. So, in a way, a bossy wife could be seen as a blessing—and if that’s true, Rip Van Winkle was truly blessed three times over.

It’s true that Rip was very popular among all the good wives in the village. As usual with kind-hearted women, they always took his side in family arguments. Whenever they talked about it while gossiping in the evenings, they always blamed his wife, Dame Van Winkle, for everything. The village children loved Rip too. They cheered happily whenever he came near. He helped them play games, made toys for them, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories about ghosts, witches, and Native Americans. Whenever Rip wandered around the village, he was followed by a crowd of children hanging onto his coat, climbing onto his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him without fear. Not even a single dog would bark at him anywhere in the neighborhood.

The biggest problem with Rip was that he really hated any kind of work that made money. It wasn’t because he was lazy in everything—he could sit all day on a wet rock, holding a fishing pole as long and heavy as a knight’s lance, and fish without a single complaint, even if he didn’t catch anything. He could carry a hunting gun for hours, walking through woods, swamps, up and down hills, just to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would always help a neighbor with hard work, and he loved to be part of all the village fun like husking corn or building stone fences. The women in the village would even ask him to run errands and do small chores that their own husbands refused to do. In short, Rip was happy to help anyone—except himself. When it came to working on his own farm and caring for his family, he just couldn’t do it.

He would often say it was no use trying to work on his farm. He said it was the worst little piece of land in the whole area. Everything seemed to go wrong for him. His fences kept falling down. His cow always got loose or ate the cabbages. Weeds grew faster in his fields than anywhere else. The rain always started just when he had work to do outside. Little by little, his family land shrank until he had only a tiny patch left with some corn and potatoes—and even that was in terrible shape.

His children looked ragged and wild, as if they didn’t belong to anyone. His son, also named Rip, looked and acted just like him. Little Rip was always seen running after his mother, wearing a pair of his father’s old pants. He had a hard time holding them up with one hand, just like a fancy lady lifting her dress when the weather is bad.

Still, Rip Van Winkle was one of those lucky, foolish people who didn’t worry much. He took life easy, eating white bread or brown bread—whichever was easier to get—and he would rather go hungry with a penny than work hard for a pound. If left alone, Rip would have whistled his life away happily. But his wife kept scolding him about being lazy, careless, and about how he was ruining the family. Morning, noon, and night, she never stopped talking. No matter what Rip said or did, it always made her talk even more. Rip had only one way of answering her—he would shrug his shoulders, shake his head, roll his eyes, and say nothing. But this made his wife even angrier! So Rip usually gave up and went outside—the only part of the house that really belonged to a henpecked husband.

Rip’s only loyal friend at home was his dog, Wolf, who was just as “hen-pecked” as Rip. Dame Van Winkle thought Wolf was just as lazy as Rip and blamed him too. Wolf was a brave dog in the woods, but even he could not stand the scolding from a woman’s angry voice. Whenever Wolf came into the house, he would hang his head, tuck his tail between his legs, sneak around looking sad, and run away at the first sight of a broom or spoon waved at him.

Things got worse and worse for Rip as the years of marriage went on. A sharp temper only grows sharper with age, and a sharp tongue gets even sharper the more it is used. Rip used to make himself feel better by visiting a group of lazy but friendly villagers who sat on a bench outside a small inn with a sign showing a red-faced picture of King George III. They would sit there all day in the shade during the lazy summer days, talking about village gossip or telling endless sleepy stories. Sometimes, if they got an old newspaper from a traveler, they would have very serious talks about big world events—months after those events had already happened! Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, would read the newspaper out loud, even the biggest words, and they would all nod wisely and talk about it for hours.

The leader of the group was Nicholas Vedder, the oldest man in the village and the owner of the inn. He sat by the door from morning to night, moving just enough to stay in the shade of a big tree. People could tell the time of day by seeing where Nicholas sat, just like using a sun-dial. He hardly ever spoke, but he always smoked his pipe. His followers understood him well. If he puffed angrily, he didn’t like what he heard. If he smoked calmly and nodded, he agreed.

Even this safe place was ruined for Rip by his angry wife. She would suddenly come and shout at the whole group, calling them lazy and useless. Not even Nicholas Vedder himself was safe from her scolding. She blamed him for encouraging Rip’s laziness.

Poor Rip was almost in despair. His only way to escape farm work and his wife’s yelling was to grab his gun and wander into the woods. There, he would sit under a tree and share his food with Wolf, who he felt was suffering just like him. “Poor Wolf,” Rip would say, “your mistress gives you a dog’s life, but don’t worry, my boy. As long as I’m alive, you’ll always have a friend!” Wolf would wag his tail, look kindly at Rip, and if dogs can feel pity, it seemed like Wolf truly shared his master’s feelings.

One day, Rip went on a long walk into the woods during a beautiful fall afternoon. He was hunting squirrels, and the sounds of his gun echoed through the quiet mountains. Tired and out of breath, he finally lay down late in the day on a green hill covered with plants. From a gap between the trees, he could see the rich forests far below. He could also see the grand Hudson River, winding far below him, with purple clouds and slow boats reflected in its shiny water. The river eventually disappeared into the faraway blue hills.

On the other side, he looked down into a deep, wild, and lonely valley. The bottom was full of rocks that had fallen from the cliffs above. Only a little light from the setting sun reached down there. Rip lay there thinking about it all. The evening was coming, the mountains cast long blue shadows, and Rip saw it would be dark before he could get home. He sighed heavily, thinking of facing Dame Van Winkle’s anger.

Just as he was about to climb down, he heard a voice calling from far away: “Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!” He looked around but saw only a crow flying across the mountain. He thought he must have imagined it and started down the hill again, but then the same call echoed through the still air: “Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!” Wolf’s fur stood up and he gave a low growl, sneaking over to Rip’s side and looking nervously into the valley. Rip felt a strange fear come over him. He looked where Wolf was looking and saw a strange figure climbing the rocks, carrying something heavy on his back. Rip was surprised to see anyone in such a lonely place, but thinking the man might need help, Rip quickly went down to offer it.

When Rip got closer, he was even more surprised by how strange the man looked. The stranger was short and sturdy, with thick, messy hair and a gray beard. He wore old-fashioned Dutch clothes: a cloth jacket tied at the waist, and several layers of pants, with the top pair being very wide and decorated with rows of buttons and puffy knees. On his shoulder, he carried a strong barrel that seemed to be full of some kind of drink. He waved at Rip to come and help him carry it. Even though Rip felt shy and a little nervous about this stranger, he agreed quickly, as he usually did. Helping each other, they climbed up a narrow, rocky path that looked like the dry bed of a mountain stream. As they climbed higher, Rip kept hearing long, rolling sounds, like distant thunder, coming from a deep crack between tall rocks, toward where they were heading. He stopped for a moment but thought it was just a little mountain thunderstorm and kept going.

After passing through the rocky gap, they came to a hollow space that looked like a small round stadium, surrounded by steep cliffs. Trees leaned out over the top, and Rip could only see bits of the blue sky and some bright clouds. Rip and the stranger had climbed the whole way in silence. Even though Rip was very curious about why someone would carry a barrel of drink up a wild mountain, there was something so strange about the man that Rip didn’t dare to ask questions.

When they entered the hollow, Rip saw even stranger things. In the middle of the flat space, there was a group of odd-looking people playing ninepins, a kind of old bowling game. They were wearing old and funny clothes: some had short jackets, others had tight waistcoats with long knives in their belts, and most wore big puffy pants like the stranger’s. Their faces were strange too: one had a big beard, a wide face, and small piggy eyes; another man’s whole face seemed to be one huge nose, and he wore a white pointed hat with a little red feather. All of them had beards of different shapes and colors. One man looked like the leader. He was a strong old man with a sunburned face. He wore a fancy jacket with lace, a big belt with a sword, a tall hat with a feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes with roses on them. The whole group reminded Rip of the people he had seen painted in an old Dutch picture at the parson’s house in the village—a painting that had been brought from Holland long ago.

What seemed especially strange to Rip was that even though these men were playing a fun game, they all kept very serious faces. They didn’t smile or talk at all. They looked like the saddest group of people having fun that Rip had ever seen. The only sound was the balls rolling and crashing, which echoed through the mountains like loud thunder.

As Rip and the strange man came closer to the group, the players suddenly stopped their game and stared at Rip. Their eyes were so fixed and their faces so strange, dull, and still that Rip felt his heart turn inside him and his knees start to shake. The man with Rip poured the drink from the barrel into big mugs and made signs for Rip to serve the men. Rip obeyed, though he was very scared and nervous. The players drank the liquor in complete silence, and then went back to playing their game.

Little by little, Rip’s fear and worry went away. He even dared, when no one was looking at him, to take a sip of the drink. He found it tasted a lot like very good Holland gin. Rip was naturally very thirsty, and soon he wanted another drink. One taste led to another, and he kept drinking so much that after a while his head started spinning, his eyes blurred, and he fell into a deep, deep sleep.

When Rip woke up, he was lying on the green hill where he had first seen the old man. He rubbed his eyes—it was a bright, sunny morning. Birds were hopping and singing in the bushes, and high above, an eagle flew proudly in the clear mountain air. “Surely,” thought Rip, “I haven’t slept here all night.” He tried to remember what had happened: the strange man with the barrel, the mountain path, the hollow in the rocks, the sad group playing ninepins, the big mug—”Oh, that mug! That wicked mug!” thought Rip. “What excuse can I give to Dame Van Winkle?”

He looked around for his gun, but instead of his clean, shiny hunting gun, he found an old rusty one. The barrel was covered in rust, the lock was falling off, and the wood was full of holes from worms. Rip now believed that the strange men in the mountains had played a trick on him. They had made him drink too much and had stolen his gun. Wolf was also gone. Rip thought maybe the dog had chased after a squirrel or a bird. He whistled and called for Wolf, but there was no answer—only the echoes came back. Wolf was nowhere to be seen.

Rip decided to go back to where the strange party had been the night before. If he met anyone from the group, he planned to ask for his dog and his gun. When he stood up to walk, he felt stiff and sore, and he moved slower than usual. “These mountain beds are not good for me,” thought Rip. “If this fun gives me rheumatism, Dame Van Winkle will surely give me a hard time.” Slowly and with much effort, he made his way down into the valley. He found the rocky path where he and the stranger had climbed the night before, but to his surprise, there was now a rushing stream pouring down it, jumping from rock to rock and making loud, bubbling sounds. Rip managed to climb up along the sides, struggling through thick bushes and plants like birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes tripping over wild grapevines that tangled across his path.

At last, Rip reached the place where the cliffs had opened up to the hollow before—but now there was no sign of any opening. The rocks formed a tall, solid wall, and a waterfall poured over it into a deep, dark pool below, shaded by the forest. Rip stood there, confused and lost. He called and whistled for Wolf again, but no dog answered. Only a group of noisy crows high up in a dry tree answered him, cawing loudly as if they were laughing at his trouble. What could he do? The morning was getting late, and Rip was very hungry. He was sad about losing his dog and gun. He was afraid to face his wife. But he couldn’t just stay and starve in the mountains. He shook his head, put the old rusty gun over his shoulder, and, feeling very worried, started toward home.

As he walked into the village, Rip met many people—but he didn’t recognize a single one! This surprised him because he thought he knew everyone around there. Also, their clothes looked different from what he was used to seeing. Everyone he passed stared at him with surprise, and many of them rubbed their chins. Seeing this, Rip touched his own chin—and was shocked to find that his beard had grown a foot long!

Rip had now reached the edge of the village. A group of strange children ran after him, laughing and pointing at his long grey beard. Even the dogs, none of which he knew, barked at him. The village itself looked different: it was bigger and busier. There were rows of new houses he had never seen before, and many of the old places he knew were gone. New names were written above the doors, and strange faces peered out from the windows—everything was unfamiliar. Rip’s mind was very confused. He started to wonder if he and the whole world around him had been bewitched. Surely this was his old village that he had left just yesterday! There were the Kaatskill Mountains, there was the shining Hudson River. Every hill and valley looked the same. Rip was deeply puzzled. “That mug of drink last night,” he thought, “has really messed up my poor head!”

It took Rip some time to find his way to his own house. He walked toward it very quietly, ready to hear the sharp voice of Dame Van Winkle at any moment. But when he got there, he saw the house was falling apart—the roof had caved in, the windows were broken, and the doors were missing. A thin, sad-looking dog that looked a lot like Wolf was hanging around the house. Rip called out to him, but the dog just growled, showed his teeth, and walked away. Rip sighed sadly, “Even my own dog has forgotten me!”

He went into the house. Dame Van Winkle had always kept it neat, but now it was empty, lonely, and looked abandoned. Rip felt so sad that he forgot his fear of his wife. He called out loudly for his wife and children. For a moment, his voice echoed through the empty rooms, and then there was only silence again.

Rip rushed out and hurried to his old hangout—the village inn. But it too was gone! In its place stood a large, shaky wooden building with big, broken windows patched up with old hats and skirts. Over the door was a sign that said, “The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle.” Instead of the old big tree that used to shade the little Dutch inn, there was now a tall, bare pole. On top of it was something that looked like a red cap, and a flag with stars and stripes was waving in the wind. Everything looked strange and confusing to Rip. He did recognize the sign with the red face of King George where he had once smoked his pipe—but now even that had changed! The red coat had been replaced with blue and yellow, the figure now held a sword instead of a sceptre, wore a three-cornered hat, and underneath it was written in big letters: “General Washington.”

There was a big crowd of people outside the hotel, but Rip didn’t know any of them. Even the way people acted had changed. Instead of the old slow and sleepy way, now everyone was busy, loud, and full of arguments. Rip looked for old Nicholas Vedder, with his fat face and long pipe, or for Van Bummel reading an old newspaper, but they were nowhere to be seen. Instead, a thin, cranky-looking man was waving papers around and yelling about things like “citizen rights,” “elections,” “members of Congress,” “freedom,” “Bunker’s Hill,” and “heroes of seventy-six.” All these words sounded like crazy nonsense to poor Rip Van Winkle.

Because of his long grey beard, rusty old gun, and strange clothes, Rip quickly caught the attention of the people around the tavern. They stared at him with great curiosity. One man, who was making a speech, came up and pulled Rip aside, asking him, “Which side do you vote for?” Rip just stared, confused. Another short, busy man tugged at his arm and whispered, “Are you a Federalist or a Democrat?” Rip didn’t understand that either. Then, an important-looking old man with a sharp hat and sharp eyes pushed through the crowd. He stood in front of Rip, looking him up and down very seriously, and demanded in a harsh voice, “Why did you come to the election with a gun and a crowd behind you? Are you trying to cause trouble?”

“Alas! Gentlemen,” cried Rip, feeling scared, “I am just a poor, quiet man, born and raised here, and a loyal subject of the king—God bless him!”

When Rip said he was a loyal subject of the king, a loud shout came from the crowd—”A Tory! A Tory! A spy! A traitor! Get him out of here!” It took a lot of effort for the important-looking man in the cocked hat to calm everyone down. When things were quieter, he looked even more serious and asked Rip again what he was doing there and who he was looking for. Poor Rip humbly explained that he meant no harm. He just wanted to find some of his old friends who used to hang out at the tavern.

“Well—who are they? Name them,” the man said.

Rip thought for a moment and asked, “Where’s Nicholas Vedder?”

There was a short silence. Then an old man answered in a high, thin voice, “Nicholas Vedder? Why, he’s been dead for eighteen years! There used to be a wooden gravestone for him at the churchyard, but even that has rotted away.”