Rip Van Winkle's New Life

Rip Van Winkle had one more question to ask. With faltering voice he said, "Where is 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." It is sad, but it must be said that to Rip Van Winkle, who's dread of his wife had grown with every step, this was a drop of comfort.

Rip Van Winkle could no longer contain himself. He caught his daughter and her child in his ragged arms. "I am your father!" cried he--"young Rip Van Winkle once--old Rip Van Winkle now!"

Then an old woman, tottering from out of the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering up into his pitiful wrinkled face for a few long moments, exclaimed, "For sure and for certain! This man IS Rip Van Winkle! Where have you been these long 20 years!

Then the townsfolk were astonished and all listened to the story of what had happened to him. Rip's daughter took him to live with her in her snug, well-furnished house. He resumed his old walks and habits; and found many of his old cronies, though they were somewhat worse for the wear and tear of time.

But mostly he preferred the company of the children of the village, with whom he soon grew into great favor. They loved his stories and whimsical nature, and would flock around him whenever he went out.

Peter Vanderdonk, a descendant of a great historian, and who was well-versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood assured all who asked, that Rip Van Winkle's story was indeed fact.

It had been handed down that the Catskill Mountains had always been haunted by strange beings. "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 of the Half-moon, being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise and keep a guardian eye upon the great city called by his name."

That ancient historian had himself "once seen them in their old Dutch dress playing at nine-pins in a hollow of the mountain; and that he himself had heard, one summer afternoon the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder."

So, Gentle Reader, here ends the strange story of Rip Van Winkle!

Rip Van Winkle Explores

Back to our Story.

Poor Rip Van Winkle has awakened to find the entire town changed. All his friends have moved, or are gone. Finding his way to his house, expecting any minute to hear the shrill scolding voice of Dame Van winkle, he was greeted with silence. His neat and tidy house seemed to be abandoned.

A half-starved dog who looked like Wolf, snarled when Rip called his name. This was an unkind cut indeed. "My very dog," sighed poor Rip, "has forgotten me."

Sadly Rip Van Winkle made his way back into the town. His questions filled the townsfolk with curiosity and pity. "Rip's heart died away at hearing of the sad changes in his home and friends and finding himself thus alone in the world." Every answer puzzled him too. It seemed overnight an enormous amount of time had passed him by.

Finally he cried out in despair, "Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?" The townspeople whispered and muttered behind their hands, tapping their fingers against their foreheads, and casting wide their glances, broadcasted their doubt of his sanity.

At this critical moment a fresh comely young woman passed through the throng...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."

Trembling in his ragged boots, Rip Van Winkle asked, "what is your name, my good woman?"

"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 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. I was then but a little girl."
Stretching out a trembling gnarled hand, Rip asked, "Where is your mother?"

And there I leave you, gentle Readers, until next time, when the conclusion of the story, with it's rich and wonderful illustrations, shall be told.

Rip Van Winkle Awakens

We left our hero asleep in the mountains, after imbibing a mysterious brew, while watching a group of odd old men playing nine-pins.

Upon waking Rip Van Winkle found himself in the place where he'd first seen the old man of the glen. It was a bright sunny morning, birds filled the air with their song, and an eagle wheeled gracefully overhead.

"Surely," thought Rip, "I have not slept here all night." Then he remembered the strange little man with the keg of liquor and the woebegone group playing at nine-pins. "Oh, that flagon! That wicked flagon!" thought Rip.

Remembering Dame Van Winkle's blistering tongue, he cringed at the thought of going home. With a sigh and a creak he arose, feeling around for his gun. But instead of the clean well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying next to him. Its barrel was encrusted with rust, the lock falling off and the stock worm-eaten. His faithful dog Wolf had also disappeared. He whistled and shouted his name, but the dog did not return.

He thought he'd go back to the place where the old men played nine-pins, but found his joints were stiff, and he discovered that walking up the stream bed wearied him as never before. And nothing looked the same.

By that time Rip Van Winkle was feeling famished. He grieved to give up his dog and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and with a heart full of trouble and anxiety turned his steps homeward.

As he drew closer to the Village, he met a number of people he did not know. Which was surprising because he was well acquainted with everyone in the countryside. He noticed they were all dressed differently. And as he walked along, they would stop to stare, the men thoughtfully stroking their chin hairs. Rip put his hand to his own chin, and behold! His beard had grown a foot long!

Rip Van Winkle had now entered the outskirts of the village, trailed by a group of unfamiliar children hooting and pointing to his long Grey beard. This bothered him for a time, until he realized every building he passed had been altered.

He looked beyond the village--there stood the mountains, every hill and dale exactly as it had been. But here in the village everything was strangely different. Rip was sorely perplexed. "That flagon last night," thought he, "has addled my poor head sadly."

With difficulty he found his way to his own house, expecting any moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. But instead he found. . .

And there I leave you, dear Readers, until the next installment!!! I wonder what he found?

Roses On His High-Heeled Shoes

We left our hero standing, keg on shoulder, beneath a pool of potent stares thrown his direction by group of odd little men.

Rip Van Winkle was filled with fear and apprehension, but he could not help but to gape back at them. "Their visages, too, were peculiar: one had a large head, broad face, and small piggish eyes: the face of another was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards of various shapes and colors."

A stout old gentleman with a weather beaten countenance, wearing high-heeled shoes festooned with roses, seemed to be their leader.



The leader motioned Rip Van Winkle to lower the keg of liquor he bore. His companion then emptied the contents of the keg into several large stone flagons which occupied a nearby oaken table. Then he made signs to Rip Van Winkle to wait upon the motley company. He, though frightened beyond belief, obeyed with fear and trembling. The old men quaffed the liquor in profound silence, then returned to their game of nine-pins.

As Rip Van Winkle watched, he noticed their faces were grave. The sombre stillness in which they played seemed mysterious. And he noted that, as they continued in their game, the little men were "were, withal, the most melancholy part of pleasure," that Rip Van Winkle had ever witnessed.

"Only the noise of the balls, when they were rolled, echoed against the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder."
As he watched them a certain peace seemed to steal over his soul. By degrees his fear, awe and profound apprehension subsided. He even, when the old men were thus occupied, ventured to taste the beverage, which he then determined was much to his liking.

Being a thirsty soul, Rip Van Winkle was soon tempted to take another drought. "One taste provoked another; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often, that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined and he fell into a deep sleep."

And there I shall leave you, dear readers, until next time!

The Appearance of a Peculiar Stranger

These paintings just fill my eyes with their richness of color, composition and movement. And the story is fascinating!
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In the last installment we left our Hero, Rip Van Winkle and his dog Wolf at the spine of a mountain top--when someone called out his name.

Wolf growled and his hair stood up straight upon his back. Rip Van Winkle felt a vague apprehension--after all, who up here would know his name? He turned to see a strange figure toiling up the rocks, bent beneath a heavy burden. Rip Van Winkle was surprised to see another human being in that isolated area--and believing it to be one of his neighbors, he hastened to see if he could give some assistance.

But the man was like no one he'd seen before. "He was a short, square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique dutch fashion--a cloth jerkin strapped around the waist--several pairs of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides and bunches at the knees."

What the little man carried over his shoulder with such difficulty, was a keg filled with some kind of liquor. (grin) Then the small man gestured for Rip Van Winkle to approach and assist him. Being a helpful individual, he did not refuse.

As the two traversed a dry rocky stream bed, long rolling peals, like distant thunder seemed to burst forth from between the high rocks which seemed to be their destination. Passing through a cleft in the cliffs, they came upon an amphitheatre where a company of odd-looking old men played at nine pins. As Rip Van Winkle and his silent companion drew closer, they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such "fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together."

And there I shall leave you. (grin) Egad! Wonder what will happen next???

The Town Pub

Times grew worse for poor Rip Van Winkle. For a long while he consoled himself by frequenting the town Pub, which was populated by a group of grizzled old men--wise in their own eyes. A frothy pint of brew, and an old newspaper brought about profound discussion. In those days, there were no daily newspapers. Often such news would arrive days after certain events. This did not keep the old sages from commenting profusely.

But this blissful stronghold was often breached when Rip Van Winkle's termagant wife would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of that group of philosophers, to punish them all with her tongue.

Poor Rip Van Winkle was reduced to despair. To escape from his wife and duties on the farm, he would take gun in hand and stroll into the woods. Here he and his dog Wolf found peace.

On one such long ramble, Rip Van Winkle inadvertently wandered into the highest parts of the Catskill mountains. He was hunting squirrel that day. At the top of a mountainous ridge, he rested, looking across the vast sea of tree-clad mountains. As he sat savoring the quiet air, leaning comfortably against a great pine tree, the night gradually advanced.

He thought about going home, but "heaved a sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle." He reluctantly stood and was about to descend the mountain, when he thought he heard a voice calling his name. It seemed to come from some distance away. Rather than face his wife's turgid tongue, Rip Van Winkle turned toward the voice...

The rest of the story will continue with the next entry! (grin) Isn't this a GREAT story?

A Village in the Catskills

The fascinating story of Rip Van Winkle was written by Washington Irving. My copy of this wonderful book was printed by David McKay Company in 1921.

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The illustration above was done by a wonderful artist by the name of N. C. Wyeth. I am enamored of his artwork. His work is lovely. The rhythm and composition of each piece, along with the artist's striking use of composition colors, create a sense of mystery and magic.

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Rip Van Winkle is indeed a magical tale, filled with humor and suspense. The forward page of this fascinating story is entitled, "A Posthumous Writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker."

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The tale is set in the United States in the Catskill Mountains. Rip Van Winkle is described as a simple good-natured man, a good neighbor, and an "obedient henpecked husband." (Grin) Rip Van Winkle would often disappear for hours with his fishing pole, or "fowling piece" hunting squirrels and wild pigeons.

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He was a helpful neighbor who often did odd jobs for his neighbors. However, in doing so, he neglected his own farm. Hence his wife was not a happy camper. "Morning, noon and night her tongue was incessantly going and everything he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence."

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Rip Van Winkle's only response was to shrug. (Grin) And as the years rolled by, our hero discovered "a tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use."

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As I post each of N. C. Wyeth's extraordinary illustrations, I'll describe that part of the story, until it is done. This is the first installment! Enjoy!

Rip Van Winkle

I have always loved the story of Rip Van Winkle. About eight years ago I wandered into an antique shop to look around. I found this illustrated copy of Rip Van Winkle. Because it was water damaged I bought it for practically nothing. Last week I was looking through my collection of fairytale books and re-discovered this old treasure. Though the book is water damaged, the pictures were mostly spared and are breathtaking.

N. C. Wyeth, the artist, used rich complimentary colors which just fill my eyes. When I opened the book I could not stop looking at them. The artist's style and use of color is inspiring. I will be sharing more of these drawings in the days ahead.