American short stories : $b Selected and edited with an introductory essay on the short story by Charles Sears Baldwin
General
American short stories : $b Selected and edited with an introductory essay on the short story by Charles Sears Baldwin
American fiction -- 19th century; Short stories, American
On awaking, he found himself on the green knoll from whence he had
first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes--it was a bright
sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes,
and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain
breeze. “Surely,” thought Rip, “I have not slept here all night.” He
recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with
a keg of liquor--the mountain ravine--the wild retreat among the
rocks--the woe-begone party at nine-pins--the flagon--“Oh! that flagon!
that wicked flagon!” thought Rip--“what excuse shall I make to Dame Van
Winkle?”
He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean well-oiled
fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel
encrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He
now suspected that the grave roysters of the mountain had put a trick
upon him, and having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun.
Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a
squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him, shouted his name, but all
in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to
be seen.
He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening’s gambol, and if
he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to
walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual
activity. “These mountain beds do not agree with me,” thought Rip, “and
if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall
have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle.” With some difficulty he got
down into the glen; he found the gully up which he and his companion
had ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountain
stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling
the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble
up its sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch,
sassafras, and witch hazle, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by
the wild grape vines that twisted their coils and tendrils from tree to
tree, and spread a kind of network in his path.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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