arm question; when a knowing, self-im- | portant old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the 145 right and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat 150 penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere tone, 'what brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he 155 meant to breed a riot in the village?' - 'Alas! gentlemen,' cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, 'I am a poor quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the King, 160 God bless him!' Here a general shout burst from the bystanders -A tory! a tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle him! away with him!' It was with great dif165 ficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit what he came there 170 for, and whom he was seeking? The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his neighbours, who used to keep about the 175 tavern. 'He went off to the wars too, was a great militia general, and is now 200 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 205 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 210 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 215 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, 220 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 225 bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name? IRVING. The bystanders now began to look 240 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 245 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 250 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, 255 '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 260 is your name, my good woman?' asked he. 'Judith Gardenier.' 'And your father's name?' 'Ah, poor man! Rip Van Winkle 265 was his name; but it's twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard his dog came home of since without him; but whether he shot 270 himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl.' Rip had but one more question to ask; but he put it with a falter275 ing voice: 'Where's your mother?' 'Oh, she too died but a short time since; she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England 280 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 285 child in his arms. 'I am your father!' cried he 'Young Rip Van Winkle old Rip Van Winkle now! once 711 -Does nobody know poor Rip Van All stood amazed, until an old 290 Rip's story was soon told, for the It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing 315 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 320 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. assured the company that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill Mountains had always been haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed 330 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 335 in this way to revisit the scenes of He 325 his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river, and the great city called by his name. That his 340 father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at ninepins in a hollow of the mountain; and that he himself had heard, himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of 345 their balls, like distant peals of thunder. To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to the more important concerns of the 350 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, whom Rip recollected for one of the 355 urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm; but 360 evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to any thing else but his business. Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found many of 365 his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time; and preferred making friends among the rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favour. 370 Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when a man can do nothing with impunity, he took his place once more on the bench at the inn door, 375 and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times 'before the war.' It was some time before he could get into the regular track 380 of gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange events that had taken place during his torpor. How that there had been a revolutionary war that the country had thrown 385 off the yoke of old England and that, instead of being a subject of his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; the changes of states and empires 390 made but little impression on him; but there was one species of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that was petticoat government. Happily, that was at an end; 395 he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name was 400 mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes; which might pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his de- 405 liverance. He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some points every 410 time he told it, which was, doubtless, owing to his having so recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, and not a man, woman, or child in 415 the neighbourhood, but knew it by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one point on which 420 he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally gave it full credit. Even to this day they never hear a thunderstorm of a summer afternoon about 425 the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of nine-pins; and it is a common wish of all hen-pecked husbands in the neighbourhood, when 430 life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. 4 8 12 16 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFEL LOW (1807-1882), the son of a lawyer, was born in Portland, Me., and studied at Bowdoin College, Brunswick. After having travelled for three years in France, Spain, Italy, Germany, and England, he took up his duties as Professor of Modern Languages, first at Bowdoin College (1829-35) and then at Harvard University (1836-54), in Cambridge, Mass., where, except for two more journeys to Europe (in 1842 and 1868), he resided for the rest of his life. Longfellow's fame as a poet of tender feeling and graceful form is chiefly based on three long verse-tales: Evangeline (1847), the pathetic story of the fate of two lovers, Evangeline and Gabriel, who were separated by the removal of the French colonists from Nova Scotia in 1755; The Song of Hiawatha (1855), a very successful attempt to embody in verse the myths, superstitions, and customs of the North American Indians (as previously set forth in the prose of Schoolcraft) and to group them round the culture-hero Hiawatha; and The Courtship of Miles Standish (1858), which contains the story of a grim warrior's wooing of the Puritan maid Priscilla together with the doings of her bashful lover John Alden in the old days of the Plymouth Colony. Three collections of shorter verse narratives were published as Tales of a Wayside Inn (1863-73). His numerous minor poems, lyrical, didactic, and epic, many of which gained an immense popularity -, were collected under such general titles as Voices of the Night (1839), The Belfry of Bruges (1845), The Seaside and the Fireside (1850), Flower-de-Luce (1867), Ultima Thule (1880), etc. He was less successful with his prose-romances (e. g. Hyperion 1839) and with his dramatic works, of which may be mentioned The Golden Legend (1851, an adaptation of Hartmann von Aue's Armer Heinrich), the two New England Tragedies (1868), The Divine Tragedy (1871), which reproduces scenes from the life of Christ, and Michael Angelo (1883). He was a skilful translator, and has given us a complete and faithful version (1867–70) of Dante's Divine Comedy. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. Under a spreading chestnut-tree And children coming home from school 20 And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 24 His hair is crisp, and black, and long; He goes on Sunday to the church, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, And looks the whole world in the face, Singing in the village choir, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low. And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice He needs must think of her once more, A tear out of his eyes. 28 32 36 The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; | My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; ing wall, 5 And the day is dark and dreary. 15 It rains, and the wind is never weary; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary. 10 Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; EVANGELINE ON THE MISSISSIPPI. It was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful River, Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune; Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders. 16 Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plumelike Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the current, Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-bars Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their margin, Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded. 20 Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river, |