True it is, in all
points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an
animal as ever scoured the woods- but what courage can withstand the
ever-during and all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue? The
moment Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail drooped to
the ground, or curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a
gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at
the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle, he would fly to the
door with yelping precipitation.
Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony
rolled on; a tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is
the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long
while he used to console himself, when driven from home, by
frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and
other idle personages of the village; which held its sessions on a
bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of His
Majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in the shade through a
long lazy summer's day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or
telling endless sleepy stories about nothing.
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