A half-starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking
about it. Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his
teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed- "My very dog,"
sighed poor Rip, "has forgotten me!"
He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle
had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently
abandoned. This desolateness overcame all his connubial fears- he
called loudly for his wife and children- the lonely chambers rang
for a moment with his voice, and then all again was silence.
He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village
inn- but it too was gone. A large rickety wooden building stood in its
place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken and mended
with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, "The
Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that
used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was
reared a tall naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a
red night-cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a
singular assemblage of stars and stripes- all this was strange and
incomprehensible.
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