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." 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 is
your name, my good woman?" asked he.
"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."
Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a faltering
voice:
"Where's 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."
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 child in his arms. "I am your father!" cried he "Young Rip Van
Winkle once- old Rip Van Winkle now!- Does nobody know poor Rip Van
Winkle?"
All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the
crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face
for a moment, exclaimed, "Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle- it is
himself! Welcome home again, old neighbor- Why, where have you been
these twenty long years?"
Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to
him but as one night.
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