an unkind cut indeed. "My very dog," sighed poor Rip, "has forgotten me!"

8. 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. The (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.

9. 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 was now reared a tall, naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red nightcap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes. All this was strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe; but even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a scepter, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted, in large characters, "GENERAL WASHINGTON."

FOR PREPARATION.-I. The sleep of Rip Van Winkle had lasted from a few years before the war of the Revolution to a period after the formation of the Constitution-say from 1770 to 1790. Collect the expressions in the piece which determine the date.

II. Liq'-uor (lik'er), wõe'-be-gone, găm'-bol, rhey'-ma-tişm (ru-), mûr'-mur, scěp'-ter, ra-vine'.

III. Why is the form an used before old acquaintance (6), and a before foot long (5)?

IV. Incrusted, roisters, tendrils, forlorn, abandoned, desolateness, metamorphosed. Paraphrase in your own words: "The constant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip involuntarily to do the same."

V. Point out the passages of the piece which you think most notable for a graceful style.

XCV.-RIP VAN WINKLE'S RECOGNITION.

1. The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty fowling piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded round him, eying him from head to foot with great curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired "on which side he voted." Rip stared in vacant stupidity.

2. Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear "whether he was Federal or Democrat." Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and, planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat 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 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-God bless him!"

3. 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 difficulty 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 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 neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern.

4. "Well, who are they? Name them."

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's Nicholas Vedder?"

There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin, piping voice: "Nicholas Vedder! Why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone, too."

"Where's Brom Dutcher?"

5. "Oh! he went off to the army in the beginning of the war. Some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point; others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Anthony's Nose. I don't know. He never came back again."

"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?"

"He went off to the wars, too—was a great militia general, and is now in Congress."

6. 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 puzzled him, too, by

uch enormous lapses of time, and of matters uld not understand-war, Congress, Stony ad no courage to ask after any more friends, in despair, "Does anybody here know Rip

p Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three. ure! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning ree."

Doked, and beheld a precise counterpart of e went up the mountain-apparently as lazy, 7 as ragged. The poor fellow was now comounded. He doubted his own identity, and was himself or another man. In the midst Herment, the man in the cocked hat demanded and what was his name.

knows!" exclaimed he, at his wits' end. self-I'm somebody else that's me yondermebody else got into my shoes. I was myself at I fell asleep on the mountains, and they've gun, and everything's changed, and I'm d I can't tell what's my name or who I am!"

ystanders began now to look at each other, gnificantly, and tap their fingers against their There was a whisper, also, about securing the eping the old fellow from doing mischief; at gestion of which the self-important man in at retired with some precipitation.

his critical moment a fresh, comely woman

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?"

11. "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?"

66 Oh, she too died but a short time since; she broke a blood vessel in a fit of passion at a New England peddler."

12. 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?"

13. Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him but as one night. The neighbors