At the foot of the great Catskill Mountains, there was a small village of Dutch settlers. The houses had pointed roofs and weather-vanes shaped like roosters. Everyone knew everyone, and life moved as slowly as the great Hudson River that flowed nearby.
In this village lived a man named Rip Van Winkle. He was the kindest, most easy-going fellow you ever met. He would help any neighbor mend a fence, carry groceries, or fly a kite for the children. His faithful dog Wolf followed him everywhere, tail wagging happily.
But there was one thing Rip would never do — work on his own farm! His fences fell down, his cow wandered off, weeds grew everywhere, and his wife, Dame Van Winkle, scolded him from morning until night. "Rip Van Winkle! Fix that gate! Rip Van Winkle! Plow that field!" she would cry.
One crisp autumn day, to escape his wife's sharp tongue, Rip took his rusty musket and whistled for Wolf. Together they climbed high into the Catskill Mountains. The trees blazed with red and gold, and the valleys below looked like a colorful patchwork quilt.
As evening fell, Rip heard a strange sound echoing through the mountain hollow — a distant rumbling, like thunder on a clear day. Then a voice called out: "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" A short old man in strange Dutch clothing appeared, carrying a heavy keg on his back.
Rip helped the old man carry the keg deeper into the mountains. In a hidden clearing, he found a group of little old men with long beards, all dressed in the same old-fashioned Dutch clothes. They were playing ninepins — rolling balls at wooden pins — in complete silence. The rumbling Rip had heard was the sound of their bowling!
The little men poured a dark, sweet drink from the keg into a flagon and offered it to Rip. It smelled wonderful — like nothing he had ever tasted before. He took one sip, then another, and another. The drink was so delicious he could not stop. Soon his eyes grew heavy, his head nodded, and he sank to the ground in the deepest sleep imaginable.
When Rip finally opened his eyes, bright morning sunshine poured over him. He was lying on the same green hill where he had first seen the old man. But his musket was rusted through, Wolf was nowhere to be found, and — strangest of all — a long white beard hung down past his chest! "How long have I been sleeping?" he wondered.
Rip stumbled down the mountain on stiff, aching legs. When he reached the village, nothing looked the same. His house was in ruins, the old inn was gone, and strange new buildings stood where familiar ones had been. People wore different clothes and spoke of things he did not understand. No one recognized him.
"Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?" he cried desperately. A young woman carrying a baby pushed through the crowd. She stared at the old man, then gasped. "Father? Is it really you?" It was his daughter Judith, now all grown up. Rip had been asleep for twenty years!
Rip learned that while he slept, America had fought a great war for independence and won its freedom. King George's portrait at the inn had been replaced by one of General George Washington. His wife Dame Van Winkle had passed away, and his children had grown. The whole world had changed while he dreamed.
Rip went to live with his daughter Judith and her family. He became the most popular man in the village, sitting on his favorite bench outside the inn, telling his incredible story to wide-eyed children. And whenever thunder rumbled over the Catskill Mountains, old Rip would smile and say, "That's just Hendrick Hudson's men, playing their game of ninepins."








