er and more populous. There were rows of houses
which he had never seen before, and those which had been his familiar
haunts had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors--strange
faces at the windows--everything was strange. His mind now misgave
him; he began to doubt whether both he and the world around him were
not bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he had left
but the day before. There stood the Catskill Mountains--there ran the
silver Hudson at a distance--there was every hill and dale precisely
as it had always been--Rip was sorely perplexed--"That flagon last
night," thought he, "has addled my poor head sadly!"

It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house,
which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to bear
the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to
decay--the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off
the hinges. 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. 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, G