Rip Van Winkle was
extraordinarily lazy. He was charismatic and easygoing, well-loved by the other
villagers, except his wife. Poor Mrs. Van Winkle had the patience of a saint,
but running a household with their two young children by herself drove her to
her wit’s end. “Rip,” she told him one day as she made him scrambled eggs and
tried to calm their crying son, “be a dear and pour the coffee when it’s done,
won’t you?”
“I’m afraid, my dear, that I simply
can do nothing until I eat,” Rip answered casually. “Would you have your poor
husband starve while he pours coffee?”
Mrs. Van Winkle’s patience snapped.
She grabbed the pot of coffee and dashed it into Rip’s face furiously.
Fortunately for Rip, the coffee was only half done and didn’t scald his face.
Despite that, his wife’s actions angered him. “All that I’ve done for you,” he
cried, “and you throw coffee in my face? I’m going out hunting, and if I starve
to death out there it’s your fault!”
“I hope you do!” Mrs. Van Winkle
yelled after him, now trying to calm her daughter and her son.
It was the last thing she would say
to him.
Rip whistled to his dog Wolf and
they went marching out of the town. Old friends and children waved as he passed
by, his rifle on his shoulder, whistling a jaunty tune. Everyone in the town
loved Rip—except his wife. He was in a cheery mood, despite his dark hair and
short beard being soaked in coffee. His wife had given him a reason to escape
from chores, and he took advantage of that.
With Wolf at his side, Rip climbed
the mountain near the town. It wasn’t a big mountain, more a large hill than
anything else. But the townspeople took great relish in the hill as their pride
and joy. Rip climbed it, knowing there wouldn’t be any game at the top. He knew
there was a tree at the top that he could lay beneath and take a nap.
He was greatly surprised to find a
group of little bearded men at the top of the mountain, playing ninepins and
drinking some sort of alcohol. Rip’s mouth watered at the sight of the liquor;
his wife forbade the drinking of it. “Hello, gentlemen!” he called congenially.
“Might I join you?”
“Do as you will, Rip Van Winkle,”
one of them answered. Those were the only words they spoke to Rip. Cheerfully
Rip skipped the rest of the way up, laid his rifle aside, and started playing
ninepins and drinking the moonshine they’d brought.
It
wasn’t long before the moonshine affected Rip and he laid down, falling asleep
instantly. The bearded man, a bit taller than the rest, stood over Rip.
“Laziness is repaid in kind,” he told the sleeping man. “Sleep for twenty years
as punishment for your idleness. Is that not what you wanted?” Then he and his
companions disappeared from sight.
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