Sounds seemed dropping from the skies, A lady wondrous fair; But the rose of her lip had faded away, And her cheek was as white and cold as clay, 'Ah, ha!' said the fisher, in merry guise, III. There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, As he took forth a bait from his iron box. Many the cunning sportsman tried, Many he flung with a frown aside; A minstrel's harp, and a miser's chest, And golden cups of the brightest wine That ever was pressed from the Burgundy vine. As the fisherman armed his golden hook; On the scaffold his country's vengeance raises, As the swaling wherry settles down, Wilder far was the abbot's glance, Deeper far was the abbot's trance: He bent no knee, and he breathed no prayer; IV. There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, As he stalked away with his iron box. 'Oh, ho! Oh, ho! The cock doth crow; It is time for the fisher to rise and go. Fair luck to the abbot, fair luck to the shrine, He hath gnawed in twain my choicest line; Let him swim to the north, let him swim to the south, The abbot will carry my hook in his mouth. The abbot had preached for many years, As ever was heard in the House of Peers His words had made battalions quake, He stammered and he stuttered, As if an axe went through his head He stuttered o'er blessing, he stuttered o'er ban, And none but he and the fisherman Could tell the reason why! LESSON 25. RIP VAN WINKLE. A TALE OF THE IMAGINATION. Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill Mountains. At their foot the voyager may have descried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. In this same village there lived, many years since, while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was blessed with a termagant wife, under whose discipline he acquired the virtues of patience and long-suffering. He was a great favourite among all the children of the village. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts. The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable labour. It could not be for the want of assiduity or perseverance, for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and as heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never even refuse to assist a neighbour in the roughest toil. Indeed, Rip was ready to attend to everybody's business but his own. He was one of those happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled disposition, who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. No wonder that his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Rip's sole domestic adherent and companion in idleness was his dog Wolf, who was as much henpecked as his master. The moment Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground or curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle, would flee to the door with yelping precipitation. VAN WINKLE AT THE INN. Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on; a tart temper |