Rip Van Winkle
Rip_Van_Winkle_原文
作者简介：华盛顿欧文(Washington Irving ) (1789-1895),美国浪漫主义作家，也是一个纯文学作家，他的写作态度是"writing for pleasure and to produce pleasure" 。
欧文的代表作有《见闻札记》(Sketch Book)，这是第一部伟大的青少年读物，也是美国本土作家第一部成功的小说。
由于欧文对美国文学的伟大贡献，他获得了“美国文学之父”的光荣称号。
这篇短篇小说，《瑞普凡温克尔》便是摘自《见闻札记》。
Rip Van WinkleA Posthumous Writing of Diedrich KnickerbockerBy Washington Irving(T HE FOLLOWING tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very curious in the Dutch history of the province, and the manners of the descendants from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did not lie so much among books as among men; for the former are lamentably scanty on his favorite topics; whereas he found the old burghers, and still more their wives, rich in that legendary lore so invaluable to true history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a bookworm.The result of all these researches wasa history of the province during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some years since. There have been various opinions as to the literary character of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a little questioned on its first appearance, but has since been completely established; and it is how admitted into all historical collections as a book of unquestionable authority.The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work, and now that he is dead and gone it cannot do much harm to his memory to say that his time might have been much better employed in weightier labors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby in his own way; and though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors and grieve the spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the truest deference and affection, yet his errors and follies are remembered“more in sorrow than in anger ”; and it begins to be suspected that he never intended to injure or offend. But however his memory may be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear among many folk whose good opinion is well worth having; particularly by certain biscuit bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their New Year cakes, and have thus given him a chance for immortality almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloomedal or a Queen Anne 's farth ing.)By Woden, God of Saxons, From whence comes Wensday, that isWodensday, Truth is a thing that ever I will keep Unto thylke day inwhich I creep into My sepulchre —C ARTWRIGHT.Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Catskill Mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes, whenthe rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory.At the foot of these fairy mountains 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. It is a little village of great antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of the province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!), and there were someof the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, with lattice windows, gable fronts surmounted with weathercocks, and built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland.In that samevillage, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), 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 a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor and an obedient, henpecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that meeknessof spirit which gained him such universal popularity; for those men are most apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad who are under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation, and a curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for teaching the virtuesof patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing; and if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed.Certain it is that he was a great favorite among all the good wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles, and never failed, whenever they talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on DameVan Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood.The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aversion to all kinds ofprofitable labor. It could not be from the want of assiduity or perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and 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 downdale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never even refuse to assist a neighbor in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn, or building stone fences. The women of the village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would not do for them; in a word, Rip was ready to attend to anybody's business but his own; but as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, it was impossible.In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country; everything about it went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were continually falling to pieces; his cow would either go astray or get among the cabbages; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else; the rain always madea point of setting in just as he had someoutdoor work to do; so that though his patrimonial estate had dwindled away under his management, acre by acre, until there was little more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst-conditioned farm in the neighborhood.His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes of his father. He was generallyseen trooping like a colt at his mother 's heels, equipped in a pair ofhis father ' s cast -off galligaskins, which he had muchado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather.Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, whotake 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. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away, in perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife, so that he was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house—the only side which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked husband. Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much henpecked as his master; for DameVan Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his master 's so often going astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods—but what courage can withstand the ever-during and all-besetting terrors of a woman' s tongue? The momentWolf entered the househis 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 fly to the door with yelping precipitation.Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on; a tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener by constant use. For a long while he used to console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the village, which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of his majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in the shade, of a long lazy summer 's day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman 's moneyto have heard the profound discussions which sometimes took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands, from some passing traveler. How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper, learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary; and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events somemonths after they had taken place.The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the doorof which he took his seat from morning till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun, and keep in the shade of a large tree; so that the neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true, he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew howto gather his opinions. When anything that was read or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and send forth short, frequent, and angry puffs; but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds, and sometimes taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head in token of perfect approbation.From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage, and call the members all to nought; nor was that august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him outright with encouraging her husband in habits of idleness.Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. “Poor Wolf, ” he would say, “thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it; but never mind, my lad, while I live thou shalt neverwant a friend to stand by thee! ” Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master 's face, and if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with allhis heart.In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Catskill Mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and re?choed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening between the trees he could overlook all the lower country for manya mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic course, the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands.On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun.For sometime Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing; the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys; he saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle.As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, hallooing, “Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle! ” Helooked around, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air: “Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle! ”—at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his master 's side, looking fearfully down intothe glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him; he looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place, but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in need of assistance, he hastened down to yield it.On nearer approach, he was still more surprised at the singularity of the stranger 's appearance. He was a short, square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion —a cloth jerkin strapped around the waist —several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons downthe sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulders a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity, and mutually relieving one another, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemedto issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to bethe muttering of one of those transient thunder showers which often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they cameto a hollow, like a small amphitheater, surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which impending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During the whole time, Rip and his companion had labored on in silence; for though the former marveled greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something strange and incomprehensible about the unknown that inspired awe and checked familiarity.On entering the amphitheater, new objects of wonder presented themselves. On a level spot in the center was a company of odd-looking personages playing at ninepins. They were dressed in a quaint, outlandishfashion: some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most had enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide 's. Their visages, too, were peculiar: one had a large head, broad face, and small, piggish eyes; the face of another seemedto consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat set off with a little red cock 's tail. They all had beards, of various shapesand colors. There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie Van Schaick, the village parson, and which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement.What seemedparticularly odd to Rip, was that though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder.As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed statue-like gaze, and suchstrange, uncouth, lack-luster countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game.By degrees, Rip's aweand apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another, and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often, that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swamin his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep.On awaking, he found himself on the green knoll from whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes —it was a brightsunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft and breasting the pure mountain breeze. “Surely, ” thought Rip, “I have not slept here all night. ” He recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor —the mountain ravine —the wild retreat among the rocks —the woe-begone party at ninepins —the flagon —“Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon! ” thought Rip —“ what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle? ”He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, well-oiled fowling piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel incrusted withrust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roysters of the mountain had put a trick upon him, and having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him, shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen.He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening 's gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. “These mountain beds do not agree with me,” thought Rip, “and if this frolic should lay meup with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with D ame Van Winkle. ” With some difficulty he got down into the glen; he found the gully up which he and his companion had ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grape vines that twisted their coils and tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his path.At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to the amphitheater; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks presented a high, impenetrable wall, over which the torrent cametumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad, deep basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. Heagain called and whistled after his dog; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man 's perplexities. What wasto be done? the morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to starve amongthe mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward.As he approached the village, he met a number of people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to hisastonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long!He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his graybeard. The dogs, too, none of which he recognized for his old acquaintances, barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered: it was larger 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 began to misgive him; he doubted 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 Hudsonat 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 he found the way to his own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every momentto hear the shrill voice of DameVan 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 rung for a momentwith his voice, and then all again was silence.He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the little 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 mendedwith old hats a nd petticoats, and over the door was painted, “The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle. ” Instead of the great tree which used toshelter 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 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 stuck in the hand instead of a scepter, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, G ENERALW ASHINGTON.There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none whom Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering cloudsof tobacco smoke instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel,the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens —election —members of Congress—liberty —Bunker'sHill —heroes of '76—and other words, that were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty fowling piece, his uncouth dress, and the army of women and children that had gathered at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded around 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. Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and raising 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, madehis 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 tothe election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mobat 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! ”Here a general shout burst from the bystanders —“A Tory! a Tory! aspy! a refugee! hustle him! away with him!” It was with great difficulty that the self-important manin the cocked hat restored order; and having assumeda tenfold austerity of brow, demandedagain of the unknown culprit, what he camethere for, and whomhe was seeking. The poor manhumbly 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.“Well —who are they? —name them.”Rip bethought himself a moment, and then inquired, “Where's Nicholas Vedder? ”There was silence for a little while, when an old man replied in a thin, piping voice, “Nicholas Vedder? why, he is dead and gone theseeighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about him, but that 's rotted and gone, too. ”“Where's Brom Dutcher? ”“Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say he was killed at the battle of Stony Point —others say he was drowned ina squall, at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know—he never cameback・” again. ”“Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster? ”“He went off to the wars, too, was a great militia general, and is now in。
完整word版Rip Van Winkle 译文
瑞普-凡-温克尔卡兹吉尔出脉位于纽约州哈得逊河西边，山峰高耸人云，俯瞰着四周的山村。
季节更替，阴晴转换，甚至旦夕间的时辰变幻，都会引来山容峰色午姿百态。
所以山区周围的村民只要观看卡兹吉尔山脉就能猜出天气的变化。
就在这些山脉下面，航行者可以看见缕缕青烟从一个古老的荷兰小山村袅袅升起。
瑞普-凡-温克尔就在这个村里。
许多年前，他就住在这里，那时这个国家还发球英国。
瑞普-凡-温克尔是一个朴素单纯，性格温和的家伙。
在荷兰决督统治时期，他的祖先曾英勇地与英国人战斗过。
然而，瑞普的血液里没有多少祖先的军人性格。
我已经说了，他是一个朴素单纯，性格温和的家伙。
此外他还是一个善良的邻居，也是一个在老婆面前唯唯诺诺的丈夫。
由于在家里被老婆管得太严所以他似乎养成了处处与人为善的习惯。
因此，除了他老婆外，大这都对他评价很高。
当然，他在村子里所有的良家妇女中很受欢迎。
每当她们知道了凡-温克尔家吵架，她们总是认定瑞普是对的，而凡-温克尔夫人是错的。
孩子们也一样，瑞普-凡-温克尔一来，他们总是欢叫起来。
他总是望着他们玩耍，为他们做玩具，教他们怎么玩各种游戏，还给他们讲最精彩的故事。
不管他去哪儿，他的四周常常围着一群孩子。
村子里没有哪条狗对他狂吠过。
瑞普-凡-温克尔有一个缺点：什么赚钱的活儿他都不喜欢，甚至是憎恨。
很难理解究竟是什么原因让他不爱劳动。
可他从不拒绝帮助邻居，哪怕是干最粗的活儿，比如帮人家砌石墙。
村里的妇女也常使唤他，让他传信，或做一些她们的丈夫不愿意做的小活计。
换言之，除了自各儿的事情外，别人家的事瑞普都乐意管。
至少家庭责任，收拾农场，他觉得这样的活儿绝对做不来。
事实上，他宣称在他农场上折腾毫无用处，因为那是整个那一带最差的小块地，一无是处。
结果由于他经营不善，失去不少土地，他的小农场比他周围的农场更差了。
他的孩子也到处游荡，他们的可怜样和他的农场一样。
他的儿子小瑞普，和他很像，整天四处晃荡。
他穿着一条他父亲的旧裤子，不得不用一只手提着，免得掉了下来。
rip van winkle读后感
rip van winkle读后感欧文通过描写范·温克尔和其他人物之间复杂的关系来反映社会变革对个体生活的影响。
范·温克尔是一个懒散而好自由自在的人，他经常逃避农活，喜欢和小孩子玩耍和打发时间。
他不喜欢被束缚和负责任，希望可以永远自由自在地过着他自己的生活。
而他的妻子和其他村民则通过工作和责任感来维持家庭和整个社会的秩序和稳定。
范·温克尔的自由奔放与其他人的责任感形成了鲜明的对比。
当社会发生变革时，范·温克尔选择了逃避，因为他不想面对变化所带来的责任和挑战。
他进入魔法山谷后度过了二十年，他不知不觉中把短短几个小时的时间过得如过了一生一样。
这个故事中的两个阶段形成了强烈的反差，显示了社会的快速变化和个体的不可逆性。
范·温克尔醒来后发现他的家人和朋友都已经去世，村庄变得衰败，许多年轻人成长为独立自主的人。
范·温克尔感到迷茫和困惑，他无法适应新的社会环境。
《Rip Van Winkle》中对人生价值和社会变革的探讨值得我们深入思考。
范·温克尔代表了那些固执守旧，不愿意接受变化的人。
他渴望永远过着自由自在的生活，无拘无束。
然而，当他回到现实社会时，他发现他的选择是错误的，他错过了许多机遇和挑战，没有为自己的未来做出任何准备。
相比之下，范·温克尔的妻子和其他人则选择了面对现实，努力工作并迎接社会的变革。
他们不仅适应了新的社会环境，还取得了成功和独立。
范·温克尔的遭遇提醒我们要勇敢面对变化，不要逃避困难和挑战，因为只有积极适应变革才能取得成功和发展。
通过这个故事，欧文还暗示了社会变革对个体生活的影响。
尽管在故事中，范·温克尔度过了二十年的悠闲生活，但当他醒来时，发现世界已经发生了翻天覆地的变化。
他感到茫然和迷茫，无法接受新的社会环境。
这个故事向我们传达了一个重要的信息：个体需要适应社会变革，否则他们将被遗弃和边缘化。
瑞普凡温克尔和他太太人物形象分析
瑞普凡温克尔和他太太人物形象分析瑞普·凡温克尔（Rip Van Winkle）是一位具有浪漫主义特质的文学人物，出现在美国作家华盛顿·欧文（Washington Irving）所创作的同名短篇小说中。
小说描绘了一个发生在美国独立战争前后的故事，通过瑞普·凡温克尔的人物形象，展示了对自由和自我实现的追求以及时光的流逝。
瑞普·凡温克尔是一个性格懒散的庄稼人，他懒散而顽固，不愿意为生计辛勤工作。
他喜欢闲逛、嗜酒，经常在山中和朋友们打猎，而忽略了自己的责任和家庭。
瑞普与妻子的关系紧张，经常因为他懒散放荡的生活方式而争吵。
他的个性是一个普通庄稼人的缩影，他经历的故事和他所代表的人物形象在一定程度上展现了当时美国社会的普遍现象。
然而，在小说的故事情节中，瑞普遇到了一个神秘的人并进入了一个奇特的时间循环之中。
在度过了一晚的沉睡之后，他醒来时发现自己的世界已经发生了巨大的变化。
独立战争已经结束，美国成为了一个独立的国家，而瑞普的家人和朋友们也都变得陌生。
瑞普·凡温克尔的经历象征着欧文对于时光流逝的思考。
他的沉睡代表着时间的停滞，而醒来后一切的变化则代表着时光的流逝。
瑞普的醒来也成为了他对自己过去生活的反思，他认识到自己浪费了太多的时间和机会。
他看到了新时代的机会和活力，但也感受到了自己的孤独和无助。
瑞普·凡温克尔是一个富有同情心和温和性格的人。
他看到了战争给人们带来的痛苦和分离，并对此感到痛心。
在他回到家乡后，他带来了平和和善良的氛围，他的存在让人们感到宽慰和温暖。
他也成为了一个平民英雄，人们对他的故事充满了敬意和钦佩。
通过瑞普·凡温克尔这个人物形象，华盛顿·欧文描绘了时光的流逝和个体对于生活意义的追寻。
瑞普代表着一个过时的价值观和生活方式，他的经历和成长代表了一个时代的结束和新时代的开始。
他的迷茫和彷徨是每个人在不同阶段都可能经历的心灵历程。
Rip Van Winkle 译文资料
R i p V a n W i n k l e译文瑞普-凡-温克尔卡兹吉尔出脉位于纽约州哈得逊河西边，山峰高耸人云，俯瞰着四周的山村。
季节更替，阴晴转换，甚至旦夕间的时辰变幻，都会引来山容峰色午姿百态。
所以山区周围的村民只要观看卡兹吉尔山脉就能猜出天气的变化。
就在这些山脉下面，航行者可以看见缕缕青烟从一个古老的荷兰小山村袅袅升起。
瑞普-凡-温克尔就在这个村里。
许多年前，他就住在这里，那时这个国家还发球英国。
瑞普-凡-温克尔是一个朴素单纯，性格温和的家伙。
在荷兰决督统治时期，他的祖先曾英勇地与英国人战斗过。
然而，瑞普的血液里没有多少祖先的军人性格。
我已经说了，他是一个朴素单纯，性格温和的家伙。
此外他还是一个善良的邻居，也是一个在老婆面前唯唯诺诺的丈夫。
由于在家里被老婆管得太严所以他似乎养成了处处与人为善的习惯。
因此，除了他老婆外，大这都对他评价很高。
当然，他在村子里所有的良家妇女中很受欢迎。
每当她们知道了凡-温克尔家吵架，她们总是认定瑞普是对的，而凡-温克尔夫人是错的。
孩子们也一样，瑞普-凡-温克尔一来，他们总是欢叫起来。
他总是望着他们玩耍，为他们做玩具，教他们怎么玩各种游戏，还给他们讲最精彩的故事。
不管他去哪儿，他的四周常常围着一群孩子。
村子里没有哪条狗对他狂吠过。
瑞普-凡-温克尔有一个缺点：什么赚钱的活儿他都不喜欢，甚至是憎恨。
很难理解究竟是什么原因让他不爱劳动。
可他从不拒绝帮助邻居，哪怕是干最粗的活儿，比如帮人家砌石墙。
村里的妇女也常使唤他，让他传信，或做一些她们的丈夫不愿意做的小活计。
换言之，除了自各儿的事情外，别人家的事瑞普都乐意管。
至少家庭责任，收拾农场，他觉得这样的活儿绝对做不来。
事实上，他宣称在他农场上折腾毫无用处，因为那是整个那一带最差的小块地，一无是处。
结果由于他经营不善，失去不少土地，他的小农场比他周围的农场更差了。
他的孩子也到处游荡，他们的可怜样和他的农场一样。
他的儿子小瑞普，和他很像，整天四处晃荡。
ripvanwinkle故事梗概中文
ipvanwinkle故事梗概中文
《瑞普·凡·温克尔》的故事梗概如下：
瑞普·凡·温克尔是一个心地善良、和蔼可亲的人，但他的妻子却总是对他唠叨不休，让他感到厌烦。
一天，为了躲避妻子的唠叨，瑞普带着他的狗到附近的林子里去打猎，结果在路上遇到了一个奇怪的人，那人请他喝了一种神奇的酒，瑞普喝了之后就昏倒在地。
当瑞普醒来时，他发现已经过去了二十年，他的狗已经死了，而他的家乡也发生了很大的变化。
他回到家后，发现他的妻子已经去世，他的女儿也已经嫁人并有了孩子。
瑞普对这些变化感到非常惊讶，但他也很快适应了新的生活，并成为了一个受人尊敬的老人。
最后，瑞普又遇到了那个请他喝酒的人，那人告诉他，他喝的是一种可以让人长眠二十年的酒。
瑞普听后感到非常惊讶，但他也明白了时间的珍贵，决定好好珍惜剩下的时光。
这个故事通过瑞普的经历，告诉人们要珍惜时间，不要浪费生命。
瑞普·凡·温克尔Rip_Van_Winkle中英文对照与summary
作者简介：华盛顿·欧文（Washington Irving）（1789-1895）, 美国浪漫主义作家，也是一个纯文学作家，他的写作态度是"writing for pleasure and to produce pleasure"。
欧文的代表作有《见闻札记》（Sketch Book），这是第一部伟大的青少年读物，也是美国本土作家第一部成功的小说。
由于欧文对美国文学的伟大贡献，他获得了“美国文学之父”的光荣称号。
这篇短篇小说，《瑞普·凡·温克尔》便是摘自《见闻札记》。
Rip Van WinkleA Posthumous Writing of Diedrich KnickerbockerBy Washington Irving(T HE FOLLOWING tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very curious in the Dutch history of the province, and the manners of the descendants from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did not lie so much among books as among men; for the former are lamentably scanty on his favorite topics; whereas he found the old burghers, and still more their wives, rich in that legendary lore so invaluable to true history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a bookworm.The result of all these researches was a history of the province duringthe reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some years since. There have been various opinions as to the literary character of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a little questioned on its first appearance, but has since been completely established; and it is how admitted into all historical collections as a book of unquestionable authority.The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work, and now that he is dead and gone it cannot do much harm to his memory to say that his time might have been much better employed in weightier labors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby in his own way; and though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors and grieve the spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the truest deference and affection, yet his errors and follies are remembered “more in sorrow than in anger”; and it begins to be suspected that he never intended to injure or offend. But however his memory may be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear among many folk whose good opinion is well worth having; particularly by certain biscuit bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their New Year cakes, and have thus given him a chance for immortality almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo medal or a Queen Anne’s farthing.)By Woden, God of Saxons,From whence comes Wensday, that isWodensday,Truth is a thing that ever I will keepUnto thylke day in which I creep intoMy sepulchre—C ARTWRIGHT.Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Catskill Mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory.At the foot of these fairy mountains the voyager may have descried the light smoke curling up from a village whose shingle roofs gleamamong the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of the province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!), and there were some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, with lattice windows, gable fronts surmounted with weathercocks, and built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland.In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), 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 a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor and an obedient, henpecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such universal popularity; for those men are most apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad who are under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation, and acurtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing; and if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed.Certain it is that he was a great favorite among all the good wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles, and never failed, whenever they talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood.The great error in Rip’s composition was an insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the want of assiduity or perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and 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 squirrelsor wild pigeons. He would never even refuse to assist a neighbor in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn, or building stone fences. The women of the village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would not do for them; in a word, Rip was ready to attend to anybody’s business but his own; but as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, it was impossible.In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country; everything about it went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were continually falling to pieces; his cow would either go astray or get among the cabbages; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else; the rain always made a point of setting in just as he had some outdoor work to do; so that though his patrimonial estate had dwindled away under his management, acre by acre, until there was little more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst-conditioned farm in the neighborhood.His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes of his father. He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother’s heels, equipped in a pair of his father’s cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to hold up withone hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather.Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, 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. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away, in perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife, so that he was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house—the only side which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked husband.Rip’s sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much henpecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his master’s so often going astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods—but what courage can withstand theever-during and all-besetting terrors of a woman’s tongue? 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 fly to the door with yelping precipitation.Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on; a tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener by constant use. For a long while he used to console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the village, which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of his majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in the shade, of a long lazy summer’s day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman’s money to have heard the profound discussions which sometimes took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands, from some passing traveler. How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper, learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary; and how sagely they would deliberateupon public events some months after they had taken place.The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun, and keep in the shade of a large tree; so that the neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true, he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. When anything that was read or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and send forth short, frequent, and angry puffs; but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds, and sometimes taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head in token of perfect approbation.From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage, and call the members all to nought; nor was that august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him outright with encouraging her husband in habits of idleness.Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his onlyalternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. “Poor Wolf,”he would say, “thy mistress leads thee a dog’s life of it; but never mind, my lad, while I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee!”Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master’s face, and if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart.In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Catskill Mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and reëchoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening between the trees he could overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic course, the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands.On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild,lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing; the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys; he saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle.As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, hallooing, “Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!”He looked around, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air: “Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!”—at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his master’s side, looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him; he looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place, but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in need of assistance, he hastened down to yield it.On nearer approach, he was still more surprised at the singularity ofthe stranger’s appearance. He was a short, square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion—a cloth jerkin strapped around the waist—several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulders a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity, and mutually relieving one another, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of those transient thunder showers which often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheater, surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which impending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During the whole time, Rip and his companion had labored on in silence; for though the former marveled greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something strange andincomprehensible about the unknown that inspired awe and checked familiarity.On entering the amphitheater, new objects of wonder presented themselves. On a level spot in the center was a company of odd-looking personages playing at ninepins. They were dressed in a quaint, outlandish fashion: some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most had enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide’s. Their visages, too, were peculiar: one had a large head, broad face, and small, piggish eyes; the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat set off with a little red cock’s tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie Van Schaick, the village parson, and which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement.What seemed particularly odd to Rip, was that though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the mostmelancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder.As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-luster countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game.By degrees, Rip’s awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another, and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often, that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep.On awaking, he found himself on the green knoll from whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes—it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft and breasting the puremountain breeze. “Surely,”thought Rip, “I have not slept here all night.”He recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor—the mountain ravine—the wild retreat among the rocks—the woe-begone party at ninepins—the flagon—“Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon!”thought Rip—“what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?”He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, well-oiled fowling piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roysters of the mountain had put a trick upon him, and having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him, shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen.He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening’s gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. “These mountain beds do not agree with me,”thought Rip, “and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle.”With some difficulty he got down into the glen; he found the gully up which he and his companion had ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountain stream wasnow foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grape vines that twisted their coils and tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his path.At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to the amphitheater; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks presented a high, impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad, deep basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man’s perplexities. What was to be done? the morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward.As he approached the village, he met a number of people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thoughthimself acquainted with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long!He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, none of which he recognized for his old acquaintances, barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered: it was larger 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 began to misgive him; he doubted 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 he found the way to his own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear theshrill 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 rung for a moment with his voice, and then all again was silence.He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the little 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 which 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 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 wassingularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was stuck in the hand instead of a scepter, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, G ENERAL W ASHINGTON.There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none whom Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco smoke instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens—election—members of Congress—liberty—Bunker’s Hill—heroes of ’76—and other words, that were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty fowling piece, his uncouth dress, and the army of women and children that had gathered at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded around 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.Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and raising 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!”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.“Well—who are they?—name them.”Rip bethought himself a moment, and then inquired, “Where’s Nicholas Vedder?”。
ripvanwinkle主题分析
ripvanwinkle主题分析《Rip Van Winkle》是美国作家华盛顿·欧文于1819年发表的一篇中篇小说，讲述了主人公里普·范·温克尔（Rip Van Winkle）进入山中一个神秘的睡眠状态，长达二十年后醒来，这期间世界发生了翻天覆地的变化。
这个故事将个人和社会的变化相结合，探讨了时间的流逝、社会变革和人生哲学等主题。
首先，《Rip Van Winkle》探讨了时间的流逝和人的命运。
整个故事设立在18世纪的美国殖民地时期，这个时期代表了社会的稳定和人们生活的方式。
里普·范·温克尔是一个懒散无能的男性，对家庭和社会没有贡献，只知道度日如年地在异想天开中度过他的生活。
进入山洞后，里普醒来发现全球发生了巨大变化，美国已经独立，社会、经济和政治环境都发生了巨大的变化。
通过里普的沉眠与醒来，欧文展示了社会的历史发展和个人生活经历之间的关系。
这个主题使人们反思自己的生活如何被时间和社会推动，以及个人行为对历史进程的影响。
此外，这个故事还探讨了时代变革对个人身份的影响。
当里普醒来后，发现他曾经的朋友已经散落四方，他的妻子和儿子都已经去世。
除了社会上的变革，个人生活也发生了巨大的变化。
里普在山洞里长眠了二十年，错过了他家庭的发展和亲友的成长，他的家庭和社区关系已经丧失。
这个情节强调了时代变化对个人生活和身份的影响，提出了个人与社会之间的紧张关系。
它使读者思考个人选择如何影响自己的生活和他人的命运，以及个人与社会如何相互作用。
另一个值得关注的主题是欧文对民主价值观的思考。
里普最初生活在英国殖民统治下的美国，当他醒来后，美国已经从英国独立并成为一个民主国家。
小说中描绘的村庄政治体系与旧时代的专制体制相比，人民对自己的命运有了更大的掌控权。
欧文通过描绘社会变革，表达了对民主理念的赞美。
通过这个主题，欧文希望读者思考自由、平等和个人自主权这些与民主价值观相关的问题。
rip van winkle译文
rip van winkle译文
《瑞普·凡·温克尔》（Rip Van Winkle）是美国作家华盛顿·欧文（Washington Irving）创作的一篇短篇小说，以下是其中文译文：
瑞普·凡·温克尔是一个喜欢打猎的人，他有一个爱唠叨的妻子和一群喜欢捉弄他的孩子。
一天，他为了躲避妻子的唠叨，带着他的狗去了一个叫做卡茨基尔山的地方打猎。
他在山上遇到了一个奇怪的人，这个人请他喝了一些酒，然后他就睡着了。
当他醒来时，他发现自己已经睡了20年。
他回到了自己的村庄，发现一切都已经变了。
他的妻子已经死了，他的孩子们也都长大成人了。
他发现美国已经独立了，而他曾经认识的人都已经老了或者死了。
瑞普·凡·温克尔开始讲述他的故事，但是没有人相信他。
最后，他又回到了卡茨基尔山，再也没有人见过他。
这个故事是一个关于时间和变化的寓言，它告诉我们时间是不可逆转的，我们必须珍惜现在的时光。
瑞普·凡·温克尔Rip-Van-Winkle中英文对照与summary
作者简介：华盛顿·欧文(Washington Irving）（1789-1895)，美国浪漫主义作家，也是一个纯文学作家，他的写作态度是"writing for pleasure and to produce pleasure"。
欧文的代表作有《见闻札记》（Sketch Book)，这是第一部伟大的青少年读物，也是美国本土作家第一部成功的小说。
由于欧文对美国文学的伟大贡献，他获得了“美国文学之父"的光荣称号.这篇短篇小说，《瑞普·凡·温克尔》便是摘自《见闻札记》.Rip Van WinkleA Posthumous Writing of Diedrich KnickerbockerBy Washington Irving（T HE FOLLOWING tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker，an old gentleman of New York, who was very curious in the Dutch history of the province，and the manners of the descendants from its primitive settlers。
His historical researches, however, did not lie so much among books as among men; for the former are lamentably scanty on his favorite topics；whereas he found the old burghers，and still more their wives，rich in that legendary lore so invaluable to true history. Whenever，therefore，he happened upon a genuine Dutch family，snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading sycamore，he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a bookworm。
rip van winkle读后感
rip van winkle读后感《Rip Van Winkle》是美国著名作家华盛顿·欧文的一部短篇小说，故事讲述了一个名叫里普·范·温克尔的男人在一个美丽的山谷中睡了二十年，醒来后发现世界已经发生了巨大的变化。
这个故事不仅仅是一个简单的幻想故事，更是对美国独立后社会变革的一种寓言。
在读完这个故事后，我深受启发，对人生、社会以及历史的思考更加深刻。
首先，故事中的里普·范·温克尔是一个非常平凡的人，他懒散、好酒、好玩，对家庭和工作都不太上心。
然而，他的人生却因为一次意外的长眠而发生了翻天覆地的变化。
这让我深刻地反省了自己的生活态度，我们常常在生活中迷失自我，忽略了生活中真正重要的东西。
我们应该珍惜眼前的人和事，不要等到失去了才后悔莫及。
其次，故事中的山谷代表了一个自然纯净的世界，而里普的二十年长眠则代表了美国独立后社会的变革。
当里普醒来后，他发现了一个全新的世界，国家已经独立，社会已经发生了巨大的变化。
这让我深刻地思考了历史对于社会的影响，每一个时代都会有它的特点和变革，我们应该学会适应变化，不断地更新自己的认知和观念。
最后，故事中的人物形象和情节设置都非常生动有趣，作者通过幽默的笔调和夸张的情节，让读者在阅读中不仅能够获得知识，更能够感受到快乐和幸福。
这让我深刻地认识到文学作品的魅力，它不仅仅是一种艺术表现形式，更是一种对人生、社会和历史的深刻思考，能够给人以启发和感悟。
总之，《Rip Van Winkle》是一部充满了哲理和思考的作品，它通过一个简单的故事，让读者深刻地思考了人生、社会和历史的重要性。
在今后的生活中，我会更加珍惜眼前的人和事，不断地适应变化，同时也会更加热爱文学作品，从中获取更多的知识和感悟。
希望更多的人能够读到这部伟大的作品，从中受益。
rip van winkle
By Washington Ir• • • • • • • • • • • 1 region n.地区; 地带; 区域; 范围 2 curl v.卷曲，盘绕；n.一缕头发 3 voyager n.航行者;航海者 4 good-natured adj.和蔼的,和善的 5 military adj.军事的, 军用的; 军人的；武装的 n.军人; 军队, 军方,武装力量 6 humbly adv.谦逊地,恭顺地;卑微地;卑贱地 7 idleness n.懒惰;闲散;安逸; 失业(状态);赋闲 8 inn n.小旅馆, 客栈,小酒馆 9 pipe n.烟斗，烟袋 管子, 管道 10 liquor n.酒, 烈性酒 11 keg n.小桶 12 theater n.剧场,戏院,电影院,阶梯教室,手术教室,手术室 13 bony adj..骨的;似骨的骨瘦如柴的 14 vessel n.船, 舰; 血管, 脉管, 导管
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• In conclusion, the story Rip Van Winkle has affected and in turn, been affected by American society. How can we apply this to modern day society? Are we still able to compare that way that are government has evolved? Not only was it new beginning for a new style of writing it was a new start for a country. Washington could in no way have known how much his story would effect our culture
瑞普·凡·温克尔Rip_Van_Winkle中英文对照与summary
作者简介：华盛顿·欧文（Washington?Irving）（1789-1895）,?美国浪漫主义作家，也是一个纯文学作家，他的写作态度是"writing?for?pleasure?and?to?produce?pleasure"。
欧文的代表作有《见闻札记》（Sketch?Book），这是第一部伟大的青少年读物，也是美国本土作家第一部成功的小说。
由于欧文(Tofhiswork,and,totellthetruth,itisnotawhitbetterthanitshouldbe.Itschiefmeritisitsscrup ulousaccuracy,whichindeedwasalittlequestionedonitsfirstappearance,buthassincebeencomp letelyestablished;anditishowadmittedintoallhistoricalcollectionsasabookofunquestionab leauthority.Theoldgentlemandiedshortlyafterthepublicationofhiswork,andnowthatheisdeadandgoneitcan notdomuchharmtohismemorytosaythathistimemighthavebeenmuchbetteremployedinweightierlab ors.He,however,wasapttoridehishobbyinhisownway;andthoughitdidnowandthenkickupthedustaditbeginstobesuspectedthatheneverintendedtoinjureoroffend.Buthoweverhismemorymaybeapp reciatedbycritics,itisstillhelddearamongmanyfolkwhosegoodopinioniswellworthhaving;par ticularlybycertainbiscuitbakers,whohavegonesofarastoimprinthislikenessontheirNewYearc akes,andhavethusgivenhimachanceforimmortalityalmostequaltothebeingstampedonaWaterloom edaloraQueenAnne’sfarthing.)ByWoden,GodofSaxons,FromwhencecomesWensday,thatisWodensday,ginalsettlersstandingwithinafewyears,withlatticewindows,gablefrontssurmountedwithweat hercocks,andbuiltofsmallyellowbricksbroughtfromHolland.Inthatsamevillage,andinoneoftheseveryhouses(which,totelltheprecisetruth,wassadlytime-wornandweather-beaten),therelivedmanyyearssince,whilethecountrywasyetaprovinceofGreat Britain,asimple,good-naturedfellow,ofthenameofRipVanWinkle.HewasadescendantoftheVanWi nkleswhofiguredsogallantlyinthechivalrousdaysofPeterStuyvesant,andaccompaniedhimtothe siegeofFortChristina.Heinherited,however,butlittleofthemartialcharacterofhisancestors .Ihaveobservedthathewasasimple,good-naturedman;hewas,moreover,akindneighborandanobedigabroadwhoareunderthedisciplineofshrewsathome.Theirtempers,doubtless,arerenderedplian tandmalleableinthefieryfurnaceofdomestictribulation,andacurtainlectureisworthallthese rmonsintheworldforteachingthevirtuesofpatienceandlong-suffering.Atermagantwifemay,the refore,insomerespects,beconsideredatolerableblessing;andifso,RipVanWinklewasthriceble ssed.Certainitisthathewasagreatfavoriteamongallthegoodwivesofthevillage,who,asusualwiththe amiablesex,tookhispartinallfamilysquabbles,andneverfailed,whenevertheytalkedthosematt ersoverintheireveninggossipings,tolayalltheblameonDameVanWinkle.Thechildrenofthevilla ge,too,wouldshoutwithjoywheneverheapproached.Heassistedattheirsports,madetheirplaythiHischildren,too,wereasraggedandwildasiftheybelongedtonobody.HissonRip,anurchinbegotte ninhisownlikeness,promisedtoinheritthehabits,withtheoldclothesofhisfather.Hewasgenera llyseentroopinglikeacoltathismother’sheels,equippedinapairofhisfather’scast-offgall igaskins,whichhehadmuchadotoholdupwithonehand,asafineladydoeshertraininbadweather.RipVanWinkle,however,wasoneofthosehappymortals,offoolish,well-oileddispositions,who taketheworldeasy,eatwhitebreadorbrown,whichevercanbegotwithleastthoughtortrouble,andw ouldratherstarveonapennythanworkforapound.Iflefttohimself,hewouldhavewhistledlifeaway ,inperfectcontentment;buthiswifekeptcontinuallydinninginhisearsabouthisidleness,hiscasantlygoing,andeverythinghesaidordidwassuretoproduceatorrentofhouseholdeloquence.Riph adbutonewayofreplyingtoalllecturesofthekind,andthat,byfrequentuse,hadgrownintoahabit. Heshruggedhisshoulders,shookhishead,castuphiseyes,butsaidnothing.This,however,alwaysp rovokedafreshvolleyfromhiswife,sothathewasfaintodrawoffhisforces,andtaketotheoutsideo fthehouse—theonlysidewhich,intruth,belongstoahenpeckedhusband.Rip’ssoledomesticadherentwashisdogWolf,whowasasmuchhenpeckedashismaster;forDameVanWi nkleregardedthemascompanionsinidleness,andevenlookeduponWolfwithanevileye,asthecauseo fhismaster’ssooftengoingastray.Trueitis,inallpointsofspiritbefittinganhonorabledog,h ewasascourageousananimalaseverscouredthewoods—butwhatcouragecanwithstandtheever-duristoodhim,andknewhowtogatherhisopinions.Whenanythingthatwasreadorrelateddispleasedhim, hewasobservedtosmokehispipevehemently,andsendforthshort,frequent,andangrypuffs;butwhe npleased,hewouldinhalethesmokeslowlyandtranquilly,andemititinlightandplacidclouds,and sometimestakingthepipefromhismouth,andlettingthefragrantvaporcurlabouthisnose,wouldgr avelynodhisheadintokenofperfectapprobation.FromeventhisstrongholdtheunluckyRipwasatlengthroutedbyhistermagantwife,whowouldsudden lybreakinuponthetranquillityoftheassemblage,andcallthemembersalltonought;norwasthatau gustpersonage,NicholasVedderhimself,sacredfromthedaringtongueofthisterriblevirago,whoPoorRipwasatlastreducedalmosttodespair;andhisonlyalternative,toescapefromthelaborofth efarmandclamorofhiswife,wastotakeguninhandandstrollawayintothewoods.Herehewouldsometi messeathimselfatthefootofatree,andsharethecontentsofhiswalletwithWolf,withwhomhesympa thizedasafellow-suffererinpersecution.“PoorWolf,”hewouldsay,“thymistressleadstheea dog’slifeofit;butnevermind,mylad,whileIlivethoushaltneverwantafriendtostandbythee!”Wolfwouldwaghistail,lookwistfullyinhismaster’sface,andifdogscanfeelpity,Iverilybelie vehereciprocatedthesentimentwithallhisheart..hegldperceivedastrangefigureslowlytoilinguptherocks,andbendingundertheweightofsomethinghe carriedonhisback.Hewassurprisedtoseeanyhumanbeinginthislonelyandunfrequentedplace,but supposingittobesomeoneoftheneighborhoodinneedofassistance,hehasteneddowntoyieldit.Onnearerapproach,hewasstillmoresurprisedatthesingularityofthestranger’sappearance.He wasashort,square-builtoldfellow,withthickbushyhair,andagrizzledbeard.Hisdresswasofthe antiqueDutchfashion—aclothjerkinstrappedaroundthewaist—severalpairofbreeches,theout eroneofamplevolume,decoratedwithrowsofbuttonsdownthesides,andbunchesattheknees.Hebore onhisshouldersastoutkeg,thatseemedfullofliquor,andmadesignsforRiptoapproachandassisthualalacrity,andmutuallyrelievingoneanother,theyclamberedupanarrowgully,apparentlythed rybedofamountaintorrent.Astheyascended,Ripeverynowandthenheardlongrollingpeals,likedi stantthunder,thatseemedtoissueoutofadeepravine,orrathercleftbetweenloftyrocks,towardw hichtheirruggedpathconducted.Hepausedforaninstant,butsupposingittobethemutteringofone ofthosetransientthundershowerswhichoftentakeplaceinmountainheights,heproceeded.Passin gthroughtheravine,theycametoahollow,likeasmallamphitheater,surroundedbyperpendicularp recipices,overthebrinksofwhichimpendingtreesshottheirbranches,sothatyouonlycaughtglim psesoftheazureskyandthebrighteveningcloud.Duringthewholetime,Ripandhiscompanionhadlab oredoninsilence;forthoughtheformermarveledgreatlywhatcouldbetheobjectofcarryingakegof liquorupthiswildmountain,yettherewassomethingstrangeandincomprehensibleabouttheunknow nthatinspiredaweandcheckedfamiliarity.tolargeflagons,andmadesignstohimtowaituponthecompany.Heobeyedwithfearandtrembling;the yquaffedtheliquorinprofoundsilence,andthenreturnedtotheirgame.Bydegrees,Rip’saweandapprehensionsubsided.Heevenventured,whennoeyewasfixeduponhim, totastethebeverage,whichhefoundhadmuchoftheflavorofexcellentHollands.Hewasnaturallyat hirstysoul,andwassoontemptedtorepeatthedraught.Onetasteprovokedanother,andhereiterate dhisvisitstotheflagonsooften,thatatlengthhissenseswereoverpowered,hiseyesswaminhishea d,hisheadgraduallydeclined,andhefellintoadeepsleep.ubbedhiseyes—itwasabrightsunnymorning.Thebirdswerehoppingandtwitteringamongthebushes ,andtheeaglewaswheelingaloftandbreastingthepuremountainbreeze.“Surely,”thoughtRip,“Ihavenotslepthereallnight.”Hereca lledtheoccurrencesbeforehefellasleep.Thestrangema nwithakegofliquor—themountainravine—thewildretreatamongtherocks—thewoe-begoneparty atninepins—theflagon—“Oh!thatflagon!thatwickedflagon!”thoughtRip—“whatexcusesha llImaketoDameVanWinkle?”Helookedroundforhisgun,butinplaceoftheclean,well-oiledfowlingpiece,hefoundanoldfirelo cklyingbyhim,thebarrelincrustedwithrust,thelockfallingoff,andthestockworm-eaten.Henow suspectedthatthegraveroystersofthemountainhadputatrickuponhim,andhavingdosedhimwithlidotostarveamongthemountains.Heshookhishead,shoulderedtherustyfirelock,and,withaheartf ulloftroubleandanxiety,turnedhisstepshomeward.Asheapproachedthevillage,hemetanumberofpeople,butnonewhomheknew,whichsomewhatsurprise dhim,forhehadthoughthimselfacquaintedwitheveryoneinthecountryround.Theirdress,too,was ofadifferentfashionfromthattowhichhewasaccustomed.Theyallstaredathimwithequalmarksofs urprise,andwhenevertheycasttheireyesuponhim,invariablystrokedtheirchins.Theconstantre currenceofthisgestureinducedRip,involuntarily,todothesame,when,tohisastonishment,hefo undhisbeardhadgrownafootlong!Hehadnowenteredtheskirtsofthevillage.Atroopofstrangechildrenranathisheels,hootingafte rhim,andpointingathisgraybeard.Thedogs,too,noneofwhichherecognizedforhisoldacquaintan ces,barkedathimashepassed.Theveryvillagewasaltered:itwaslargerandmorepopulous.Therewe rerowsofhouseswhichhehadneverseenbefore,andthosewhichhadbeenhisfamiliarhauntshaddisap peared.Strangenameswereoverthedoors—strangefacesatthewindows—everythingwasstrange.H ismindnowbegantomisgivehim;hedoubtedwhetherbothheandtheworldaroundhimwerenotbewitched .Surelythiswashisnativevillage,whichhehadleftbutthedaybefore.TherestoodtheCatskillMou ntains—thereranthesilverHudsonatadistance—therewaseveryhillanddalepreciselyasithada lwaysbeen—Ripwassorelyperplexed—“Thatflagonlastnight,”thoughthe,“hasaddledmypoor headsadly!”—thero—hecalTherewas,asusual,acrowdoffolkaboutthedoor,butnonewhomRiprecollected.Theverycharactero fthepeopleseemedchanged.Therewasabusy,bustling,disputatioustoneaboutit,insteadoftheac customedphlegmanddrowsytranquillity.HelookedinvainforthesageNicholasVedder,withhisbro adface,doublechin,andfairlongpipe,utteringcloudsoftobaccosmokeinsteadofidlespeeches;o rVanBummel,theschoolmaster,dolingforththecontentsofanancientnewspaper.Inplaceofthese, alean,bilious-lookingfellow,withhispocketsfullofhandbills,washaranguingvehementlyabou trightsofcitizens—election—membersofCongress—liberty—Bunker’sHill—heroesof’76—andotherwords,thatwereaperfectBabylonishjargontothebewilderedVanWinkle.TheappearanceofRip,withhislonggrizzledbeard,hisrustyfowlingpiece,hisuncouthdress,andt hearmyofwomenandchildrenthathadgatheredathisheels,soonattractedtheattentionofthetaver npoliticians.Theycrowdedaroundhim,eyinghimfromheadtofoot,withgreatcuriosity.Theorator bustleduptohim,anddrawinghimpartlyaside,inquired“onwhichsidehevoted?”Ripstaredinvac antstupidity.Anothershortbutbusylittlefellowpulledhimbythearm,andraisingontiptoe,inqu iredinhisear,“whetherhewasFederalorDemocrat.”Ripwasequallyatalosstocomprehendtheque stion;whenaknowing,self-importantoldgentleman,inasharpcockedhat,madehiswaythroughthec rowd,puttingthemtotherightandleftwithhiselbowsashepassed,andplantinghimselfbeforeVanW inkle,withonearmakimbo,theotherrestingonhiscane,hiskeeneyesandsharphatpenetrating,asi twere,intohisverysoul,demanded,inanausteretone,“whatbroughthimtotheelectionwithagunontackagain.”“Where’sVanBummel,theschoolmaster?”“Hewentofftothewars,too,wasagreatmilitiageneral,andisnowinCongress.”Rip’sheartdiedaway,athearingofthesesadchangesinhishomeandfriends,andfindinghimselfth usaloneintheworld.Everyanswerpuzzledhim,too,bytreatingofsuchenormouslapsesoftime,ando fmatterswhichhecouldnotunderstand:war—Congress—StonyPoint!—hehadnocouragetoaskafte“Oh,RipVanWinkle!”exclaimedtwoorthree,“Oh,tobesure!that’sRipVanWinkleyonder,leani ngagainstthetr ee.”Riplooked,andbeheldaprecisecounterpartofhimself,ashewentupthemountain:apparentlyaslaz y,andcertainlyasragged.Thepoorfellowwasnowcompletelyconfounded.Hedoubtedhisownidentit y,andwhetherhewashimselforanotherman.Inthemidstofhisbewilderment,themaninthecockedhat demandedwhohewas,andwhatwashisname?onderRiphadbutonequestionmoretoask;butheputitwithafalteringvoice:—“Where’syourmother?”“Oh,shetoohaddiedbutashorttimesince;shebrokeabloodvesselinafitofpassionataNewEngl andpeddler.”Therewasadropofcomfort,atleast,inthisintelligence.Thehonestmancouldcontainhimselfn olonger.—Hecaughthisdaughterandherchildinhisarms.—“Iamyourfather!”criedhe—“Youn gRipVanWinkleonce—oldRipVanWinklenow!—DoesnobodyknowpoorRipVanWinkle!”Allstoodamazed,untilanoldwoman,totteringoutfromamongthecrowd,putherhandtoherbrow,a ndpeeringunderitinhisfaceforamoment,exclaimed,“Sureenough!itisRipV anWinkle—itishims elf.Welcomehomeagain,oldneighbor.—Why,wherehaveyoubeenthesetwentylongyears?”Rip’sstorywassoontold,forthewholetwentyyearshadbeentohimbutasonenight.Theneighbor sstaredwhentheyheardit;somewhereseentowinkateachother,andputtheirtonguesintheircheeks ;andtheself-importantmaninthecockedhat,who,whenthealarmwasover,hadreturnedtothefield, screweddownthecornersofhismouth,andshookhishead—uponwhichtherewasageneralshakingofth eheadthroughouttheassemblage.Itwasdetermined,however,totaketheopinionofoldPeterVanderdonk,whowasseenslowlyadvanity,hetookhisplaceoncemoreonthebench,attheinndoor,andwasreverencedasoneofthepatriarch softhevillage,andachronicleoftheoldtimes“beforethewar.”Itwassometimebeforehecouldge tintotheregulartrackofgossip,orcouldbemadetocomprehendthestrangeeventsthathadtakenpla ceduringhistorpor.Howthattherehadbeenarevolutionarywar—thatthecountryhadthrownoffthe yokeofoldEngland—andthat,insteadofbeingasubjectofhisMajesty,GeorgeIII.,hewasnowafree citizenoftheUnitedStates.Rip,infact,wasnopolitician;thechangesofstatesandempiresmadeb utlittleimpressiononhim;buttherewasonespeciesofdespotismunderwhichhehadlonggroaned,an dthatwas—petticoatgovernment;happily,thatwasatanend;hehadgothisneckoutoftheyokeofmat rimony,andcouldgoinandoutwheneverhepleased,withoutdreadingthetyrannyofDameVanWinkle.W heneverhernamewasmentioned,however,heshookhishead,shruggedhisshoulders,andcastuphisey es;whichmightpasseitherforanexpressionofresignationtohisfate,orjoyathisdeliverance.Heusedt otellhisstorytoeverystrangerthatarrivedatDr.Doolittle’shotel.Hewasobserved ,atfirst,tovaryonsomepointseverytimehetoldit,whichwas,doubtless,owingtohishavingsorec entlyawaked.ItatlastsettleddownpreciselytothetaleIhaverelated,andnotaman,woman,orchil dintheneighborhoodbutknewitbyheart.Somealwayspretendedtodoubttherealityofit,andinsist edthatRiphadbeenoutofhishead,andthiswasonepointonwhichhealwaysremainedflighty.TheoldD utchinhabitants,however,almostuniversallygaveitfullcredit.Eventothisdaytheyneverheara thunder-stormofasummerafternoon,abouttheCatskills,buttheysayHendrickHudsonandhiscrewa reattheirgameofninepins;anditisacommonwishofallhenpeckedhusbandsintheneighborhood,whe nlifehangsheavyontheirhands,thattheymighthaveaquietingdraughtoutofRipVanWinkle’sflag on.些她们的丈夫不愿意做的小活计。
瑞普凡温克尔Rip-Van-Winkle中英文对照与summary
作者简介：华盛顿·欧文（Washington Irving）（1789-1895）, 美国浪漫主义作家，也是一个纯文学作家，他的写作态度是"writing for pleasure and to produce pleasure"。
欧文的代表作有《见闻札记》（Sketch Book），这是第一部伟大的青少年读物，也是美国本土作家第一部成功的小说。
由于欧文对美国文学的伟大贡献，他获得了“美国文学之父”的光荣称号。
这篇短篇小说，《瑞普·凡·温克尔》便是摘自《见闻札记》。
Rip Van WinkleA Posthumous Writing of Diedrich KnickerbockerBy Washington Irving(T HE FOLLOWING tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very curious in the Dutch history of the province, and the manners of the descendants from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did not lie so much among books as among men; for the former are lamentably scanty on his favorite topics; whereas he found the old burghers, and still more their wives, rich in that legendary lore so invaluable to true history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a bookworm.The result of all these researches was a history of the province during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some years since. There have been various opinions as to the literary character of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a little questioned on its first appearance, but has since been completely established; and it is how admitted into all historical collections as a book of unquestionable authority.The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work, and now that he is dead and gone it cannot do much harm to his memory to say that his time might have been much better employed in weightier labors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby in his own way; and though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors and grieve the spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the truest deference and affection, yet his errors and follies are remembered “more in sorrow than in anger”; and it begins to be suspected that he never intended to injure or offend. But however his memory may be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear among many folk whose good opinion is well worth having; particularly by certain biscuit bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their New Year cakes, and have thus given him a chance for immortality almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo medal or a Queen Anne’s farth ing.)By Woden, God of Saxons,From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday,Truth is a thing that ever I will keepUnto thylke day in which I creep intoMy sepulchre—C ARTWRIGHT.Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Catskill Mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory.At the foot of these fairy mountains 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. It is a little village of great antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of the province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!), and there were some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, with lattice windows, gable fronts surmounted with weathercocks, and built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland.In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), 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 a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor and an obedient, henpecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such universal popularity; for those men are most apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad who are under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation, and a curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing; and if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed.Certain it is that he was a great favorite among all the good wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles, and never failed, whenever they talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troopof them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood.The great error in Rip’s composition was an insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the want of assiduity or perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and 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 neighbor in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn, or building stone fences. The women of the village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would not do for them; in a word, Rip was ready to attend to anybody’s business but his ow n; but as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, it was impossible.In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country; everything about it went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were continually falling to pieces; his cow would either go astray or get among the cabbages; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else; the rain always made a point of setting in just as he had some outdoor work to do; so that though his patrimonial estate had dwindled away under his management, acre by acre, until there was little more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst-conditioned farm in the neighborhood.His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes of his father. He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother’s h eels, equipped in a pair of his father’s cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather.Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, 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. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away, in perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife, so that he was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house—the only side which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked husband.Rip’s sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much henpecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his master’s so often going astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous ananimal as ever scoured the woods—but what courage can withstand the ever-during and all-besetting terrors of a woman’s tongue? 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 fly to the door with yelping precipitation.Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on; a tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener by constant use. For a long while he used to console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the village, which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of his majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in the shade, of a long lazy summer’s day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman’s money to have heard the profound discussions which sometimes took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands, from some passing traveler. How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper, learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary; and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events some months after they had taken place.The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun, and keep in the shade of a large tree; so that the neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true, he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. When anything that was read or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and send forth short, frequent, and angry puffs; but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds, and sometimes taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head in token of perfect approbation.From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage, and call the members all to nought; nor was that august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him outright with encouraging her husband in habits of idleness.Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. “Poor Wolf,” he would say, “thy mistress leads thee a dog’s life of it; but never mind, my lad, while I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee!” Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master’s face, and ifdogs can feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart.In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Catskill Mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and reëchoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening between the trees he could overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic course, the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands.On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing; the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys; he saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle.As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, hallooing, “Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!” He looked around, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air: “Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!”—at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his master’s side, looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him; he looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place, but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in need of assistance, he hastened down to yield it.On nearer approach, he was still more surprised at the singularity of the stranger’s appearance. He was a short, square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion—a cloth jerkin strapped around the waist—several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulders a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity, and mutually relieving one another, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of those transient thunder showers which often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they cameto a hollow, like a small amphitheater, surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which impending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During the whole time, Rip and his companion had labored on in silence; for though the former marveled greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something strange and incomprehensible about the unknown that inspired awe and checked familiarity.On entering the amphitheater, new objects of wonder presented themselves. On a level spot in the center was a company of odd-looking personages playing at ninepins. They were dressed in a quaint, outlandish fashion: some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most had enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide’s. Their visages, too, were peculiar: one had a large head, broad face, and small, piggish eyes; the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat set off with a little red cock’s tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie Van Schaick, the village parson, and which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement.What seemed particularly odd to Rip, was that though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder.As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-luster countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game.By degrees, Rip’s awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another, and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often, that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep.On awaking, he found himself on the green knoll from whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes—it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft and breasting the pure mountain breeze. “Surely,” thought Rip, “I have not slept here all night.” He recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with akeg of liquor—the mountain ravine—the wild retreat among the rocks—the woe-begone party at ninepins—the flagon—“Oh! that flagon!that wicked flagon!” thought Rip—“what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?”He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, well-oiled fowling piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roysters of the mountain had put a trick upon him, and having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him, shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen.He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening’s gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. “These mountain beds do not agree with me,” thought Rip, “and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with D ame Van Winkle.” With some difficulty he got down into the glen; he found the gully up which he and his companion had ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grape vines that twisted their coils and tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his path.At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to the amphitheater; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks presented a high, impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad, deep basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man’s perplexities. What was to be done? the morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward.As he approached the village, he met a number of people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long!He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, none of which he recognized for his old acquaintances, barked at him as he passed. The veryvillage was altered: it was larger 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 began to misgive him; he doubted 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 he found the way to his own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear 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 rung for a moment with his voice, and then all again was silence.He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the little 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 which 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 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 stuck in the hand instead of a scepter, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, G ENERAL W ASHINGTON.There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none whom Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco smoke instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens—election—members of Congress—liberty—Bunker’s Hill—heroes of ’76—and other words, that were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty fowling piece, his uncouth dress, and the army of women and children that had gathered at his heels,soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded around 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. Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and raising 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!”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.“Well—who are they?—name them.”Rip bethought himself a moment, and then inquired, “Where’s Nicholas Vedder?”There was 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 rotted and gone, too.”“Where’s Brom Dutcher?”“Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say he was killed at the battle of Stony Point—others say he was drowned in a squall, at the foot of Antony’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.”Rip’s heart died away, at hearing of th ese sad changes in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him, too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand: war—Congress—Stony Point!—he had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, “Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?”“Oh, Rip Van Winkle!” exclaimed two or three, “Oh, to be sure! that’s Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree.”Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he went up the mountain: apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely。
rip wan winkle译文
“Rip Van Winkle”是美国作家华盛顿·欧文的一篇著名小说。
这篇小说的主人公Rip Van Winkle是一个简单、天性纯良、怕老婆的人。
他在一次偶然的遛弯时遇到了一群奇怪的人，和他们一起喝酒之后就不省人事。
醒来之后他发现自己的爱犬和猎枪都不见了，回到村子里后发现已经过了20年，妻子和朋友都已经去世。
然而，“Rip Van Winkle”在英文中是一个常用的表达，用来指“时代的落伍者”或者“嗜睡的人”。
这个表达源于上述小说的主人公，他因为一觉睡了20年而错过了很多社会变化。
至于“rip wan winkle”这个拼写，它似乎是一个拼写错误。
正确的拼写应该是“Rip Van Winkle”。
如果您想要的是这个表达的中文译文，那么如上所述，它通常被翻译为“瑞普·凡·温克尔”，同时也可用来喻指“时代的落伍者”或“嗜睡的人”。
Rip Van Winkle
Rip van Winkle n.瑞普.凡.温克尔梦;[喻] 时代的落伍者， 嗜睡的人
Brief
Poor Rip Van Winkle is married to a terrible nag of a woman and never seems to be able to do anything right. His only peace comes when he heads into the Catskill Mountains on his own to do a bit of hunting or fishing. One day, during just such a trip, he meets a strange man carrying a keg of liquor and is tempted asleep and when he awakens again, the world is inexplicably different from the one he left behind.
简介
瑞普为人热心，靠耕种一小块贫瘠的土地养家糊口。 有一天，他为了躲避唠叨凶悍的妻子，独自到附近的赫德 森河畔兹吉尔山上去打猎。然后他忽然听见有人叫他名字。 呼叫瑞普的人，是一位从未见过的老年人。瑞普和他一起 走到像是广场的地方。在那里，有一群看起来不可思议的 人在玩着九柱戏的游戏（类似保龄球的游戏）。瑞普在那 里和他们一起痛快的喝酒玩耍，然后在喝醉后很快地睡着。 当瑞普醒来时，城市的样子已经改变了，不仅全部的亲 友都已经老去而且美国也早就独立。就连妻子也早就过世， 让他摆脱恶妻的恐怖。他这短短的一觉竟然已经在世间上 过了二十年。瑞普在不久后又上山了，但这一去却让他不 知去向。
Rip Van Winkle
译文Rip_Van_winkle
瑞普-凡—温克尔卡兹吉尔出脉位于纽约州哈得逊河西边，山峰高耸人云，俯瞰着四周的山村。
季节更替，阴晴转换，甚至旦夕间的时辰变幻,都会引来山容峰色午姿百态。
所以山区周围的村民只要观看卡兹吉尔山脉就能猜出天气的变化。
就在这些山脉下面，航行者可以看见缕缕青烟从一个古老的荷兰小山村袅袅升起.瑞普—凡-温克尔就在这个村里。
许多年前,他就住在这里，那时这个国家还发球英国.瑞普-凡-温克尔是一个朴素单纯,性格温和的家伙。
在荷兰决督统治时期,他的祖先曾英勇地与英国人战斗过。
然而，瑞普的血液里没有多少祖先的军人性格。
我已经说了，他是一个朴素单纯,性格温和的家伙.此外他还是一个善良的邻居，也是一个在老婆面前唯唯诺诺的丈夫。
由于在家里被老婆管得太严所以他似乎养成了处处与人为善的习惯.因此，除了他老婆外，大这都对他评价很高。
当然,他在村子里所有的良家妇女中很受欢迎。
每当她们知道了凡—温克尔家吵架,她们总是认定瑞普是对的,而凡-温克尔夫人是错的.孩子们也一样，瑞普—凡-温克尔一来，他们总是欢叫起来。
他总是望着他们玩耍，为他们做玩具，教他们怎么玩各种游戏，还给他们讲最精彩的故事。
不管他去哪儿,他的四周常常围着一群孩子。
村子里没有哪条狗对他狂吠过。
瑞普-凡-温克尔有一个缺点：什么赚钱的活儿他都不喜欢，甚至是憎恨.很难理解究竟是什么原因让他不爱劳动。
可他从不拒绝帮助邻居,哪怕是干最粗的活儿,比如帮人家砌石墙。
村里的妇女也常使唤他，让他传信，或做一些她们的丈夫不愿意做的小活计。
换言之，除了自各儿的事情外，别人家的事瑞普都乐意管.至少家庭责任，收拾农场，他觉得这样的活儿绝对做不来。
事实上,他宣称在他农场上折腾毫无用处，因为那是整个那一带最差的小块地，一无是处。
结果由于他经营不善，失去不少土地，他的小农场比他周围的农场更差了.他的孩子也到处游荡，他们的可怜样和他的农场一样。
他的儿子小瑞普，和他很像，整天四处晃荡。
他穿着一条他父亲的旧裤子，不得不用一只手提着，免得掉了下来。
rip van winkle译文 (2)
rip van winkle译文标题：《Rip Van Winkle译文》引言概述：Rip Van Winkle是美国作家华盛顿·欧文创作的一篇短篇小说，讲述了一个农民Rip Van Winkle在一次山中探险中进入了一个神秘的睡眠状态，醒来后发现自己回到了一个全然改变的社会。
本文将对Rip Van Winkle的译文进行准确而详细的阐述，通过五个大点和各自的小点，为读者呈现这个经典故事的精彩之处。
正文内容：1. Rip Van Winkle的背景故事1.1 Rip Van Winkle是一个懒散而善良的农民，他常常逃避家庭琐事和社会责任。
1.2 Rip Van Winkle的妻子是一个严厉而爱唠叨的女人，给他带来了很多压力。
1.3 Rip Van Winkle逃离现实，进入山中探险，与一群奇怪的人相遇。
2. Rip Van Winkle的神秘睡眠2.1 在山中，Rip Van Winkle喝下了一个奇怪的酒，导致他进入了沉睡状态。
2.2 Rip Van Winkle醒来时，发现自己睡了整整二十年，周围的一切都发生了巨大的变化。
2.3 这段睡眠使Rip Van Winkle错过了美国独立战争，错过了他儿子的成长。
3. Rip Van Winkle醒来后的社会变化3.1 Rip Van Winkle发现他的家人已经去世，他的儿子成为了一名成年人。
3.2 美国社会在他沉睡期间发生了巨大的变化，政治、经济和社会结构都发生了重大转变。
3.3 Rip Van Winkle感到陌生和孤独，他努力适应新的社会环境。
4. Rip Van Winkle的故事意义4.1 Rip Van Winkle的故事象征着个人和社会的变化，以及时间的流逝。
4.2 Rip Van Winkle的沉睡让他认识到逃避现实并不是解决问题的方式，他学会了面对现实和承担责任。
4.3 故事中的人物形象和情节描绘得深入浅出，使读者能够深入思考自己的生活和社会。
rip van winkle昏睡20年赏析
rip van winkle昏睡20年赏析
Rip Van Winkle是美国作家华盛顿欧文（Washington Irving）的短片小说，它讲述了一位名叫Rip Van Winkle的村民在上山打猎时因喝了地精灵酿的仙酒而沉睡二十年，待他醒来时发现，他之前生活的小镇已发生翻天覆地的变化，原来他错过了一七七六的美国独立战争的故事。
欧文成功地运用了多种写作手法,选择现实事件,创作出了读者
喜闻乐见的典型环境和典型性格。
小说的主人公瑞普·凡·温克尔生活。
在哈德逊河畔的一个小山村里,他虽然敦厚老实,但却是个游手
好闲、不务正业的人。
身为农民,却厌恶耕作,“他田里的野草比任何地方都要长得快些”,他可以“钓一整天鱼,即使鱼儿一口也不来咬饵”,他还可以“为了打几只松鼠或野鸽子,掮着一支猎枪,穿林越泽,上山入谷,一连跋涉好几个钟头”。
他虽然脾气随和,乐于助人,但在家里却懒懒散散,诸事不管不问,对妻子的抱怨和责骂充耳不闻,整天带着一条狗,四处游荡,“宁可只有一个辩士而挨饿,不愿为一个金磅而工作。
”结果,祖上留下来的田产在他手里越来越少。
如果实在听不下去妻子的唠叨,就到村子里找闲人聊天。
终于有一天,躲进深山里,一觉睡了20年,躲过了独立战争流血流汗的年代。
《芙蓉镇》《李伯大梦》开头翻译
景物翻译《芙蓉镇》开头原文：芙蓉镇坐落在湘、粤、桂三省交界的峡谷平坝里，古来为商旅歇宿、豪杰聚义、兵家必争的关隘要地。
有一溪一河两条水路绕着镇子流过，流出镇口里把路远就汇合了，因而三面环水，是个狭长半岛似的地形。
从镇里出发，往南过渡口，可下广东；往西去，过石拱桥，是一条通向广西的大路。
不晓得是哪朝哪代，镇守这里的山官大人施行仁政，或者说是附庸风雅图个县志州史留名，命人傍着绿豆色的一溪一河，栽下了几长溜花枝招展、绿荫拂岸的木芙蓉，成为一镇的风水；又派民夫把后山脚下的大片沼泽开掘成方方湖塘，遍种水芙蓉，养鱼，采莲，产藕，作为山官衙门的“官产”。
每当湖塘水芙蓉竞开，或是河岸上木芙蓉斗艳的季节，这五岭山脉腹地的平坝，便颇是个花柳繁华之地、温柔富贵之乡了。
木芙蓉根、茎、花、皮，均可入药。
水芙蓉则上结莲子，下产莲藕，就连它翠绿色的铜锣一样圆圆盖满湖面的肥大叶片，也可让蜻蜓立足，青蛙翘首，露珠儿滴溜；采摘下来，还可给远行的脚夫包中伙饭菜，做荷叶麦子粑子，盖小商贩的生意担子，遮赶圩女人的竹篮筐，被放牛娃儿当草帽挡日头……一物百用，各各不同。
小河、小溪、小镇，因此得名“芙蓉河”、“玉叶溪”、“芙蓉镇”。
译文：Furong Town is located in Pingba canyon which is Hunan, Guangdong, Guangxi provinces’ common border. It has been an important downtown and stronghold from ancient times. There are a stream and a river running around this town. And they get together several miles away from the town. For the town is surrounded by water, it looks like a long and narrow peninsula. In south of the town, there is a wharf from which you could get to Guangdong province. In west of the town, there is a stone bridge and a road leads to Guangxi province. Many cottonrose hibiscuses were planted along the stream and river. Those bogs behind the town were changed into lakes in which fragrant marshweed herbs were planted. Fish and lotus roots also grow in these lakes. They were regarded as specialties of Furong Town. In the season of the burst of flowers, Pingba will be the sea of flower and land of wealthy. The roots, stems, flowers and skins of the cottonroses hibiscuses can be used as medicines. The marshweed herbs can be eaten as foods, and its big leaves can be used to shelter from the sun. For these reasons, Furong Town gets its name.Rip Wan Winkle原文：Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Catskill(卡兹基尔)Mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian(阿巴拉契亚)family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling(隆起) up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues(色调) and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers(晴雨表). When the weather is fair(晴朗) and settled(稳定的), they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold(陡峭的) outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors(水汽) about their summits(峰顶）, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory.At the foot of these fairy mountains the voyager may have descried the light smoke curling（弯曲）up from a village whose shingle roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints（色彩）of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great antiquity（古老）, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of the province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!), and there were some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, with lattice（格子框架）windows, gable（山形墙）fronts surmounted（登上）with weathercocks, and built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland.In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), 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 a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly（勇敢的）in the chivalrous（有骑士风度的）days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege（困扰）of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial（好战的）character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor and an obedient（顺从的）, henpecked（惧内的）husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness（温和）of spirit which gained him such universal popularity; for those men are most apt（倾向于）to be obsequious（奉承的）and conciliating（安慰）abroad who are under the discipline of shrews（悍妇）at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered（表达）pliant（柔韧的）and malleable（韧性的）in the fiery（激烈的）furnace（熔炉）of domestic tribulation（艰苦）, and a curtain lecture is worth all the sermons（布道）in the world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant（悍妇）wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing; and if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice（十分）blessed. 译文：任何到过哈德逊河旅行的人一定会记得卡兹基尔山脉。
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Whoever has journeyed up the long Hudson River will remember the Catskill Mountains. Rising up to the west of the river, these mountains look different with each change in weather or time of day. Even when the rest of the land is cloudless, the Catskill Mountains at dusk hold a misty blanket around themselves, glowing with the rays of the setting sun. It is said that in these misty mountains, strange magic can sometimes take place. Such a mysterious and magical thing happened long ago to a man named Rip Van Winkle. Rip lived in a village at the foot of the mountains. He was well-known in the village.
Rip awoke with a long, gray beard
Rip left the village, worried about how different it appeared -and how different he looked, too. He walked until he arrived at the land where his warm, sturdy home stood. As he came to the house, he expected to hear his wife's voice, scolding him for not coming home the night before. He expected to hear his children playing and his dog barking.
One of Rip's favorite things to do was to hike among the beautiful Catskill Mountains. He loved to look at the plants and animals that lived there. He loved to stare at the mountains' misty majesty. It was on such an evening hike that Rip's famous troubles would occur.
That particular evening, as Rip and his dog, Wolf, started to climb into the mountains, there came from the woods a voice calling Rip's name. "Rip Van Winkle!" the voice cried out. "Hello, Rip Van Winkle!" It seemed to be getting closer. Rip looked around, but saw only an old crow perched in a tree. Figuring that his imagination was playing tricks on him, Rip began to hike again. But again he heard the voice call his name. "Rip Van Winkle!" it called.
Finally, the two came to a clearing. Here Rip spotted a group of small men much like his new friend. These men were busy playing a game of bowling on the clearing's grass. All of the little men had long, flowing beards and funny hats and clothes, much like the man with the barrel.
Rip Van Winkle drank the unfamiliar liquid with the stranger and his friends.
When Rip awoke, he found himself not in the grassy clearing where he had visited his new friends, but instead lying on the ground at the foot of the mountains, where he had first met the strange little man. "Oh, dear," Rip thought to himself. "I must have slept here all night long! What will I tell my wife?"
Rip Van Winkle met a stranger in the mountains.
The men opened up the barrel, which Rip saw was full of a strange, dark liquid. Pouring the liquid into cups and mugs, the men offered one to Rip. Rip found the drink so sweet and so good that he drank mug after mug of it. All the while, the strange little men watched Rip drink. And then, the men watched his head begin to nod, his eyes begin to close, and soon, Rip Van Winkle was asleep.
Brief introduction
Rip Van Winkle is a hunter living in New York in 1760's. One day walking in the Catskill Mountains he is lured into a secluded glen by a strange and small man. Rip decides to join the man and his companions in a game of bowling. While they play, Rip drinks a mysterious potion that makes him fall asleep for twenty years. When Rip wakes up and returns home, it is Election Day and everything has changed. People are crowded around him, not recognizing him. They are questioning him while he is trying to explain himself and at the same time make sense of his surroundings.
Rip Van Winkle had a doting wife and rosy-cheeked children.
Rip would gather his children around him and play games with them. The children and their father would fly kites and shoot marbles. Late at night around the family's fireplace, Rip would tell the children stories of ghosts and witches and the wild frontier. Rip Van Winkle was a good father and a good man who enjoyed his life.
Rng in the mountains.
Again, Rip turned around, and this time spotted a small figure walking toward him. As the stranger came closer, Rip was surprised at his appearance. The stranger was a very short and stout little man, with bushy hair and eyebrows and a full, bushy beard. On the man's shoulder was a barrel. The man asked Rip to help him carry it, and Rip, being a friendly man, agreed. Rip and the strange little man carried the barrel high up into the mountains. They walked and walked, higher and higher into the misty mountains, and deeper and deeper into the dark woods.