At the foot of the Kaatskil Mountains there is an old village founded by Dutch immigrants in the earliest times of colonization. In ancient times, when this region was still a British province, there lived a good-natured fellow by the name of Rip Van Winkle. All the neighbors loved him, but his wife was so grumpy that he tried to leave home more often so as not to hear her abuse. One day, Rip went hunting in the mountains. When he was about to return home, an old man called out to him. Surprised that a man was in such a deserted place, Rip hastened to help. The old man was dressed in old Dutch clothes and carried a barrel on his shoulders - apparently with vodka. Rip helped him climb the slope. The old man was silent all the way. After passing through the gorge, they went out into a hollow that looked like a small amphitheater. In the middle, on a smooth surface, a strange company played skittles. All the players were dressed like the old man, and reminded Rip of a picture of a Flemish artist hanging in the living room of a village pastor. Although they had fun, their faces kept a stern expression. Everyone was silent, and only the sound of footsteps broke the silence. The old man began to pour vodka into large cups and signaled to Rip that they should be brought to the players. Those drank and returned to the game. Rip also could not resist and drank several cups of vodka. His head clouded over and he fell asleep soundly.
Rip woke up on the same hillock from which he had first noticed the old man in the evening. It was morning. He began to look for a gun, but instead of a new shotgun, he found a shabby, rust-eaten homemade gun nearby. Rip thought that the old players had played a cruel joke with him and, having drunk vodka, replaced his gun, he clicked on the dog, but it disappeared. Then Rip decided to visit the place of yesterday’s fun and demand a gun and a dog from the players. Having risen to his feet, he felt aching joints and noticed that he lacked the former mobility. When he reached the path along which the old man climbed the mountains the day before, a mountain stream flowed in its place, and when he hardly reached the place where the passage to the amphitheater was, sheer cliffs stood in his way. Rip decided to return home. Approaching the village, he met several completely unfamiliar people in strange clothes. The village has also changed - it has grown and become more crowded. There was not a single familiar face around, and everyone was looking at Rip in surprise. Running a hand over his chin, Rip found that he had grown a long gray beard. When he approached his house, he saw that he was almost falling apart. The house was empty. Rip went to the zucchini, where the village "philosophers" and loafers would usually meet, but there was a large hotel in the place of the zucchini. Rip looked at the sign and saw that the king George III depicted on it had also changed beyond recognition: his red uniform turned blue, instead of a scepter there was a sword in his hand, a triangular hat crowned his head, and “General Washington” was written below. In front of the hotel crowded people. Everyone listened to a skinny subject who ranted about civil rights, about elections, about members of Congress, about the heroes of 1776 and about other things completely unknown to Rip. Rip was asked whether he was a federalist or a democrat. He did not understand anything. A man in a cocked hat strictly asked by what right Rip came to the polls with weapons. Rip began to explain that he was a local resident and a loyal subject of his king, but in response there were shouts: “Spy! Tori! Hold it! ” Rip began to humbly prove that he had no intention of doing anything wrong and simply wanted to see one of the neighbors who usually gathered at the tavern. He was asked to give their names. Almost everyone he named died long ago. “Does anyone here know Rip Van Winkle?” He cried out. He was shown a man standing by a tree. He was like two drops of water like Rip, what he was, going to the mountains. Rip was completely at a loss: who then is he? And then a young woman came up to him with a child in her arms. Her appearance seemed familiar to Rip. He asked her name and who her father was. She said that her father was called Rip Van Winkle, and for twenty years he had left home with a gun on his shoulder and disappeared. Rip asked apprehensively where her mother was. It turned out that she had recently died. Rip was relieved from his heart: he was very afraid that his wife would give him a thrashing. He hugged a young woman. "I'm your father!" He exclaimed. Everyone looked at him in surprise. Finally, an old woman was found who recognized him, and the villagers believed that in front of them was really Rip Van Winkle, and his namesake standing under the tree was his son. The daughter settled the old father at home. Rip told each new hotelier his story, and soon the whole district already knew it by heart. Some people did not believe Rip, but still the old Dutch settlers, hearing the thunder from the Kaatskil Mountains, are sure that it is Henrik Hudson and his team playing skittles. And all the local husbands who are oppressed by their wives dream of drinking oblivion from the Rip Van Winkle Cup.
