He was after his favorite sport of
squirrel-shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and
re-echoed 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, with 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.
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