Rip Van Winkle
The Kaatsberg or Catskill mountains have always been a region full of
fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits, who influenced
the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over the landscape, and
sending good or bad hunting seasons. They were ruled by an old squaw
spirit, said to be their mother. She dwelt on the highest peak of the
Catskills, and had charge of the doors of day and night to open and
shut them at the proper hour. She hung up the new moons in the skies,
and cut up the old ones into stars. In times of drought, if properly
propitiated, she would spin light summer clouds out of cobwebs and
morning dew, and send them off from the crest of the mountain, flake
after flake, like flakes of carded cotton, to float in the air, until,
dissolved by the heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle showers,
causing the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow
an inch an hour. If displeased, however, she would brew up clouds black
as ink, sitting in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in
the midst of its web; and when these clouds broke, woe betide the
valleys!
In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of Manitou or
Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the Catskill mountains,
and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking all kinds of evils and
vexations upon the red men. Sometimes he would assume the form of a
bear, a panther, or a deer, lead the bewildered hunter a weary chase
through tangled forests and among ragged rocks, and then spring off
with a loud ho! ho! leaving him aghast on the brink of a beetling
precipice or raging torrent.
The favourite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a great
rock or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and, from the
flowering vines which clamber about it, and the wild flowers which
abound in its neighbourhood, is known by the name of the Garden Rock.
Near the foot of it is a small lake, the haunt of the solitary bittern,
with water-snakes basking in the sun on the leaves of the pond-lilies
which lie on the surface. This place was held in great awe by the
Indians, insomuch that the boldest hunter would not pursue his game
within its precincts. Once upon a time, however, a hunter who had
lost his way penetrated to the Garden Rock, where he beheld a number
of gourds placed in the crotches of trees. One of these he seized and
made off with it, but in the hurry of his retreat he let it fall among
the rocks, when a great stream gushed forth, which washed him away
and swept him down precipices, where he was dashed to pieces, and the
stream made its way to the Hudson, and continues to flow to the present
day, being the identical stream known by the name of the Kaaters-kill.
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Transcriber’s Note:
Attempts have been made to retain hyphenation, punctuation and spelling
as published in the original publication.