Travel back in time to the days before the American Revolution, when Dutch settlers populated the little towns along the Hudson River and ghosts roamed the mountains and river valleys. In "Rip Van Winkle," a henpecked husband escapes his nagging wife by wandering the Catskills, where he encounters some mysterious mountain men and tastes a strange brew with unexpected effects. "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" recounts schoolmaster Ichabod Crane's dream of marrying a wealthy farmer's daughter. But Ichabod's ambitions take a sudden turn with his terrifying late-night encounter with the dreaded Headless Horseman. In addition to these famous fables by Washington Irving, America's first popular author, the collection includes two other short stories: "The Spectre Bridegroom," a tale of an arranged marriage that comes to a chilling conclusion; and "Mountjoy," in which a bookish young man discovers romance and learns a real-life lesson. Author, essayist, biographer, historian, and diplomat, Washington Irving (1783–1859) is best known as the creator of "Rip Van Winkle" and "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow." One of America's first bestselling writers to achieve international acclaim, Irving served as U. S. Ambassador to Spain from 1842–46. Rip Van Winkle and Other Stories By Washington Irving Dover Publications, Inc. Copyright © 2018 Washington Irving All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-0-486-82879-4 Contents Rip Van Winkle, 1, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, 26, The Spectre Bridegroom, 68, Mountjoy, 88, CHAPTER 1 Rip Van Winkle Posthumous writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker By Woden, God of Saxons, From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday, Truth is a thing that ever I will keep Unto thylke day in which I creep into My sepulchre — Cartwright [The 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 favourite 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 now 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 labours. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way; and though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbours 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 by many folks, 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 being stamped on a Waterloo Medal, or a Queen Anne's Farthing.] WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill 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 grey vapours 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 described the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle roofs gleam a