Rip Van Winkle a personalized book with your child as the hero

The mist was lifting from the blue Catskill Mountains when the child, walking early along a hillside path, heard a long, creaky yawn. Beneath a great chestnut tree an old man was stretching his arms. His beard was white and so long that it lay across his knees and tangled in the fallen leaves.

"Good morning," said the child gently.

The old man blinked. "Is it morning? I only meant to rest for a minute. My name is Rip Van Winkle, and my dog Wolf was right beside me." He looked all around, but there was no dog, only ferns and moss and a chestnut tree that seemed much larger than he remembered.

Rip tried to stand, and his knees creaked like old gate hinges. The child found a strong, straight branch and offered it as a walking stick. "Thank you, my friend," said Rip, leaning on it. "But this is peculiar. The path ought to run beside the stream, and here is a dry gully. The trees have grown up where I never saw them."

"Where is your home?" asked the child.

"In the village below, with my wife and my little daughter Judith, who wears a red ribbon in her hair. They will be worried about me." He stroked his beard and frowned. "And I cannot think why this has grown so long."

"Let's walk down together and see," said the child, and they set off. Rip's beard swayed with every step, and the child went one pace ahead to point out roots and loose stones.

Down from the blue hills they went, past tumbling brooks and bright meadow flowers. At the bottom the village came into view, and Rip stopped to rub his eyes. "Those houses are new, and so are the fences and chimneys. Where is my little cottage with the crooked roof?" The child saw that he looked worried and held out a steadying hand.

In the village square, people stared at the old man with the long white beard. A big, handsome inn stood where Rip remembered a small, sleepy tavern. "There used to be an enormous tree out front," he said slowly, "and a signboard with a different face on it. And Nicholas Vedder sat on that bench every afternoon, telling stories and watching the clouds."

"Tell me what else you remember," said the child, and Rip described the bench, the old tree and the neighbours who sat in its shade. Each time the child looked from his words to the square, the square had changed a little more. The two of them stood a long while, comparing and wondering.

At last the child turned to a kindly villager who was watching them with soft curiosity. "Excuse me, do you know of a family named Van Winkle?"

The villager smiled sadly. "I know the name well. Rip Van Winkle went up the mountain twenty years ago and was never seen again. His old cottage fell down long since. But his daughter Judith lives at the end of the lane, and she has a little boy of her own."

"Twenty years," whispered Rip. He sat down heavily on the bench and looked at his own long beard as if seeing it for the first time. The child sat beside him. "It is a long time," said the child, "but you are here now, and we know where to go."

Rip took a deep breath, leaned on his stick and nodded. They walked together to the end of the lane, where a neat cottage stood with a wide porch and a garden full of flowers. A woman at the gate was hanging up a basket. She looked up, looked again, and stood perfectly still.

"Father?" said Judith, very softly. "You have the same twinkle in your eyes."

"Judith," said Rip, and his voice shook. "You were small, with a red ribbon." Then she ran to him, and they held each other and laughed and cried at once. The child stood a little way off, smiling so widely that it almost hurt.

Later, on Judith's porch, there was lemonade and bread and warm sunlight. Rip settled into a rocking chair, and the child sat on the top step beside him. "I will tell you where I have been," he said, "though I scarcely believe it myself. Long ago I climbed into the mountains to rest, and I met a strange little man carrying a heavy keg. I helped him carry it up into a hollow among the cliffs."

He lowered his voice. "There, a company of old men in odd Dutch clothes were playing ninepins. Nobody spoke. Only the rolling balls rumbled like thunder through the hills. I watched them for a while, then sat down to rest against the rocks, and the next thing I knew, I was waking under the chestnut tree. I thought it was a single night."

The villagers had gathered at the gate by then, and the old folk nodded. "They say it is the crew of Captain Hudson's ship," said one, "who come back every twenty years to bowl on the mountain. When thunder rolls over the Catskills on a clear day, that is their game."

So Rip told his gentle stories again and again, while the neighbours brought chairs and children sat in the grass. Judith trimmed his beard to a respectable length, and nobody minded if he lost track of the years. He did not mind missing so much time, he said, because he had come home and had been helped on the way.

When the afternoon grew golden, the child stood to go. Far away over the blue hills there came a soft, rolling rumble. Rip raised his stick and winked, and the whole porch laughed. The child waved goodbye and walked home smiling, knowing exactly where the old man belonged.