He had now entered the skirts of the village.  A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray beard.  The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed.  The very village was altered; it was larger and more populous.  There were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared.  Strange names were over the doors—­strange faces at the windows—­everything was strange.  His mind now misgave him; he began to doubt whether both he and the world around him were not bewitched.  Surely this was his native village, which he had left but the day before.  There stood the Kaatskill Mountains—­there ran the silver Hudson at a distance—­there was every hill and dale precisely as it had always been—­Rip was sorely perplexed—­“That flagon last night,” thought he, “has addled my poor head sadly!”

It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle.  He found the house gone to decay—­the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges.  A half-starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about it.  Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on.  This was an unkind cut indeed—­“My very dog,” sighed poor Rip, “has forgotten me!”

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order.  It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned.  This desolateness overcame all his connubial fears—­he called loudly for his wife and children—­the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then again all was silence.

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village inn—­but it, too, was gone.  A large, rickety wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken and mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, “The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle.”  Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red night-cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes—­all this was strange and incomprehensible.  He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe; but even this was singularly metamorphosed.  The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, GENERAL WASHINGTON.