Hope Farm Press Publisher of New York Regional History, Folklore. Nature, Military History and Genealogy Books
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a brief example of the humor and whimsy throughout this little trifle
- It was for a long time a traditional belief among the Indian tribes which dwelt along the banks of the Hudson, that the water, ages ago, broke through the opposing barrier of the Highlands, draining a great lake and forming the channel of the river.
How they became possessed of an idea so much in accordance with the results of science, or where they obtained many other traditional notions quite consistent with the progress of humanity, will probably ever be shrouded in a mystery as difficult to unravel as an attempt to trace the genealogy of the Incas to the time when Ararat's cradle rocked the infant world.
But soon after the arrival of our worthy ancestors, and their quiet settlement at Communipaw, a species of Jug-glery, a sort of modern "traveling companion" to civilization, tended to confuse somewhat the minds of the natives, disturbing many of their original beliefs, and particularly this traditional idea concerning the winding channel of the Shate-muc. Whether this refinement of European extraction, so universally appreciated by the aborigines, was introduced to simplify the art of making bargains in respect to the purchase of furs and the acquisition of territory; or whether its ameliorating effect on a race unused to much gaiety of temper and flow of spirits only afforded an innocent amusement to our philosophical progenitors, and suggested the original plan of those irregular zigzag fences which still stand in our valleys and along our hill-sides, the muse of history and the pinions of tradition have failed to record.
It came, however, in some way, to be generally believed by the Red men, that the crooked and winding channel of the river was not wholly attributable to its own inclination; but, deep in the Northern forests, near some favorite haunt of the "Great Spirit," a fountain of what they termed " Fire Water," always clear and sparkling, bubbled from the ground, and the river, drinking of this water as it flowed into its bosom, naturally found a wandering way to the sea. In accordance with this theory, they rejected their former idea that the Highlands had ever been sundered, and chose rather to believe that the mountains and little hills, impelled by curiosity, had come from the East and the West to see this strange phenomenon, and either attracted by each other's beauty, or loving the music of the water, had willingly remained upon its banks. To find this wonderful fountain, the warriors were willing to encounter any perils and endure any hardships. Every little lane in the North Woods which found an outlet in the river was visited with a zeal and eagerness which gives the blush to modern explorers; every trickling rivulet was tasted, but the clear cold water only laughed merrily in their faces and sweetly kissed their parched lips as they stooped to drink of its purity. . . . . and so it goes. You see what I mean.
This is a reprint of the anonymous 1868 collection of writings about the Hudson River, filled with fascinating Indian, Dutch and Revolutionary War stories and poems. 88pp P $8.95
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A brief example of the rthym and subtle humor follows . . .
Here, at these fairy mountains' base,
The voyager may often trace
The light smoke curling toward the sky,
From chimney tops in village nigh,
Whose shingle roofs gleam through the trees,
Where odors of the mountain breeze,
And blue tints in the upland seen,
Commingle with the fresher green,
And melt away into the shade
Of nearer landscape thus arrayed.It is, indeed, a village small,
Of great antiquity withal,
By some Dutch colonist begun;
And early, (so the legend run,)
In the provincial government,
Of good old Peter Stuyvesant,
(And may his ashes rest in peace.)And though the dwellers may decrease,
Some of these ancient houses stand,
As by original settlers planned;
When into cozy shapes were wrought,
Small yellow bricks from Holland brought;
With latticed windows, gables tall,
And weather-cocks surmounting all.
In that same village, (and, forsooth,
If I must tell the naked truth,)
In one of these same houses, old,
Time worn, and weather beaten, cold,
When o'er the province of that day.
Great Britain held colonial sway,
Lived Rip Van Winkle, simple, kind,
Good natured as you ever find.Descended from Van Winkle stock
That gallantly sustained the shock
Of chivalrous days that once were spent
With gallant Peter Stuyvesant,
In siege of Christiana's fort;
The truth compels me to report,
That Rip inherited small part
Of the ancestral martial art.Written by James Pitcher (after Washington Irving), this retelling of the famous legend is in the form of a poem. no illus. 33pp P $5.95
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Copyright © 1995 by Richard Frisbie -- All rights reserved.
