s. Beyond it, the
Taconic range looked higher and bulkier than before. Our pretty lake
was seen, with all its little bays and inlets; and not that alone, but
two or three new lakes were opening their blue eyes to the sun.
Several white villages, each with its steeple, were scattered about in
the distance. There were so many farm-houses, with their acres of
woodland, pasture, mowing-fields, and tillage, that the children could
hardly make room in their minds to receive all these different
objects. There, too, was Tanglewood, which they had hitherto thought
such an important apex of the world. It now occupied so small a space,
that they gazed far beyond it, and on either side, and searched a good
while with all their eyes, before discovering whereabout it stood.

White, fleecy clouds were hanging in the air, and threw the dark spots
of their shadow here and there over the landscape. But, by and by, the
sunshine was where the shadow had been, and the shadow was somewhere
else.

Far to the westward was a range of blue mountains, which Eustace
Bright told the children were the Catskills. Among those misty hills,
he said, was a spot where some old Dutchmen were playing an
everlasting game of nine-pins, and where an idle fellow, whose name
was Rip Van Winkle, had fallen asleep, and slept twenty years at a
stretch. The children eagerly besought Eustace to tell them all about
this wonderful affair. But the student replied that the story had been
told once already, and better than it ever could be told again; and
that nobody would have a right to alter a word of it, until it should
have grown as old as "The Gorgon's Head," and "The Three Golden
Apples," and the rest of those miraculous legends.

"At least," said Periwinkle, "while we rest ourselves here, and are
looking about us, you can tell us another of your own stories."

"Yes, Cousin Eustace," cried Primrose, "I advise you to tell us a
story here. Take some lofty subject or other, and see if your
imagination will not come up to it. Perhaps the mountain air may make
you poetical, for once. And no matter how strange and wonderful the
story may be, now that we are up among the clouds, we can believe
anything."

"Can you believe," asked Eustace, "that there was once a winged
horse?"

"Yes," said saucy Primrose; "but I am afraid you will never be able to
catch him."

"For that matter, Primrose," rejoined the student, "I might possibly
catch Pegasus, and get upon his bac