Matt's Journal

I found myself sailing back in time and space, and then my feet hit the ground and I stared at a neat cottage in front of my face. Dutch Colonial, perhaps, although it smelled nothing like the suburban domiciles of that style that I knew.

Out came the proprietess — a buxom, red-cheeked matron with a sharp eye. I asked her about her husband. “Why, that no-account. He’s off shooting again — the musket’s gone off the hook. The pig’s loose, the crops uncut, the kids — acchhh!”

I sympathized but of course good old Rip deserved some compassion. I said as much.

Ms. Van Winkle gave me a lecture about the duties of a husband, particularly those that were being observed in the breech. The pig ran through followed by a ragamuffin boy and girl. “Why, they’ll never grow up right with the kind of example he’s setting!” She continued to fulminate as she took up a broom and went after the pig.

I left then, and flying back through space and time I returned to my chair. And I read about good old Rip. The kids turned out fine, and the Ms. died of an attack of spleen after he disappeared.

And that’s that.