On the stone, at the dead hour of the night, might be discerned a female figure wrapped in a grey cloak. She was incessantly knock, knock, knocking, in a fruitless endeavour to split the impenetrable rock.
‘That flagon last night,’ thought Rip Van Winkle, ‘has addled my poor head sadly.’
It started when Peter began to listen to the other farmers boast of the money each was making and the triumphs they were winning over one another.
‘He is not pretty, but he has a good temper and swims as well as the others. Perhaps he will improve in looks as time goes on.’