Mortimer Van Winkle, known as Mort to his cronies, was a lanky sot who liked nothing better than to go hunting with his dog, Beelza Bug. His nagging wife, a foul tongued, cross-eyed fence gossip who could have made better use of her time than to torment Mort day in and day out, was the true reason behind Mort's absences. If Dame Van Winkle was within eye or earshot, you could bet she was too close, as far as Mort was concerned.

But Mort was a meek individual, content and amiable in his way, and a friend to all in the Hudson Valley village in which he lived. Word had it among the townfolk that Mort's passion for hunting was not in the sport of it, but because every rabbit or fox he shot with a single train of purpose--He was able to imagine his wife's head on the poor beast just before he pulled the trigger!

It so happened that one day, sitting over a pint at the local pub, Mort heard tales of "wee folk" who lived up in the Catskill's. Mort himself was known and beloved to all the townsfolk, excepting his betrothed, for his skill in spinning yarns and tales. Politely listening--for Mort would always savor a chance to relax over a pint or three and posit on all manner of thought, but Mort was not one to fall for tall tales himself. Had he been told he would encounter these dwarf mountain dwellers, Mort would have scoffed at the idea. But as the rest of the story will attest, Mort's life was to change radically despite this disbelief.

On an otherwise lazy autumn day, Mort and his loyal hound found themselves tossed from sound sleep under a yew tree behind the dilapidated barn near his home. Hearing the cheatter but not the form of the words his wife was spewing, Mort retrived his old Dutch musket from the hearth and sulked off into the mountains to hunt. He had a feeling he would really enjoy taking aim at any number of furry beasts who may look, to him at least, like his wife. Rounding a knoll, Mort was shocked to come across a group of men no taller than young boys, but with grisled beards and clothing in the old Dutch style. They were hauling a coffin no bigger than a traveller's trunk. It was encrusted with gems, and the little men were chanting a low funeral dirge. Barely noticing the huntsman and his dog, the procession filed past and disappeared over a crest. Mort followed, while Beelza Bug warily kept low at his heels. At a reasonable distance Mort watched the men place the coffin on a bier and then begin to hold a wake. The leader of the group, so it seemed, was a bit more stout than the othersl all rotund and jolly. He bade Mort come among them and put him to the task of serving them wine from a large, old looking barrel. While they drank and talked in a dialect so old it was nearly foreign to Mort, he let his mind wander and thought how much he would enjoy telling his story at the pub over the next few days, or even weeks. Seeing the dwarves engrossed in their ritual, Mort decided to take a cup of the wine for himself. Lo! it was the best he had ever tasted. Soon another cup, and then another poured over his lips. As thunder began to crack, Mort realised he should head home--it would be dark long before he would be fully down from the mountains. (to be continued....)

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