The Legend of the Sleeping Hallow

Description
Book, Non-Fiction


 
 


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

THE
 LEGEND
 OF
 SLEEPY
 HOLLOW
  by
 Washington
 Irving
 


  FOUND
 AMONG
 THE
 PAPERS
 OF
 THE
 LATE
 DIEDRICH
 KNICKERBOCKER.
 
  A
 pleasing
 land
 of
 drowsy
 head
 it
 was,
 
  Of
 dreams
 that
 wave
 before
 the
 half-­?shut
 eye;
 
  And
 of
 gay
 castles
 in
 the
 clouds
 that
 pass,
 
  Forever
 flushing
 round
 a
 summer
 sky.
 


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Castle
 of
 Indolence
 


  In
 the
 bosom
 of
 one
 of
 those
 spacious
 coves
 which
 indent
 the
 eastern
 
  shore
 of
 the
 Hudson,
 at
 that
 broad
 expansion
 of
 the
 river
 denominated
 
  by
 the
 ancient
 Dutch
 navigators
 the
 Tappan
 Zee,
 and
 where
 they
 always
 
  prudently
 shortened
 sail
 and
 implored
 the
 protection
 of
 St.
 Nicholas
 
  when
 they
 crossed,
 there
 lies
 a
 small
 market
 town
 or
 rural
 port,
 which
 
  by
 some
 is
 called
 Greensburgh,
 but
 which
 is
 more
 generally
 and
 properly
 
  known
 by
 the
 name
 of
 Tarry
 Town.
 This
 name
 was
 given,
 we
 are
 told,
 in
 
  former
 days,
 by
 the
 good
 housewives
 of
 the
 adjacent
 country,
 from
 the
 
  inveterate
 propensity
 of
 their
 husbands
 to
 linger
 about
 the
 village
 
  tavern
 on
 market
 days.
 Be
 that
 as
 it
 may,
 I
 do
 not
 vouch
 for
 the
 fact,
 
  but
 merely
 advert
 to
 it,
 for
 the
 sake
 of
 being
 precise
 and
 authentic.
 
  Not
 far
 from
 this
 village,
 perhaps
 about
 two
 miles,
 there
 is
 a
 little
 
  valley
 or
 rather
 lap
 of
 land
 among
 high
 hills,
 which
 is
 one
 of
 the
 
  quietest
 places
 in
 the
 whole
 world.
 A
 small
 brook
 glides
 through
 it,
 
  with
 just
 murmur
 enough
 to
 lull
 one
 to
 repose;
 and
 the
 occasional
 
  whistle
 of
 a
 quail
 or
 tapping
 of
 a
 woodpecker
 is
 almost
 the
 only
 sound
 
  that
 ever
 breaks
 in
 upon
 the
 uniform
 tranquillity.
 
 
 
  I
 recollect
 that,
 when
 a
 stripling,
 my
 first
 exploit
 in
 
  squirrel-­?shooting
 was
 in
 a
 grove
 of
 tall
 walnut-­?trees
 that
 shades
 one
 
  side
 of
 the
 valley.
 I
 had
 wandered
 into
 it
 at
 noontime,
 when
 all
 nature
 
 

is
 peculiarly
 quiet,
 and
 was
 startled
 by
 the
 roar
 of
 my
 own
 gun,
 as
 it
 
  broke
 the
 Sabbath
 stillness
 around
 and
 was
 prolonged
 and
 reverberated
 
  by
 the
 angry
 echoes.
 If
 ever
 I
 should
 wish
 for
 a
 retreat
 whither
 I
 might
 
  steal
 from
 the
 world
 and
 its
 distractions,
 and
 dream
 quietly
 away
 the
 
  remnant
 of
 a
 troubled
 life,
 I
 know
 of
 none
 more
 promising
 than
 this
 
  little
 valley.
 
 
 
  From
 the
 listless
 repose
 of
 the
 place,
 and
 the
 peculiar
 character
 of
 its
 
  inhabitants,
 who
 are
 descendants
 from
 the
 original
 Dutch
 settlers,
 this
 
  sequestered
 glen
 has
 long
 been
 known
 by
 the
 name
 of
 SLEEPY
 HOLLOW,
 and
 
  its
 rustic
 lads
 are
 called
 the
 Sleepy
 Hollow
 Boys
 throughout
 all
 the
 
  neighboring
 country.
 A
 drowsy,
 dreamy
 influence
 seems
 to
 hang
 over
 the
 
  land,
 and
 to
 pervade
 the
 very
 atmosphere.
 Some
 say
 that
 the
 place
 
  was
 bewitched
 by
 a
 High
 German
 doctor,
 during
 the
 early
 days
 of
 the
 
  settlement;
 others,
 that
 an
 old
 Indian
 chief,
 the
 prophet
 or
 wizard
 of
 
  his
 tribe,
 held
 his
 powwows
 there
 before
 the
 country
 was
 discovered
 by
 
  Master
 Hendrick
 Hudson.
 Certain
 it
 is,
 the
 place
 still
 continues
 under
 
  the
 sway
 of
 some
 witching
 power,
 that
 holds
 a
 spell
 over
 the
 minds
 of
 
  the
 good
 people,
 causing
 them
 to
 walk
 in
 a
 continual
 reverie.
 They
 are
 
  given
 to
 all
 kinds
 of
 marvellous
 beliefs,
 are
 subject
 to
 trances
 and
 
  visions,
 and
 frequently
 see
 strange
 sights,
 and
 hear
 music
 and
 voices
 in
 
  the
 air.
 The
 whole
 neighborhood
 abounds
 with
 local
 tales,
 haunted
 spots,
 
  and
 twilight
 superstitions;
 stars
 shoot
 and
 meteors
 glare
 oftener
 across
 
 

the
 valley
 than
 in
 any
 other
 part
 of
 the
 country,
 and
 the
 nightmare,
 
  with
 her
 whole
 ninefold,
 seems
 to
 make
 it
 the
 favorite
 scene
 of
 her
 
  gambols.
 
 
 
  The
 dominant
 spirit,
 however,
 that
 haunts
 this
 enchanted
 region,
 and
 
  seems
 to
 be
 commander-­?in-­?chief
 of
 all
 the
 powers
 of
 the
 air,
 is
 the
 
  apparition
 of
 a
 figure
 on
 horseback,
 without
 a
 head.
 It
 is
 said
 by
 some
 
  to
 be
 the
 ghost
 of
 a
 Hessian
 trooper,
 whose
 head
 had
 been
 carried
 away
 
  by
 a
 cannon-­?ball,
 in
 some
 nameless
 battle
 during
 the
 Revolutionary
 War,
 
  and
 who
 is
 ever
 and
 anon
 seen
 by
 the
 country
 folk
 hurrying
 along
 in
 
  the
 gloom
 of
 night,
 as
 if
 on
 the
 wings
 of
 the
 wind.
 His
 haunts
 are
 not
 
  confined
 to
 the
 valley,
 but
 extend
 at
 times
 to
 the
 adjacent
 roads,
 and
 
  especially
 to
 the
 vicinity
 of
 a
 church
 at
 no
 great
 distance.
 Indeed,
 
  certain
 of
 the
 most
 authentic
 historians
 of
 those
 parts,
 who
 have
 been
 
  careful
 in
 collecting
 and
 collating
 the
 floating
 facts
 concerning
 this
 
  spectre,
 allege
 that
 the
 body
 of
 the
 trooper
 having
 been
 buried
 in
 the
 
  churchyard,
 the
 ghost
 rides
 forth
 to
 the
 scene
 of
 battle
 in
 nightly
 
  quest
 of
 his
 head,
 and
 that
 the
 rushing
 speed
 with
 which
 he
 sometimes
 
  passes
 along
 the
 Hollow,
 like
 a
 midnight
 blast,
 is
 owing
 to
 his
 being
 
  belated,
 and
 in
 a
 hurry
 to
 get
 back
 to
 the
 churchyard
 before
 daybreak.
 
 
 
  Such
 is
 the
 general
 purport
 of
 this
 legendary
 superstition,
 which
 has
 
  furnished
 materials
 for
 many
 a
 wild
 story
 in
 that
 region
 of
 shadows;
 and
 
 

the
 spectre
 is
 known
 at
 all
 the
 country
 firesides,
 by
 the
 name
 of
 the
 
  Headless
 Horseman
 of
 Sleepy
 Hollow.
 
 
 
  It
 is
 remarkable
 that
 the
 visionary
 propensity
 I
 have
 mentioned
 is
 not
 
  confined
 to
 the
 native
 inhabitants
 of
 the
 valley,
 but
 is
 unconsciously
 
  imbibed
 by
 every
 one
 who
 resides
 there
 for
 a
 time.
 However
 wide
 awake
 
  they
 may
 have
 been
 before
 they
 entered
 that
 sleepy
 region,
 they
 are
 
  sure,
 in
 a
 little
 time,
 to
 inhale
 the
 witching
 influence
 of
 the
 air,
 and
 
  begin
 to
 grow
 imaginative,
 to
 dream
 dreams,
 and
 see
 apparitions.
 
 
 
  I
 mention
 this
 peaceful
 spot
 with
 all
 possible
 laud,
 for
 it
 is
 in
 such
 
  little
 retired
 Dutch
 valleys,
 found
 here
 and
 there
 embosomed
 in
 the
 
  great
 State
 of
 New
 York,
 that
 population,
 manners,
 and
 customs
 remain
 
  fixed,
 while
 the
 great
 torrent
 of
 migration
 and
 improvement,
 which
 is
 
  making
 such
 incessant
 changes
 in
 other
 parts
 of
 this
 restless
 country,
 
  sweeps
 by
 them
 unobserved.
 They
 are
 like
 those
 little
 nooks
 of
 still
 
  water,
 which
 border
 a
 rapid
 stream,
 where
 we
 may
 see
 the
 straw
 and
 
  bubble
 riding
 quietly
 at
 anchor,
 or
 slowly
 revolving
 in
 their
 mimic
 
  harbor,
 undisturbed
 by
 the
 rush
 of
 the
 passing
 current.
 Though
 many
 
  years
 have
 elapsed
 since
 I
 trod
 the
 drowsy
 shades
 of
 Sleepy
 Hollow,
 yet
 
  I
 question
 whether
 I
 should
 not
 still
 find
 the
 same
 trees
 and
 the
 same
 
  families
 vegetating
 in
 its
 sheltered
 bosom.
 
 
 
 

In
 this
 by-­?place
 of
 nature
 there
 abode,
 in
 a
 remote
 period
 of
 American
 
  history,
 that
 is
 to
 say,
 some
 thirty
 years
 since,
 a
 worthy
 wight
 of
 the
 
  name
 of
 Ichabod
 Crane,
 who
 sojourned,
 or,
 as
 he
 expressed
 it,
 "tarried,"
 
  in
 Sleepy
 Hollow,
 for
 the
 purpose
 of
 instructing
 the
 children
 of
 the
 
  vicinity.
 He
 was
 a
 native
 of
 Connecticut,
 a
 State
 which
 supplies
 the
 
  Union
 with
 pioneers
 for
 the
 mind
 as
 well
 as
 for
 the
 forest,
 and
 sends
 
  forth
 yearly
 its
 legions
 of
 frontier
 woodmen
 and
 country
 schoolmasters.
 
  The
 cognomen
 of
 Crane
 was
 not
 inapplicable
 to
 his
 person.
 He
 was
 tall,
 
  but
 exceedingly
 lank,
 with
 narrow
 shoulders,
 long
 arms
 and
 legs,
 hands
 
  that
 dangled
 a
 mile
 out
 of
 his
 sleeves,
 feet
 that
 might
 have
 served
 for
 
  shovels,
 and
 his
 whole
 frame
 most
 loosely
 hung
 together.
 His
 head
 was
 
  small,
 and
 flat
 at
 top,
 with
 huge
 ears,
 large
 green
 glassy
 eyes,
 and
 a
 
  long
 snipe
 nose,
 so
 that
 it
 looked
 like
 a
 weather-­?cock
 perched
 upon
 his
 
  spindle
 neck
 to
 tell
 which
 way
 the
 wind
 blew.
 To
 see
 him
 striding
 along
 
  the
 profile
 of
 a
 hill
 on
 a
 windy
 day,
 with
 his
 clothes
 bagging
 and
 
  fluttering
 about
 him,
 one
 might
 have
 mistaken
 him
 for
 the
 genius
 of
 
  famine
 descending
 upon
 the
 earth,
 or
 some
 scarecrow
 eloped
 from
 a
 
  cornfield.
 
 
 
  His
 schoolhouse
 was
 a
 low
 building
 of
 one
 large
 room,
 rudely
 constructed
 
  of
 logs;
 the
 windows
 partly
 glazed,
 and
 partly
 patched
 with
 leaves
 of
 
  old
 copybooks.
 It
 was
 most
 ingeniously
 secured
 at
 vacant
 hours,
 by
 a
 
  withe
 twisted
 in
 the
 handle
 of
 the
 door,
 and
 stakes
 set
 against
 the
 
 

window
 shutters;
 so
 that
 though
 a
 thief
 might
 get
 in
 with
 perfect
 ease,
 
  he
 would
 find
 some
 embarrassment
 in
 getting
 out,-­?-­?an
 idea
 most
 probably
 
  borrowed
 by
 the
 architect,
 Yost
 Van
 Houten,
 from
 the
 mystery
 of
 an
 
  eelpot.
 The
 schoolhouse
 stood
 in
 a
 rather
 lonely
 but
 pleasant
 situation,
 
  just
 at
 the
 foot
 of
 a
 woody
 hill,
 with
 a
 brook
 running
 close
 by,
 and
 
  a
 formidable
 birch-­?tree
 growing
 at
 one
 end
 of
 it.
 From
 hence
 the
 low
 
  murmur
 of
 his
 pupils'
 voices,
 conning
 over
 their
 lessons,
 might
 be
 heard
 
  in
 a
 drowsy
 summer's
 day,
 like
 the
 hum
 of
 a
 beehive;
 interrupted
 now
 and
 
  then
 by
 the
 authoritative
 voice
 of
 the
 master,
 in
 the
 tone
 of
 menace
 or
 
  command,
 or,
 peradventure,
 by
 the
 appalling
 sound
 of
 the
 birch,
 as
 he
 
  urged
 some
 tardy
 loiterer
 along
 the
 flowery
 path
 of
 knowledge.
 Truth
 to
 
  say,
 he
 was
 a
 conscientious
 man,
 and
 ever
 bore
 in
 mind
 the
 golden
 maxim,
 
  "Spare
 the
 rod
 and
 spoil
 the
 child."
 Ichabod
 Crane's
 scholars
 certainly
 
  were
 not
 spoiled.
 
 
 
  I
 would
 not
 have
 it
 imagined,
 however,
 that
 he
 was
 one
 of
 those
 cruel
 
  potentates
 of
 the
 school
 who
 joy
 in
 the
 smart
 of
 their
 subjects;
 on
 
  the
 contrary,
 he
 administered
 justice
 with
 discrimination
 rather
 than
 
  severity;
 taking
 the
 burden
 off
 the
 backs
 of
 the
 weak,
 and
 laying
 it
 on
 
  those
 of
 the
 strong.
 Your
 mere
 puny
 stripling,
 that
 winced
 at
 the
 least
 
  flourish
 of
 the
 rod,
 was
 passed
 by
 with
 indulgence;
 but
 the
 claims
 of
 
  justice
 were
 satisfied
 by
 inflicting
 a
 double
 portion
 on
 some
 little
 
  tough
 wrong-­?headed,
 broad-­?skirted
 Dutch
 urchin,
 who
 sulked
 and
 swelled
 
 

and
 grew
 dogged
 and
 sullen
 beneath
 the
 birch.
 All
 this
 he
 called
 "doing
 
  his
 duty
 by
 their
 parents;"
 and
 he
 never
 inflicted
 a
 chastisement
 
  without
 following
 it
 by
 the
 assurance,
 so
 consolatory
 to
 the
 smarting
 
  urchin,
 that
 "he
 would
 remember
 it
 and
 thank
 him
 for
 it
 the
 longest
 day
 
  he
 had
 to
 live."
 
 
 
  When
 school
 hours
 were
 over,
 he
 was
 even
 the
 companion
 and
 playmate
 
  of
 the
 larger
 boys;
 and
 on
 holiday
 afternoons
 would
 convoy
 some
 of
 
  the
 smaller
 ones
 home,
 who
 happened
 to
 have
 pretty
 sisters,
 or
 good
 
  housewives
 for
 mothers,
 noted
 for
 the
 comforts
 of
 the
 cupboard.
 Indeed,
 
  it
 behooved
 him
 to
 keep
 on
 good
 terms
 with
 his
 pupils.
 The
 revenue
 
  arising
 from
 his
 school
 was
 small,
 and
 would
 have
 been
 scarcely
 
  sufficient
 to
 furnish
 him
 with
 daily
 bread,
 for
 he
 was
 a
 huge
 feeder,
 
  and,
 though
 lank,
 had
 the
 dilating
 powers
 of
 an
 anaconda;
 but
 to
 help
 
  out
 his
 maintenance,
 he
 was,
 according
 to
 country
 custom
 in
 those
 
  parts,
 boarded
 and
 lodged
 at
 the
 houses
 of
 the
 farmers
 whose
 children
 
  he
 instructed.
 With
 these
 he
 lived
 successively
 a
 week
 at
 a
 time,
 thus
 
  going
 the
 rounds
 of
 the
 neighborhood,
 with
 all
 his
 worldly
 effects
 tied
 
  up
 in
 a
 cotton
 handkerchief.
 
 
 
  That
 all
 this
 might
 not
 be
 too
 onerous
 on
 the
 purses
 of
 his
 rustic
 
  patrons,
 who
 are
 apt
 to
 consider
 the
 costs
 of
 schooling
 a
 grievous
 
  burden,
 and
 schoolmasters
 as
 mere
 drones,
 he
 had
 various
 ways
 of
 
 

rendering
 himself
 both
 useful
 and
 agreeable.
 He
 assisted
 the
 farmers
 
  occasionally
 in
 the
 lighter
 labors
 of
 their
 farms,
 helped
 to
 make
 
  hay,
 mended
 the
 fences,
 took
 the
 horses
 to
 water,
 drove
 the
 cows
 from
 
  pasture,
 and
 cut
 wood
 for
 the
 winter
 fire.
 He
 laid
 aside,
 too,
 all
 the
 
  dominant
 dignity
 and
 absolute
 sway
 with
 which
 he
 lorded
 it
 in
 his
 little
 
  empire,
 the
 school,
 and
 became
 wonderfully
 gentle
 and
 ingratiating.
 
  He
 found
 favor
 in
 the
 eyes
 of
 the
 mothers
 by
 petting
 the
 children,
 
  particularly
 the
 youngest;
 and
 like
 the
 lion
 bold,
 which
 whilom
 so
 
  magnanimously
 the
 lamb
 did
 hold,
 he
 would
 sit
 with
 a
 child
 on
 one
 knee,
 
  and
 rock
 a
 cradle
 with
 his
 foot
 for
 whole
 hours
 together.
 
 
 
  In
 addition
 to
 his
 other
 vocations,
 he
 was
 the
 singing-­?master
 of
 the
 
  neighborhood,
 and
 picked
 up
 many
 bright
 shillings
 by
 instructing
 the
 
  young
 folks
 in
 psalmody.
 It
 was
 a
 matter
 of
 no
 little
 vanity
 to
 him
 on
 
  Sundays,
 to
 take
 his
 station
 in
 front
 of
 the
 church
 gallery,
 with
 a
 band
 
  of
 chosen
 singers;
 where,
 in
 his
 own
 mind,
 he
 completely
 carried
 away
 
  the
 palm
 from
 the
 parson.
 Certain
 it
 is,
 his
 voice
 resounded
 far
 above
 
  all
 the
 rest
 of
 the
 congregation;
 and
 there
 are
 peculiar
 quavers
 still
 
  to
 be
 heard
 in
 that
 church,
 and
 which
 may
 even
 be
 heard
 half
 a
 mile
 off,
 
  quite
 to
 the
 opposite
 side
 of
 the
 millpond,
 on
 a
 still
 Sunday
 morning,
 
  which
 are
 said
 to
 be
 legitimately
 descended
 from
 the
 nose
 of
 Ichabod
 
  Crane.
 Thus,
 by
 divers
 little
 makeshifts,
 in
 that
 ingenious
 way
 which
 is
 
  commonly
 denominated
 "by
 hook
 and
 by
 crook,"
 the
 worthy
 pedagogue
 got
 on
 
 

tolerably
 enough,
 and
 was
 thought,
 by
 all
 who
 understood
 nothing
 of
 the
 
  labor
 of
 headwork,
 to
 have
 a
 wonderfully
 easy
 life
 of
 it.
 
 
 
  The
 schoolmaster
 is
 generally
 a
 man
 of
 some
 importance
 in
 the
 female
 
  circle
 of
 a
 rural
 neighborhood;
 being
 considered
 a
 kind
 of
 idle,
 
  gentlemanlike
 personage,
 of
 vastly
 superior
 taste
 and
 accomplishments
 to
 
  the
 rough
 country
 swains,
 and,
 indeed,
 inferior
 in
 learning
 only
 to
 the
 
  parson.
 His
 appearance,
 therefore,
 is
 apt
 to
 occasion
 some
 little
 stir
 
  at
 the
 tea-­?table
 of
 a
 farmhouse,
 and
 the
 addition
 of
 a
 supernumerary
 
  dish
 of
 cakes
 or
 sweetmeats,
 or,
 peradventure,
 the
 parade
 of
 a
 silver
 
  teapot.
 Our
 man
 of
 letters,
 therefore,
 was
 peculiarly
 happy
 in
 the
 
  smiles
 of
 all
 the
 country
 damsels.
 How
 he
 would
 figure
 among
 them
 in
 the
 
  churchyard,
 between
 services
 on
 Sundays;
 gathering
 grapes
 for
 them
 from
 
  the
 wild
 vines
 that
 overran
 the
 surrounding
 trees;
 reciting
 for
 their
 
  amusement
 all
 the
 epitaphs
 on
 the
 tombstones;
 or
 sauntering,
 with
 a
 
  whole
 bevy
 of
 them,
 along
 the
 banks
 of
 the
 adjacent
 millpond;
 while
 the
 
  more
 bashful
 country
 bumpkins
 hung
 sheepishly
 back,
 envying
 his
 superior
 
  elegance
 and
 address.
 
 
 
  From
 his
 half-­?itinerant
 life,
 also,
 he
 was
 a
 kind
 of
 travelling
 gazette,
 
  carrying
 the
 whole
 budget
 of
 local
 gossip
 from
 house
 to
 house,
 so
 that
 
  his
 appearance
 was
 always
 greeted
 with
 satisfaction.
 He
 was,
 moreover,
 
  esteemed
 by
 the
 women
 as
 a
 man
 of
 great
 erudition,
 for
 he
 had
 read
 
 

several
 books
 quite
 through,
 and
 was
 a
 perfect
 master
 of
 Cotton
 Mather's
 
  "History
 of
 New
 England
 Witchcraft,"
 in
 which,
 by
 the
 way,
 he
 most
 
  firmly
 and
 potently
 believed.
 
 
 
  He
 was,
 in
 fact,
 an
 odd
 mixture
 of
 small
 shrewdness
 and
 simple
 
  credulity.
 His
 appetite
 for
 the
 marvellous,
 and
 his
 powers
 of
 digesting
 
  it,
 were
 equally
 extraordinary;
 and
 both
 had
 been
 increased
 by
 his
 
  residence
 in
 this
 spell-­?bound
 region.
 No
 tale
 was
 too
 gross
 or
 monstrous
 
  for
 his
 capacious
 swallow.
 It
 was
 often
 his
 delight,
 after
 his
 school
 
  was
 dismissed
 in
 the
 afternoon,
 to
 stretch
 himself
 on
 the
 rich
 bed
 of
 
  clover
 bordering
 the
 little
 brook
 that
 whimpered
 by
 his
 schoolhouse,
 and
 
  there
 con
 over
 old
 Mather's
 direful
 tales,
 until
 the
 gathering
 dusk
 of
 
  evening
 made
 the
 printed
 page
 a
 mere
 mist
 before
 his
 eyes.
 Then,
 as
 he
 
  wended
 his
 way
 by
 swamp
 and
 stream
 and
 awful
 woodland,
 to
 the
 farmhouse
 
  where
 he
 happened
 to
 be
 quartered,
 every
 sound
 of
 nature,
 at
 that
 
  witching
 hour,
 fluttered
 his
 excited
 imagination,-­?-­?the
 moan
 of
 the
 
  whip-­?poor-­?will
 from
 the
 hillside,
 the
 boding
 cry
 of
 the
 tree
 toad,
 that
 
  harbinger
 of
 storm,
 the
 dreary
 hooting
 of
 the
 screech
 owl,
 or
 the
 
  sudden
 rustling
 in
 the
 thicket
 of
 birds
 frightened
 from
 their
 roost.
 The
 
  fireflies,
 too,
 which
 sparkled
 most
 vividly
 in
 the
 darkest
 places,
 now
 
  and
 then
 startled
 him,
 as
 one
 of
 uncommon
 brightness
 would
 stream
 across
 
  his
 path;
 and
 if,
 by
 chance,
 a
 huge
 blockhead
 of
 a
 beetle
 came
 winging
 
  his
 blundering
 flight
 against
 him,
 the
 poor
 varlet
 was
 ready
 to
 give
 up
 
 

the
 ghost,
 with
 the
 idea
 that
 he
 was
 struck
 with
 a
 witch's
 token.
 His
 
  only
 resource
 on
 such
 occasions,
 either
 to
 drown
 thought
 or
 drive
 away
 
  evil
 spirits,
 was
 to
 sing
 psalm
 tunes
 and
 the
 good
 people
 of
 Sleepy
 
  Hollow,
 as
 they
 sat
 by
 their
 doors
 of
 an
 evening,
 were
 often
 filled
 with
 
  awe
 at
 hearing
 his
 nasal
 melody,
 "in
 linked
 sweetness
 long
 drawn
 out,"
 
  floating
 from
 the
 distant
 hill,
 or
 along
 the
 dusky
 road.
 
 
 
  Another
 of
 his
 sources
 of
 fearful
 pleasure
 was
 to
 pass
 long
 winter
 
  evenings
 with
 the
 old
 Dutch
 wives,
 as
 they
 sat
 spinning
 by
 the
 fire,
 
  with
 a
 row
 of
 apples
 roasting
 and
 spluttering
 along
 the
 hearth,
 and
 
  listen
 to
 their
 marvellous
 tales
 of
 ghosts
 and
 goblins,
 and
 haunted
 
  fields,
 and
 haunted
 brooks,
 and
 haunted
 bridges,
 and
 haunted
 houses,
 
  and
 particularly
 of
 the
 headless
 horseman,
 or
 Galloping
 Hessian
 of
 the
 
  Hollow,
 as
 they
 sometimes
 called
 him.
 He
 would
 delight
 them
 equally
 by
 
  his
 anecdotes
 of
 witchcraft,
 and
 of
 the
 direful
 omens
 and
 portentous
 
  sights
 and
 sounds
 in
 the
 air,
 which
 prevailed
 in
 the
 earlier
 times
 of
 
  Connecticut;
 and
 would
 frighten
 them
 woefully
 with
 speculations
 upon
 
  comets
 and
 shooting
 stars;
 and
 with
 the
 alarming
 fact
 that
 the
 world
 did
 
  absolutely
 turn
 round,
 and
 that
 they
 were
 half
 the
 time
 topsy-­?turvy!
 
 
 
  But
 if
 there
 was
 a
 pleasure
 in
 all
 this,
 while
 snugly
 cuddling
 in
 
  the
 chimney
 corner
 of
 a
 chamber
 that
 was
 all
 of
 a
 ruddy
 glow
 from
 the
 
  crackling
 wood
 fire,
 and
 where,
 of
 course,
 no
 spectre
 dared
 to
 show
 
 

its
 face,
 it
 was
 dearly
 purchased
 by
 the
 terrors
 of
 his
 subsequent
 walk
 
  homewards.
 What
 fearful
 shapes
 and
 shadows
 beset
 his
 path,
 amidst
 the
 
  dim
 and
 ghastly
 glare
 of
 a
 snowy
 night!
 With
 what
 wistful
 look
 did
 he
 
  eye
 every
 trembling
 ray
 of
 light
 streaming
 across
 the
 waste
 fields
 from
 
  some
 distant
 window!
 How
 often
 was
 he
 appalled
 by
 some
 shrub
 covered
 
  with
 snow,
 which,
 like
 a
 sheeted
 spectre,
 beset
 his
 very
 path!
 How
 often
 
  did
 he
 shrink
 with
 curdling
 awe
 at
 the
 sound
 of
 his
 own
 steps
 on
 the
 
  frosty
 crust
 beneath
 his
 feet;
 and
 dread
 to
 look
 over
 his
 shoulder,
 lest
 
  he
 should
 behold
 some
 uncouth
 being
 tramping
 close
 behind
 him!
 And
 how
 
  often
 was
 he
 thrown
 into
 complete
 dismay
 by
 some
 rushing
 blast,
 howling
 
  among
 the
 trees,
 in
 the
 idea
 that
 it
 was
 the
 Galloping
 Hessian
 on
 one
 of
 
  his
 nightly
 scourings!
 
 
 
  All
 these,
 however,
 were
 mere
 terrors
 of
 the
 night,
 phantoms
 of
 the
 mind
 
  that
 walk
 in
 darkness;
 and
 though
 he
 had
 seen
 many
 spectres
 in
 his
 time,
 
  and
 been
 more
 than
 once
 beset
 by
 Satan
 in
 divers
 shapes,
 in
 his
 lonely
 
  perambulations,
 yet
 daylight
 put
 an
 end
 to
 all
 these
 evils;
 and
 he
 would
 
  have
 passed
 a
 pleasant
 life
 of
 it,
 in
 despite
 of
 the
 Devil
 and
 all
 his
 
  works,
 if
 his
 path
 had
 not
 been
 crossed
 by
 a
 being
 that
 causes
 more
 
  perplexity
 to
 mortal
 man
 than
 ghosts,
 goblins,
 and
 the
 whole
 race
 of
 
  witches
 put
 together,
 and
 that
 was-­?-­?a
 woman.
 
 
 
  Among
 the
 musical
 disciples
 who
 assembled,
 one
 evening
 in
 each
 week,
 
 

to
 receive
 his
 instructions
 in
 psalmody,
 was
 Katrina
 Van
 Tassel,
 
  the
 daughter
 and
 only
 child
 of
 a
 substantial
 Dutch
 farmer.
 She
 was
 a
 
  blooming
 lass
 of
 fresh
 eighteen;
 plump
 as
 a
 partridge;
 ripe
 and
 melting
 
  and
 rosy-­?cheeked
 as
 one
 of
 her
 father's
 peaches,
 and
 universally
 famed,
 
  not
 merely
 for
 her
 beauty,
 but
 her
 vast
 expectations.
 She
 was
 withal
 a
 
  little
 of
 a
 coquette,
 as
 might
 be
 perceived
 even
 in
 her
 dress,
 which
 was
 
  a
 mixture
 of
 ancient
 and
 modern
 fashions,
 as
 most
 suited
 to
 set
 off
 
  her
 charms.
 She
 wore
 the
 ornaments
 of
 pure
 yellow
 gold,
 which
 her
 
  great-­?great-­?grandmother
 had
 brought
 over
 from
 Saardam;
 the
 tempting
 
  stomacher
 of
 the
 olden
 time,
 and
 withal
 a
 provokingly
 short
 petticoat,
 
  to
 display
 the
 prettiest
 foot
 and
 ankle
 in
 the
 country
 round.
 
 
 
  Ichabod
 Crane
 had
 a
 soft
 and
 foolish
 heart
 towards
 the
 sex;
 and
 it
 is
 
  not
 to
 be
 wondered
 at
 that
 so
 tempting
 a
 morsel
 soon
 found
 favor
 in
 his
 
  eyes,
 more
 especially
 after
 he
 had
 visited
 her
 in
 her
 paternal
 mansion.
 
  Old
 Baltus
 Van
 Tassel
 was
 a
 perfect
 picture
 of
 a
 thriving,
 contented,
 
  liberal-­?hearted
 farmer.
 He
 seldom,
 it
 is
 true,
 sent
 either
 his
 eyes
 or
 
  his
 thoughts
 beyond
 the
 boundaries
 of
 his
 own
 farm;
 but
 within
 those
 
  everything
 was
 snug,
 happy
 and
 well-­?conditioned.
 He
 was
 satisfied
 with
 
  his
 wealth,
 but
 not
 proud
 of
 it;
 and
 piqued
 himself
 upon
 the
 hearty
 
  abundance,
 rather
 than
 the
 style
 in
 which
 he
 lived.
 His
 stronghold
 was
 
  situated
 on
 the
 banks
 of
 the
 Hudson,
 in
 one
 of
 those
 green,
 sheltered,
 
  fertile
 nooks
 in
 which
 the
 Dutch
 farmers
 are
 so
 fond
 of
 nestling.
 A
 
 

great
 elm
 tree
 spread
 its
 broad
 branches
 over
 it,
 at
 the
 foot
 of
 which
 
  bubbled
 up
 a
 spring
 of
 the
 softest
 and
 sweetest
 water,
 in
 a
 little
 well
 
  formed
 of
 a
 barrel;
 and
 then
 stole
 sparkling
 away
 through
 the
 grass,
 to
 
  a
 neighboring
 brook,
 that
 babbled
 along
 among
 alders
 and
 dwarf
 willows.
 
  Hard
 by
 the
 farmhouse
 was
 a
 vast
 barn,
 that
 might
 have
 served
 for
 a
 
  church;
 every
 window
 and
 crevice
 of
 which
 seemed
 bursting
 forth
 with
 the
 
  treasures
 of
 the
 farm;
 the
 flail
 was
 busily
 resounding
 within
 it
 from
 
  morning
 to
 night;
 swallows
 and
 martins
 skimmed
 twittering
 about
 the
 
  eaves;
 and
 rows
 of
 pigeons,
 some
 with
 one
 eye
 turned
 up,
 as
 if
 watching
 
  the
 weather,
 some
 with
 their
 heads
 under
 their
 wings
 or
 buried
 in
 their
 
  bosoms,
 and
 others
 swelling,
 and
 cooing,
 and
 bowing
 about
 their
 dames,
 
  were
 enjoying
 the
 sunshine
 on
 the
 roof.
 Sleek
 unwieldy
 porkers
 were
 
  grunting
 in
 the
 repose
 and
 abundance
 of
 their
 pens,
 from
 whence
 sallied
 
  forth,
 now
 and
 then,
 troops
 of
 sucking
 pigs,
 as
 if
 to
 snuff
 the
 air.
 
  A
 stately
 squadron
 of
 snowy
 geese
 were
 riding
 in
 an
 adjoining
 pond,
 
  convoying
 whole
 fleets
 of
 ducks;
 regiments
 of
 turkeys
 were
 gobbling
 
  through
 the
 farmyard,
 and
 Guinea
 fowls
 fretting
 about
 it,
 like
 
  ill-­?tempered
 housewives,
 with
 their
 peevish,
 discontented
 cry.
 Before
 
  the
 barn
 door
 strutted
 the
 gallant
 cock,
 that
 pattern
 of
 a
 husband,
 a
 
  warrior
 and
 a
 fine
 gentleman,
 clapping
 his
 burnished
 wings
 and
 crowing
 
  in
 the
 pride
 and
 gladness
 of
 his
 heart,-­?-­?sometimes
 tearing
 up
 the
 earth
 
  with
 his
 feet,
 and
 then
 generously
 calling
 his
 ever-­?hungry
 family
 of
 
  wives
 and
 children
 to
 enjoy
 the
 rich
 morsel
 which
 he
 had
 discovered.
 
 


 
  The
 pedagogue's
 mouth
 watered
 as
 he
 looked
 upon
 this
 sumptuous
 promise
 
  of
 luxurious
 winter
 fare.
 In
 his
 devouring
 mind's
 eye,
 he
 pictured
 to
 
  himself
 every
 roasting-­?pig
 running
 about
 with
 a
 pudding
 in
 his
 belly,
 
  and
 an
 apple
 in
 his
 mouth;
 the
 pigeons
 were
 snugly
 put
 to
 bed
 in
 a
 
  comfortable
 pie,
 and
 tucked
 in
 with
 a
 coverlet
 of
 crust;
 the
 geese
 were
 
  swimming
 in
 their
 own
 gravy;
 and
 the
 ducks
 pairing
 cosily
 in
 dishes,
 
  like
 snug
 married
 couples,
 with
 a
 decent
 competency
 of
 onion
 sauce.
 In
 
  the
 porkers
 he
 saw
 carved
 out
 the
 future
 sleek
 side
 of
 bacon,
 and
 juicy
 
  relishing
 ham;
 not
 a
 turkey
 but
 he
 beheld
 daintily
 trussed
 up,
 with
 
  its
 gizzard
 under
 its
 wing,
 and,
 peradventure,
 a
 necklace
 of
 savory
 
  sausages;
 and
 even
 bright
 chanticleer
 himself
 lay
 sprawling
 on
 his
 back,
 
  in
 a
 side
 dish,
 with
 uplifted
 claws,
 as
 if
 craving
 that
 quarter
 which
 
  his
 chivalrous
 spirit
 disdained
 to
 ask
 while
 living.
 
 
 
  As
 the
 enraptured
 Ichabod
 fancied
 all
 this,
 and
 as
 he
 rolled
 his
 great
 
  green
 eyes
 over
 the
 fat
 meadow
 lands,
 the
 rich
 fields
 of
 wheat,
 of
 rye,
 
  of
 buckwheat,
 and
 Indian
 corn,
 and
 the
 orchards
 burdened
 with
 ruddy
 
  fruit,
 which
 surrounded
 the
 warm
 tenement
 of
 Van
 Tassel,
 his
 heart
 
  yearned
 after
 the
 damsel
 who
 was
 to
 inherit
 these
 domains,
 and
 his
 
  imagination
 expanded
 with
 the
 idea,
 how
 they
 might
 be
 readily
 turned
 
  into
 cash,
 and
 the
 money
 invested
 in
 immense
 tracts
 of
 wild
 land,
 and
 
  shingle
 palaces
 in
 the
 wilderness.
 Nay,
 his
 busy
 fancy
 already
 realized
 
 

his
 hopes,
 and
 presented
 to
 him
 the
 blooming
 Katrina,
 with
 a
 whole
 
  family
 of
 children,
 mounted
 on
 the
 top
 of
 a
 wagon
 loaded
 with
 household
 
  trumpery,
 with
 pots
 and
 kettles
 dangling
 beneath;
 and
 he
 beheld
 himself
 
  bestriding
 a
 pacing
 mare,
 with
 a
 colt
 at
 her
 heels,
 setting
 out
 for
 
  Kentucky,
 Tennessee,-­?-­?or
 the
 Lord
 knows
 where!
 
 
 
  When
 he
 entered
 the
 house,
 the
 conquest
 of
 his
 heart
 was
 complete.
 It
 
  was
 one
 of
 those
 spacious
 farmhouses,
 with
 high-­?ridged
 but
 lowly
 sloping
 
  roofs,
 built
 in
 the
 style
 handed
 down
 from
 the
 first
 Dutch
 settlers;
 the
 
  low
 projecting
 eaves
 forming
 a
 piazza
 along
 the
 front,
 capable
 of
 being
 
  closed
 up
 in
 bad
 weather.
 Under
 this
 were
 hung
 flails,
 harness,
 various
 
  utensils
 of
 husbandry,
 and
 nets
 for
 fishing
 in
 the
 neighboring
 
  river.
 Benches
 were
 built
 along
 the
 sides
 for
 summer
 use;
 and
 a
 great
 
  spinning-­?wheel
 at
 one
 end,
 and
 a
 churn
 at
 the
 other,
 showed
 the
 various
 
  uses
 to
 which
 this
 important
 porch
 might
 be
 devoted.
 From
 this
 piazza
 
  the
 wondering
 Ichabod
 entered
 the
 hall,
 which
 formed
 the
 centre
 of
 the
 
  mansion,
 and
 the
 place
 of
 usual
 residence.
 Here
 rows
 of
 resplendent
 
  pewter,
 ranged
 on
 a
 long
 dresser,
 dazzled
 his
 eyes.
 In
 one
 corner
 
  stood
 a
 huge
 bag
 of
 wool,
 ready
 to
 be
 spun;
 in
 another,
 a
 quantity
 of
 
  linsey-­?woolsey
 just
 from
 the
 loom;
 ears
 of
 Indian
 corn,
 and
 strings
 of
 
  dried
 apples
 and
 peaches,
 hung
 in
 gay
 festoons
 along
 the
 walls,
 mingled
 
  with
 the
 gaud
 of
 red
 peppers;
 and
 a
 door
 left
 ajar
 gave
 him
 a
 peep
 into
 
  the
 best
 parlor,
 where
 the
 claw-­?footed
 chairs
 and
 dark
 mahogany
 tables
 
 

shone
 like
 mirrors;
 andirons,
 with
 their
 accompanying
 shovel
 and
 
  tongs,
 glistened
 from
 their
 covert
 of
 asparagus
 tops;
 mock-­?oranges
 and
 
  conch-­?shells
 decorated
 the
 mantelpiece;
 strings
 of
 various-­?colored
 birds
 
  eggs
 were
 suspended
 above
 it;
 a
 great
 ostrich
 egg
 was
 hung
 from
 
  the
 centre
 of
 the
 room,
 and
 a
 corner
 cupboard,
 knowingly
 left
 open,
 
  displayed
 immense
 treasures
 of
 old
 silver
 and
 well-­?mended
 china.
 
 
 
  From
 the
 moment
 Ichabod
 laid
 his
 eyes
 upon
 these
 regions
 of
 delight,
 the
 
  peace
 of
 his
 mind
 was
 at
 an
 end,
 and
 his
 only
 study
 was
 how
 to
 gain
 the
 
  affections
 of
 the
 peerless
 daughter
 of
 Van
 Tassel.
 In
 this
 enterprise,
 
  however,
 he
 had
 more
 real
 difficulties
 than
 generally
 fell
 to
 the
 lot
 of
 
  a
 knight-­?errant
 of
 yore,
 who
 seldom
 had
 anything
 but
 giants,
 enchanters,
 
  fiery
 dragons,
 and
 such
 like
 easily
 conquered
 adversaries,
 to
 contend
 
  with
 and
 had
 to
 make
 his
 way
 merely
 through
 gates
 of
 iron
 and
 brass,
 
  and
 walls
 of
 adamant
 to
 the
 castle
 keep,
 where
 the
 lady
 of
 his
 heart
 was
 
  confined;
 all
 which
 he
 achieved
 as
 easily
 as
 a
 man
 would
 carve
 his
 way
 
  to
 the
 centre
 of
 a
 Christmas
 pie;
 and
 then
 the
 lady
 gave
 him
 her
 hand
 as
 
  a
 matter
 of
 course.
 Ichabod,
 on
 the
 contrary,
 had
 to
 win
 his
 way
 to
 
  the
 heart
 of
 a
 country
 coquette,
 beset
 with
 a
 labyrinth
 of
 whims
 
  and
 caprices,
 which
 were
 forever
 presenting
 new
 difficulties
 and
 
  impediments;
 and
 he
 had
 to
 encounter
 a
 host
 of
 fearful
 adversaries
 of
 
  real
 flesh
 and
 blood,
 the
 numerous
 rustic
 admirers,
 who
 beset
 every
 
  portal
 to
 her
 heart,
 keeping
 a
 watchful
 and
 angry
 eye
 upon
 each
 other,
 
 

but
 ready
 to
 fly
 out
 in
 the
 common
 cause
 against
 any
 new
 competitor.
 
 
 
  Among
 these,
 the
 most
 formidable
 was
 a
 burly,
 roaring,
 roystering
 blade,
 
  of
 the
 name
 of
 Abraham,
 or,
 according
 to
 the
 Dutch
 abbreviation,
 Brom
 
  Van
 Brunt,
 the
 hero
 of
 the
 country
 round,
 which
 rang
 with
 his
 feats
 of
 
  strength
 and
 hardihood.
 He
 was
 broad-­?shouldered
 and
 double-­?jointed,
 
  with
 short
 curly
 black
 hair,
 and
 a
 bluff
 but
 not
 unpleasant
 countenance,
 
  having
 a
 mingled
 air
 of
 fun
 and
 arrogance.
 From
 his
 Herculean
 frame
 
  and
 great
 powers
 of
 limb
 he
 had
 received
 the
 nickname
 of
 BROM
 BONES,
 
  by
 which
 he
 was
 universally
 known.
 He
 was
 famed
 for
 great
 knowledge
 and
 
  skill
 in
 horsemanship,
 being
 as
 dexterous
 on
 horseback
 as
 a
 Tartar.
 
  He
 was
 foremost
 at
 all
 races
 and
 cock
 fights;
 and,
 with
 the
 ascendancy
 
  which
 bodily
 strength
 always
 acquires
 in
 rustic
 life,
 was
 the
 umpire
 in
 
  all
 disputes,
 setting
 his
 hat
 on
 one
 side,
 and
 giving
 his
 decisions
 with
 
  an
 air
 and
 tone
 that
 admitted
 of
 no
 gainsay
 or
 appeal.
 He
 was
 always
 
  ready
 for
 either
 a
 fight
 or
 a
 frolic;
 but
 had
 more
 mischief
 than
 
  ill-­?will
 in
 his
 composition;
 and
 with
 all
 his
 overbearing
 roughness,
 
  there
 was
 a
 strong
 dash
 of
 waggish
 good
 humor
 at
 bottom.
 He
 had
 three
 or
 
  four
 boon
 companions,
 who
 regarded
 him
 as
 their
 model,
 and
 at
 the
 
  head
 of
 whom
 he
 scoured
 the
 country,
 attending
 every
 scene
 of
 feud
 or
 
  merriment
 for
 miles
 round.
 In
 cold
 weather
 he
 was
 distinguished
 by
 a
 
  fur
 cap,
 surmounted
 with
 a
 flaunting
 fox's
 tail;
 and
 when
 the
 folks
 at
 a
 
  country
 gathering
 descried
 this
 well-­?known
 crest
 at
 a
 distance,
 whisking
 
 

about
 among
 a
 squad
 of
 hard
 riders,
 they
 always
 stood
 by
 for
 a
 squall.
 
  Sometimes
 his
 crew
 would
 be
 heard
 dashing
 along
 past
 the
 farmhouses
 at
 
  midnight,
 with
 whoop
 and
 halloo,
 like
 a
 troop
 of
 Don
 Cossacks;
 and
 the
 
  old
 dames,
 startled
 out
 of
 their
 sleep,
 would
 listen
 for
 a
 moment
 till
 
  the
 hurry-­?scurry
 had
 clattered
 by,
 and
 then
 exclaim,
 "Ay,
 there
 goes
 
  Brom
 Bones
 and
 his
 gang!"
 The
 neighbors
 looked
 upon
 him
 with
 a
 mixture
 
  of
 awe,
 admiration,
 and
 good-­?will;
 and,
 when
 any
 madcap
 prank
 or
 rustic
 
  brawl
 occurred
 in
 the
 vicinity,
 always
 shook
 their
 heads,
 and
 warranted
 
  Brom
 Bones
 was
 at
 the
 bottom
 of
 it.
 
 
 
  This
 rantipole
 hero
 had
 for
 some
 time
 singled
 out
 the
 blooming
 Katrina
 
  for
 the
 object
 of
 his
 uncouth
 gallantries,
 and
 though
 his
 amorous
 
  toyings
 were
 something
 like
 the
 gentle
 caresses
 and
 endearments
 of
 a
 
  bear,
 yet
 it
 was
 whispered
 that
 she
 did
 not
 altogether
 discourage
 his
 
  hopes.
 Certain
 it
 is,
 his
 advances
 were
 signals
 for
 rival
 candidates
 to
 
  retire,
 who
 felt
 no
 inclination
 to
 cross
 a
 lion
 in
 his
 amours;
 insomuch,
 
  that
 when
 his
 horse
 was
 seen
 tied
 to
 Van
 Tassel's
 paling,
 on
 a
 Sunday
 
  night,
 a
 sure
 sign
 that
 his
 master
 was
 courting,
 or,
 as
 it
 is
 termed,
 
  "sparking,"
 within,
 all
 other
 suitors
 passed
 by
 in
 despair,
 and
 carried
 
  the
 war
 into
 other
 quarters.
 
 
 
  Such
 was
 the
 formidable
 rival
 with
 whom
 Ichabod
 Crane
 had
 to
 contend,
 
  and,
 considering
 all
 things,
 a
 stouter
 man
 than
 he
 would
 have
 shrunk
 
 

from
 the
 competition,
 and
 a
 wiser
 man
 would
 have
 despaired.
 He
 had,
 
  however,
 a
 happy
 mixture
 of
 pliability
 and
 perseverance
 in
 his
 nature;
 
  he
 was
 in
 form
 and
 spirit
 like
 a
 supple-­?jack-­?-­?yielding,
 but
 tough;
 
  though
 he
 bent,
 he
 never
 broke;
 and
 though
 he
 bowed
 beneath
 the
 
  slightest
 pressure,
 yet,
 the
 moment
 it
 was
 away-­?-­?jerk!-­?-­?he
 was
 as
 erect,
 
  and
 carried
 his
 head
 as
 high
 as
 ever.
 
 
 
  To
 have
 taken
 the
 field
 openly
 against
 his
 rival
 would
 have
 been
 
 
  madness;
 for
 he
 was
 not
 a
 man
 to
 be
 thwarted
 in
 his
 amours,
 any
 more
 
  than
 that
 stormy
 lover,
 Achilles.
 Ichabod,
 therefore,
 made
 his
 advances
 
  in
 a
 quiet
 and
 gently
 insinuating
 manner.
 Under
 cover
 of
 his
 character
 
  of
 singing-­?master,
 he
 made
 frequent
 visits
 at
 the
 farmhouse;
 not
 that
 he
 
  had
 anything
 to
 apprehend
 from
 the
 meddlesome
 interference
 of
 parents,
 
  which
 is
 so
 often
 a
 stumbling-­?block
 in
 the
 path
 of
 lovers.
 Balt
 Van
 
  Tassel
 was
 an
 easy
 indulgent
 soul;
 he
 loved
 his
 daughter
 better
 even
 
  than
 his
 pipe,
 and,
 like
 a
 reasonable
 man
 and
 an
 excellent
 father,
 let
 
  her
 have
 her
 way
 in
 everything.
 His
 notable
 little
 wife,
 too,
 had
 enough
 
  to
 do
 to
 attend
 to
 her
 housekeeping
 and
 manage
 her
 poultry;
 for,
 as
 she
 
  sagely
 observed,
 ducks
 and
 geese
 are
 foolish
 things,
 and
 must
 be
 looked
 
  after,
 but
 girls
 can
 take
 care
 of
 themselves.
 Thus,
 while
 the
 busy
 dame
 
  bustled
 about
 the
 house,
 or
 plied
 her
 spinning-­?wheel
 at
 one
 end
 of
 the
 
  piazza,
 honest
 Balt
 would
 sit
 smoking
 his
 evening
 pipe
 at
 the
 other,
 
  watching
 the
 achievements
 of
 a
 little
 wooden
 warrior,
 who,
 armed
 with
 a
 
 

sword
 in
 each
 hand,
 was
 most
 valiantly
 fighting
 the
 wind
 on
 the
 pinnacle
 
  of
 the
 barn.
 In
 the
 mean
 time,
 Ichabod
 would
 carry
 on
 his
 suit
 with
 the
 
  daughter
 by
 the
 side
 of
 the
 spring
 under
 the
 great
 elm,
 or
 sauntering
 
  along
 in
 the
 twilight,
 that
 hour
 so
 favorable
 to
 the
 lover's
 eloquence.
 
 
 
  I
 profess
 not
 to
 know
 how
 women's
 hearts
 are
 wooed
 and
 won.
 To
 me
 they
 
  have
 always
 been
 matters
 of
 riddle
 and
 admiration.
 Some
 seem
 to
 have
 but
 
  one
 vulnerable
 point,
 or
 door
 of
 access;
 while
 others
 have
 a
 thousand
 
  avenues,
 and
 may
 be
 captured
 in
 a
 thousand
 different
 ways.
 It
 is
 a
 
  great
 triumph
 of
 skill
 to
 gain
 the
 former,
 but
 a
 still
 greater
 proof
 of
 
  generalship
 to
 maintain
 possession
 of
 the
 latter,
 for
 man
 must
 battle
 
  for
 his
 fortress
 at
 every
 door
 and
 window.
 He
 who
 wins
 a
 thousand
 common
 
  hearts
 is
 therefore
 entitled
 to
 some
 renown;
 but
 he
 who
 keeps
 undisputed
 
  sway
 over
 the
 heart
 of
 a
 coquette
 is
 indeed
 a
 hero.
 Certain
 it
 is,
 this
 
  was
 not
 the
 case
 with
 the
 redoubtable
 Brom
 Bones;
 and
 from
 the
 moment
 
  Ichabod
 Crane
 made
 his
 advances,
 the
 interests
 of
 the
 former
 evidently
 
  declined:
 his
 horse
 was
 no
 longer
 seen
 tied
 to
 the
 palings
 on
 Sunday
 
  nights,
 and
 a
 deadly
 feud
 gradually
 arose
 between
 him
 and
 the
 preceptor
 
  of
 Sleepy
 Hollow.
 
 
 
  Brom,
 who
 had
 a
 degree
 of
 rough
 chivalry
 in
 his
 nature,
 would
 fain
 have
 
  carried
 matters
 to
 open
 warfare
 and
 have
 settled
 their
 pretensions
 
  to
 the
 lady,
 according
 to
 the
 mode
 of
 those
 most
 concise
 and
 simple
 
 

reasoners,
 the
 knights-­?errant
 of
 yore,-­?-­?by
 single
 combat;
 but
 Ichabod
 
  was
 too
 conscious
 of
 the
 superior
 might
 of
 his
 adversary
 to
 enter
 the
 
  lists
 against
 him;
 he
 had
 overheard
 a
 boast
 of
 Bones,
 that
 he
 would
 
  "double
 the
 schoolmaster
 up,
 and
 lay
 him
 on
 a
 shelf
 of
 his
 own
 
  schoolhouse;"
 and
 he
 was
 too
 wary
 to
 give
 him
 an
 opportunity.
 There
 was
 
  something
 extremely
 provoking
 in
 this
 obstinately
 pacific
 system;
 it
 
  left
 Brom
 no
 alternative
 but
 to
 draw
 upon
 the
 funds
 of
 rustic
 waggery
 in
 
  his
 disposition,
 and
 to
 play
 off
 boorish
 practical
 jokes
 upon
 his
 rival.
 
  Ichabod
 became
 the
 object
 of
 whimsical
 persecution
 to
 Bones
 and
 his
 gang
 
  of
 rough
 riders.
 They
 harried
 his
 hitherto
 peaceful
 domains;
 smoked
 
  out
 his
 singing
 school
 by
 stopping
 up
 the
 chimney;
 broke
 into
 the
 
  schoolhouse
 at
 night,
 in
 spite
 of
 its
 formidable
 fastenings
 of
 withe
 
  and
 window
 stakes,
 and
 turned
 everything
 topsy-­?turvy,
 so
 that
 the
 poor
 
  schoolmaster
 began
 to
 think
 all
 the
 witches
 in
 the
 country
 held
 
  their
 meetings
 there.
 But
 what
 was
 still
 more
 annoying,
 Brom
 took
 all
 
  opportunities
 of
 turning
 him
 into
 ridicule
 in
 presence
 of
 his
 mistress,
 
  and
 had
 a
 scoundrel
 dog
 whom
 he
 taught
 to
 whine
 in
 the
 most
 ludicrous
 
  manner,
 and
 introduced
 as
 a
 rival
 of
 Ichabod's,
 to
 instruct
 her
 in
 
  psalmody.
 
 
 
  In
 this
 way
 matters
 went
 on
 for
 some
 time,
 without
 producing
 any
 
  material
 effect
 on
 the
 relative
 situations
 of
 the
 contending
 powers.
 On
 
  a
 fine
 autumnal
 afternoon,
 Ichabod,
 in
 pensive
 mood,
 sat
 enthroned
 on
 
 

the
 lofty
 stool
 from
 whence
 he
 usually
 watched
 all
 the
 concerns
 of
 his
 
  little
 literary
 realm.
 In
 his
 hand
 he
 swayed
 a
 ferule,
 that
 sceptre
 of
 
  despotic
 power;
 the
 birch
 of
 justice
 reposed
 on
 three
 nails
 behind
 the
 
  throne,
 a
 constant
 terror
 to
 evil
 doers,
 while
 on
 the
 desk
 before
 
  him
 might
 be
 seen
 sundry
 contraband
 articles
 and
 prohibited
 weapons,
 
  detected
 upon
 the
 persons
 of
 idle
 urchins,
 such
 as
 half-­?munched
 apples,
 
  popguns,
 whirligigs,
 fly-­?cages,
 and
 whole
 legions
 of
 rampant
 little
 
  paper
 gamecocks.
 Apparently
 there
 had
 been
 some
 appalling
 act
 of
 justice
 
  recently
 inflicted,
 for
 his
 scholars
 were
 all
 busily
 intent
 upon
 their
 
  books,
 or
 slyly
 whispering
 behind
 them
 with
 one
 eye
 kept
 upon
 the
 
  master;
 and
 a
 kind
 of
 buzzing
 stillness
 reigned
 throughout
 the
 
  schoolroom.
 It
 was
 suddenly
 interrupted
 by
 the
 appearance
 of
 a
 negro
 in
 
  tow-­?cloth
 jacket
 and
 trowsers,
 a
 round-­?crowned
 fragment
 of
 a
 hat,
 
  like
 the
 cap
 of
 Mercury,
 and
 mounted
 on
 the
 back
 of
 a
 ragged,
 wild,
 
  half-­?broken
 colt,
 which
 he
 managed
 with
 a
 rope
 by
 way
 of
 halter.
 He
 came
 
  clattering
 up
 to
 the
 school
 door
 with
 an
 invitation
 to
 Ichabod
 to
 attend
 
  a
 merry-­?making
 or
 "quilting
 frolic,"
 to
 be
 held
 that
 evening
 at
 
  Mynheer
 Van
 Tassel's;
 and
 having
 delivered
 his
 message
 with
 that
 air
 of
 
  importance,
 and
 effort
 at
 fine
 language,
 which
 a
 negro
 is
 apt
 to
 display
 
  on
 petty
 embassies
 of
 the
 kind,
 he
 dashed
 over
 the
 brook,
 and
 was
 seen
 
  scampering
 away
 up
 the
 hollow,
 full
 of
 the
 importance
 and
 hurry
 of
 his
 
  mission.
 
 
 
 

All
 was
 now
 bustle
 and
 hubbub
 in
 the
 late
 quiet
 schoolroom.
 The
 scholars
 
  were
 hurried
 through
 their
 lessons
 without
 stopping
 at
 trifles;
 those
 
  who
 were
 nimble
 skipped
 over
 half
 with
 impunity,
 and
 those
 who
 were
 
  tardy
 had
 a
 smart
 application
 now
 and
 then
 in
 the
 rear,
 to
 quicken
 their
 
  speed
 or
 help
 them
 over
 a
 tall
 word.
 Books
 were
 flung
 aside
 without
 
  being
 put
 away
 on
 the
 shelves,
 inkstands
 were
 overturned,
 benches
 thrown
 
  down,
 and
 the
 whole
 school
 was
 turned
 loose
 an
 hour
 before
 the
 usual
 
  time,
 bursting
 forth
 like
 a
 legion
 of
 young
 imps,
 yelping
 and
 racketing
 
  about
 the
 green
 in
 joy
 at
 their
 early
 emancipation.
 
 
 
  The
 gallant
 Ichabod
 now
 spent
 at
 least
 an
 extra
 half
 hour
 at
 his
 toilet,
 
  brushing
 and
 furbishing
 up
 his
 best,
 and
 indeed
 only
 suit
 of
 rusty
 
  black,
 and
 arranging
 his
 locks
 by
 a
 bit
 of
 broken
 looking-­?glass
 that
 
  hung
 up
 in
 the
 schoolhouse.
 That
 he
 might
 make
 his
 appearance
 before
 his
 
  mistress
 in
 the
 true
 style
 of
 a
 cavalier,
 he
 borrowed
 a
 horse
 from
 the
 
  farmer
 with
 whom
 he
 was
 domiciliated,
 a
 choleric
 old
 Dutchman
 of
 the
 
  name
 of
 Hans
 Van
 Ripper,
 and,
 thus
 gallantly
 mounted,
 issued
 forth
 like
 
  a
 knight-­?errant
 in
 quest
 of
 adventures.
 But
 it
 is
 meet
 I
 should,
 in
 
  the
 true
 spirit
 of
 romantic
 story,
 give
 some
 account
 of
 the
 looks
 
  and
 equipments
 of
 my
 hero
 and
 his
 steed.
 The
 animal
 he
 bestrode
 was
 
  a
 broken-­?down
 plow-­?horse,
 that
 had
 outlived
 almost
 everything
 but
 its
 
  viciousness.
 He
 was
 gaunt
 and
 shagged,
 with
 a
 ewe
 neck,
 and
 a
 head
 like
 
  a
 hammer;
 his
 rusty
 mane
 and
 tail
 were
 tangled
 and
 knotted
 with
 burs;
 
 

one
 eye
 had
 lost
 its
 pupil,
 and
 was
 glaring
 and
 spectral,
 but
 the
 other
 
  had
 the
 gleam
 of
 a
 genuine
 devil
 in
 it.
 Still
 he
 must
 have
 had
 fire
 and
 
  mettle
 in
 his
 day,
 if
 we
 may
 judge
 from
 the
 name
 he
 bore
 of
 Gunpowder.
 
  He
 had,
 in
 fact,
 been
 a
 favorite
 steed
 of
 his
 master's,
 the
 choleric
 Van
 
  Ripper,
 who
 was
 a
 furious
 rider,
 and
 had
 infused,
 very
 probably,
 some
 of
 
  his
 own
 spirit
 into
 the
 animal;
 for,
 old
 and
 broken-­?down
 as
 he
 looked,
 
  there
 was
 more
 of
 the
 lurking
 devil
 in
 him
 than
 in
 any
 young
 filly
 in
 
  the
 country.
 
 
 
  Ichabod
 was
 a
 suitable
 figure
 for
 such
 a
 steed.
 He
 rode
 with
 short
 
  stirrups,
 which
 brought
 his
 knees
 nearly
 up
 to
 the
 pommel
 of
 the
 saddle;
 
  his
 sharp
 elbows
 stuck
 out
 like
 grasshoppers';
 he
 carried
 his
 whip
 
  perpendicularly
 in
 his
 hand,
 like
 a
 sceptre,
 and
 as
 his
 horse
 jogged
 on,
 
  the
 motion
 of
 his
 arms
 was
 not
 unlike
 the
 flapping
 of
 a
 pair
 of
 wings.
 A
 
  small
 wool
 hat
 rested
 on
 the
 top
 of
 his
 nose,
 for
 so
 his
 scanty
 strip
 of
 
  forehead
 might
 be
 called,
 and
 the
 skirts
 of
 his
 black
 coat
 fluttered
 out
 
  almost
 to
 the
 horses
 tail.
 Such
 was
 the
 appearance
 of
 Ichabod
 and
 his
 
  steed
 as
 they
 shambled
 out
 of
 the
 gate
 of
 Hans
 Van
 Ripper,
 and
 it
 was
 
  altogether
 such
 an
 apparition
 as
 is
 seldom
 to
 be
 met
 with
 in
 broad
 
  daylight.
 
 
 
  It
 was,
 as
 I
 have
 said,
 a
 fine
 autumnal
 day;
 the
 sky
 was
 clear
 and
 
  serene,
 and
 nature
 wore
 that
 rich
 and
 golden
 livery
 which
 we
 always
 
 

associate
 with
 the
 idea
 of
 abundance.
 The
 forests
 had
 put
 on
 their
 sober
 
  brown
 and
 yellow,
 while
 some
 trees
 of
 the
 tenderer
 kind
 had
 been
 nipped
 
  by
 the
 frosts
 into
 brilliant
 dyes
 of
 orange,
 purple,
 and
 scarlet.
 
  Streaming
 files
 of
 wild
 ducks
 began
 to
 make
 their
 appearance
 high
 in
 the
 
  air;
 the
 bark
 of
 the
 squirrel
 might
 be
 heard
 from
 the
 groves
 of
 beech
 
  and
 hickory-­?nuts,
 and
 the
 pensive
 whistle
 of
 the
 quail
 at
 intervals
 from
 
  the
 neighboring
 stubble
 field.
 
 
 
  The
 small
 birds
 were
 taking
 their
 farewell
 banquets.
 In
 the
 fullness
 
  of
 their
 revelry,
 they
 fluttered,
 chirping
 and
 frolicking
 from
 bush
 to
 
  bush,
 and
 tree
 to
 tree,
 capricious
 from
 the
 very
 profusion
 and
 variety
 
  around
 them.
 There
 was
 the
 honest
 cock
 robin,
 the
 favorite
 game
 of
 
  stripling
 sportsmen,
 with
 its
 loud
 querulous
 note;
 and
 the
 twittering
 
  blackbirds
 flying
 in
 sable
 clouds;
 and
 the
 golden-­?winged
 woodpecker
 with
 
  his
 crimson
 crest,
 his
 broad
 black
 gorget,
 and
 splendid
 plumage;
 and
 the
 
  cedar
 bird,
 with
 its
 red-­?tipt
 wings
 and
 yellow-­?tipt
 tail
 and
 its
 little
 
  monteiro
 cap
 of
 feathers;
 and
 the
 blue
 jay,
 that
 noisy
 coxcomb,
 in
 his
 
  gay
 light
 blue
 coat
 and
 white
 underclothes,
 screaming
 and
 chattering,
 
  nodding
 and
 bobbing
 and
 bowing,
 and
 pretending
 to
 be
 on
 good
 terms
 with
 
  every
 songster
 of
 the
 grove.
 
 
 
  As
 Ichabod
 jogged
 slowly
 on
 his
 way,
 his
 eye,
 ever
 open
 to
 every
 symptom
 
  of
 culinary
 abundance,
 ranged
 with
 delight
 over
 the
 treasures
 of
 jolly
 
 

autumn.
 On
 all
 sides
 he
 beheld
 vast
 store
 of
 apples;
 some
 hanging
 in
 
  oppressive
 opulence
 on
 the
 trees;
 some
 gathered
 into
 baskets
 and
 barrels
 
  for
 the
 market;
 others
 heaped
 up
 in
 rich
 piles
 for
 the
 cider-­?press.
 
  Farther
 on
 he
 beheld
 great
 fields
 of
 Indian
 corn,
 with
 its
 golden
 ears
 
  peeping
 from
 their
 leafy
 coverts,
 and
 holding
 out
 the
 promise
 of
 cakes
 
  and
 hasty-­?pudding;
 and
 the
 yellow
 pumpkins
 lying
 beneath
 them,
 turning
 
  up
 their
 fair
 round
 bellies
 to
 the
 sun,
 and
 giving
 ample
 prospects
 of
 
  the
 most
 luxurious
 of
 pies;
 and
 anon
 he
 passed
 the
 fragrant
 buckwheat
 
  fields
 breathing
 the
 odor
 of
 the
 beehive,
 and
 as
 he
 beheld
 them,
 soft
 
  anticipations
 stole
 over
 his
 mind
 of
 dainty
 slapjacks,
 well
 buttered,
 
  and
 garnished
 with
 honey
 or
 treacle,
 by
 the
 delicate
 little
 dimpled
 hand
 
  of
 Katrina
 Van
 Tassel.
 
 
 
  Thus
 feeding
 his
 mind
 with
 many
 sweet
 thoughts
 and
 "sugared
 
  suppositions,"
 he
 journeyed
 along
 the
 sides
 of
 a
 range
 of
 hills
 which
 
  look
 out
 upon
 some
 of
 the
 goodliest
 scenes
 of
 the
 mighty
 Hudson.
 The
 sun
 
  gradually
 wheeled
 his
 broad
 disk
 down
 in
 the
 west.
 The
 wide
 bosom
 of
 the
 
  Tappan
 Zee
 lay
 motionless
 and
 glassy,
 excepting
 that
 here
 and
 there
 a
 
  gentle
 undulation
 waved
 and
 prolonged
 the
 blue
 shadow
 of
 the
 distant
 
  mountain.
 A
 few
 amber
 clouds
 floated
 in
 the
 sky,
 without
 a
 breath
 of
 air
 
  to
 move
 them.
 The
 horizon
 was
 of
 a
 fine
 golden
 tint,
 changing
 gradually
 
  into
 a
 pure
 apple
 green,
 and
 from
 that
 into
 the
 deep
 blue
 of
 the
 
  mid-­?heaven.
 A
 slanting
 ray
 lingered
 on
 the
 woody
 crests
 of
 the
 
 

precipices
 that
 overhung
 some
 parts
 of
 the
 river,
 giving
 greater
 depth
 
  to
 the
 dark
 gray
 and
 purple
 of
 their
 rocky
 sides.
 A
 sloop
 was
 loitering
 
  in
 the
 distance,
 dropping
 slowly
 down
 with
 the
 tide,
 her
 sail
 hanging
 
  uselessly
 against
 the
 mast;
 and
 as
 the
 reflection
 of
 the
 sky
 gleamed
 
  along
 the
 still
 water,
 it
 seemed
 as
 if
 the
 vessel
 was
 suspended
 in
 the
 
  air.
 
 
 
  It
 was
 toward
 evening
 that
 Ichabod
 arrived
 at
 the
 castle
 of
 the
 Heer
 
  Van
 Tassel,
 which
 he
 found
 thronged
 with
 the
 pride
 and
 flower
 of
 the
 
  adjacent
 country.
 Old
 farmers,
 a
 spare
 leathern-­?faced
 race,
 in
 homespun
 
  coats
 and
 breeches,
 blue
 stockings,
 huge
 shoes,
 and
 magnificent
 pewter
 
  buckles.
 Their
 brisk,
 withered
 little
 dames,
 in
 close-­?crimped
 caps,
 
  long-­?waisted
 short
 gowns,
 homespun
 petticoats,
 with
 scissors
 and
 
  pincushions,
 and
 gay
 calico
 pockets
 hanging
 on
 the
 outside.
 Buxom
 
  lasses,
 almost
 as
 antiquated
 as
 their
 mothers,
 excepting
 where
 a
 straw
 
  hat,
 a
 fine
 ribbon,
 or
 perhaps
 a
 white
 frock,
 gave
 symptoms
 of
 city
 
  innovation.
 The
 sons,
 in
 short
 square-­?skirted
 coats,
 with
 rows
 of
 
  stupendous
 brass
 buttons,
 and
 their
 hair
 generally
 queued
 in
 the
 fashion
 
  of
 the
 times,
 especially
 if
 they
 could
 procure
 an
 eel-­?skin
 for
 the
 
  purpose,
 it
 being
 esteemed
 throughout
 the
 country
 as
 a
 potent
 nourisher
 
  and
 strengthener
 of
 the
 hair.
 
 
 
  Brom
 Bones,
 however,
 was
 the
 hero
 of
 the
 scene,
 having
 come
 to
 the
 
 

gathering
 on
 his
 favorite
 steed
 Daredevil,
 a
 creature,
 like
 himself,
 
  full
 of
 mettle
 and
 mischief,
 and
 which
 no
 one
 but
 himself
 could
 manage.
 
  He
 was,
 in
 fact,
 noted
 for
 preferring
 vicious
 animals,
 given
 to
 all
 
  kinds
 of
 tricks
 which
 kept
 the
 rider
 in
 constant
 risk
 of
 his
 neck,
 for
 
  he
 held
 a
 tractable,
 well-­?broken
 horse
 as
 unworthy
 of
 a
 lad
 of
 spirit.
 
 
 
  Fain
 would
 I
 pause
 to
 dwell
 upon
 the
 world
 of
 charms
 that
 burst
 upon
 
  the
 enraptured
 gaze
 of
 my
 hero,
 as
 he
 entered
 the
 state
 parlor
 of
 Van
 
  Tassel's
 mansion.
 Not
 those
 of
 the
 bevy
 of
 buxom
 lasses,
 with
 their
 
  luxurious
 display
 of
 red
 and
 white;
 but
 the
 ample
 charms
 of
 a
 genuine
 
  Dutch
 country
 tea-­?table,
 in
 the
 sumptuous
 time
 of
 autumn.
 Such
 heaped
 up
 
  platters
 of
 cakes
 of
 various
 and
 almost
 indescribable
 kinds,
 known
 only
 
  to
 experienced
 Dutch
 housewives!
 There
 was
 the
 doughty
 doughnut,
 the
 
  tender
 oly
 koek,
 and
 the
 crisp
 and
 crumbling
 cruller;
 sweet
 cakes
 and
 
  short
 cakes,
 ginger
 cakes
 and
 honey
 cakes,
 and
 the
 whole
 family
 of
 
  cakes.
 And
 then
 there
 were
 apple
 pies,
 and
 peach
 pies,
 and
 pumpkin
 pies;
 
  besides
 slices
 of
 ham
 and
 smoked
 beef;
 and
 moreover
 delectable
 dishes
 
  of
 preserved
 plums,
 and
 peaches,
 and
 pears,
 and
 quinces;
 not
 to
 mention
 
  broiled
 shad
 and
 roasted
 chickens;
 together
 with
 bowls
 of
 milk
 and
 
  cream,
 all
 mingled
 higgledy-­?piggledy,
 pretty
 much
 as
 I
 have
 enumerated
 
  them,
 with
 the
 motherly
 teapot
 sending
 up
 its
 clouds
 of
 vapor
 from
 the
 
  midst-­?-­?Heaven
 bless
 the
 mark!
 I
 want
 breath
 and
 time
 to
 discuss
 this
 
  banquet
 as
 it
 deserves,
 and
 am
 too
 eager
 to
 get
 on
 with
 my
 story.
 
 

Happily,
 Ichabod
 Crane
 was
 not
 in
 so
 great
 a
 hurry
 as
 his
 historian,
 but
 
  did
 ample
 justice
 to
 every
 dainty.
 
 
 
  He
 was
 a
 kind
 and
 thankful
 creature,
 whose
 heart
 dilated
 in
 proportion
 
  as
 his
 skin
 was
 filled
 with
 good
 cheer,
 and
 whose
 spirits
 rose
 with
 
  eating,
 as
 some
 men's
 do
 with
 drink.
 He
 could
 not
 help,
 too,
 rolling
 his
 
  large
 eyes
 round
 him
 as
 he
 ate,
 and
 chuckling
 with
 the
 possibility
 that
 
  he
 might
 one
 day
 be
 lord
 of
 all
 this
 scene
 of
 almost
 unimaginable
 luxury
 
  and
 splendor.
 Then,
 he
 thought,
 how
 soon
 he'd
 turn
 his
 back
 upon
 the
 old
 
  schoolhouse;
 snap
 his
 fingers
 in
 the
 face
 of
 Hans
 Van
 Ripper,
 and
 every
 
  other
 niggardly
 patron,
 and
 kick
 any
 itinerant
 pedagogue
 out
 of
 doors
 
  that
 should
 dare
 to
 call
 him
 comrade!
 
 
 
  Old
 Baltus
 Van
 Tassel
 moved
 about
 among
 his
 guests
 with
 a
 face
 dilated
 
  with
 content
 and
 good
 humor,
 round
 and
 jolly
 as
 the
 harvest
 moon.
 His
 
  hospitable
 attentions
 were
 brief,
 but
 expressive,
 being
 confined
 to
 a
 
  shake
 of
 the
 hand,
 a
 slap
 on
 the
 shoulder,
 a
 loud
 laugh,
 and
 a
 pressing
 
  invitation
 to
 "fall
 to,
 and
 help
 themselves."
 
 
 
  And
 now
 the
 sound
 of
 the
 music
 from
 the
 common
 room,
 or
 hall,
 summoned
 
  to
 the
 dance.
 The
 musician
 was
 an
 old
 gray-­?headed
 negro,
 who
 had
 
  been
 the
 itinerant
 orchestra
 of
 the
 neighborhood
 for
 more
 than
 half
 a
 
  century.
 His
 instrument
 was
 as
 old
 and
 battered
 as
 himself.
 The
 greater
 
 

part
 of
 the
 time
 he
 scraped
 on
 two
 or
 three
 strings,
 accompanying
 every
 
  movement
 of
 the
 bow
 with
 a
 motion
 of
 the
 head;
 bowing
 almost
 to
 the
 
  ground,
 and
 stamping
 with
 his
 foot
 whenever
 a
 fresh
 couple
 were
 to
 
  start.
 
 
 
  Ichabod
 prided
 himself
 upon
 his
 dancing
 as
 much
 as
 upon
 his
 vocal
 
  powers.
 Not
 a
 limb,
 not
 a
 fibre
 about
 him
 was
 idle;
 and
 to
 have
 seen
 his
 
  loosely
 hung
 frame
 in
 full
 motion,
 and
 clattering
 about
 the
 room,
 you
 
  would
 have
 thought
 St.
 Vitus
 himself,
 that
 blessed
 patron
 of
 the
 dance,
 
  was
 figuring
 before
 you
 in
 person.
 He
 was
 the
 admiration
 of
 all
 the
 
  negroes;
 who,
 having
 gathered,
 of
 all
 ages
 and
 sizes,
 from
 the
 farm
 
  and
 the
 neighborhood,
 stood
 forming
 a
 pyramid
 of
 shining
 black
 faces
 at
 
  every
 door
 and
 window,
 gazing
 with
 delight
 at
 the
 scene,
 rolling
 their
 
  white
 eyeballs,
 and
 showing
 grinning
 rows
 of
 ivory
 from
 ear
 to
 ear.
 How
 
  could
 the
 flogger
 of
 urchins
 be
 otherwise
 than
 animated
 and
 joyous?
 The
 
  lady
 of
 his
 heart
 was
 his
 partner
 in
 the
 dance,
 and
 smiling
 graciously
 
  in
 reply
 to
 all
 his
 amorous
 oglings;
 while
 Brom
 Bones,
 sorely
 smitten
 
  with
 love
 and
 jealousy,
 sat
 brooding
 by
 himself
 in
 one
 corner.
 
 
 
  When
 the
 dance
 was
 at
 an
 end,
 Ichabod
 was
 attracted
 to
 a
 knot
 of
 the
 
  sager
 folks,
 who,
 with
 Old
 Van
 Tassel,
 sat
 smoking
 at
 one
 end
 of
 the
 
  piazza,
 gossiping
 over
 former
 times,
 and
 drawing
 out
 long
 stories
 about
 
  the
 war.
 
 


 
  This
 neighborhood,
 at
 the
 time
 of
 which
 I
 am
 speaking,
 was
 one
 of
 those
 
  highly
 favored
 places
 which
 abound
 with
 chronicle
 and
 great
 men.
 The
 
  British
 and
 American
 line
 had
 run
 near
 it
 during
 the
 war;
 it
 had,
 
  therefore,
 been
 the
 scene
 of
 marauding
 and
 infested
 with
 refugees,
 
  cowboys,
 and
 all
 kinds
 of
 border
 chivalry.
 Just
 sufficient
 time
 had
 
  elapsed
 to
 enable
 each
 storyteller
 to
 dress
 up
 his
 tale
 with
 a
 little
 
  becoming
 fiction,
 and,
 in
 the
 indistinctness
 of
 his
 recollection,
 to
 
  make
 himself
 the
 hero
 of
 every
 exploit.
 
 
 
  There
 was
 the
 story
 of
 Doffue
 Martling,
 a
 large
 blue-­?bearded
 Dutchman,
 
  who
 had
 nearly
 taken
 a
 British
 frigate
 with
 an
 old
 iron
 nine-­?pounder
 
  from
 a
 mud
 breastwork,
 only
 that
 his
 gun
 burst
 at
 the
 sixth
 discharge.
 
  And
 there
 was
 an
 old
 gentleman
 who
 shall
 be
 nameless,
 being
 too
 rich
 
  a
 mynheer
 to
 be
 lightly
 mentioned,
 who,
 in
 the
 battle
 of
 White
 Plains,
 
  being
 an
 excellent
 master
 of
 defence,
 parried
 a
 musket-­?ball
 with
 a
 small
 
  sword,
 insomuch
 that
 he
 absolutely
 felt
 it
 whiz
 round
 the
 blade,
 and
 
  glance
 off
 at
 the
 hilt;
 in
 proof
 of
 which
 he
 was
 ready
 at
 any
 time
 to
 
  show
 the
 sword,
 with
 the
 hilt
 a
 little
 bent.
 There
 were
 several
 more
 
  that
 had
 been
 equally
 great
 in
 the
 field,
 not
 one
 of
 whom
 but
 was
 
  persuaded
 that
 he
 had
 a
 considerable
 hand
 in
 bringing
 the
 war
 to
 a
 happy
 
  termination.
 
 
 
 

But
 all
 these
 were
 nothing
 to
 the
 tales
 of
 ghosts
 and
 apparitions
 that
 
  succeeded.
 The
 neighborhood
 is
 rich
 in
 legendary
 treasures
 of
 the
 
  kind.
 Local
 tales
 and
 superstitions
 thrive
 best
 in
 these
 sheltered,
 
  long-­?settled
 retreats;
 but
 are
 trampled
 under
 foot
 by
 the
 shifting
 
  throng
 that
 forms
 the
 population
 of
 most
 of
 our
 country
 places.
 Besides,
 
  there
 is
 no
 encouragement
 for
 ghosts
 in
 most
 of
 our
 villages,
 for
 they
 
  have
 scarcely
 had
 time
 to
 finish
 their
 first
 nap
 and
 turn
 themselves
 in
 
  their
 graves,
 before
 their
 surviving
 friends
 have
 travelled
 away
 from
 
  the
 neighborhood;
 so
 that
 when
 they
 turn
 out
 at
 night
 to
 walk
 their
 
  rounds,
 they
 have
 no
 acquaintance
 left
 to
 call
 upon.
 This
 is
 perhaps
 the
 
  reason
 why
 we
 so
 seldom
 hear
 of
 ghosts
 except
 in
 our
 long-­?established
 
  Dutch
 communities.
 
 
 
  The
 immediate
 cause,
 however,
 of
 the
 prevalence
 of
 supernatural
 stories
 
  in
 these
 parts,
 was
 doubtless
 owing
 to
 the
 vicinity
 of
 Sleepy
 Hollow.
 
  There
 was
 a
 contagion
 in
 the
 very
 air
 that
 blew
 from
 that
 haunted
 
  region;
 it
 breathed
 forth
 an
 atmosphere
 of
 dreams
 and
 fancies
 infecting
 
  all
 the
 land.
 Several
 of
 the
 Sleepy
 Hollow
 people
 were
 present
 at
 
  Van
 Tassel's,
 and,
 as
 usual,
 were
 doling
 out
 their
 wild
 and
 wonderful
 
  legends.
 Many
 dismal
 tales
 were
 told
 about
 funeral
 trains,
 and
 mourning
 
  cries
 and
 wailings
 heard
 and
 seen
 about
 the
 great
 tree
 where
 the
 
  unfortunate
 Major
 AndrÈ
 was
 taken,
 and
 which
 stood
 in
 the
 neighborhood.
 
  Some
 mention
 was
 made
 also
 of
 the
 woman
 in
 white,
 that
 haunted
 the
 
 

dark
 glen
 at
 Raven
 Rock,
 and
 was
 often
 heard
 to
 shriek
 on
 winter
 nights
 
  before
 a
 storm,
 having
 perished
 there
 in
 the
 snow.
 The
 chief
 part
 of
 the
 
  stories,
 however,
 turned
 upon
 the
 favorite
 spectre
 of
 Sleepy
 Hollow,
 the
 
  Headless
 Horseman,
 who
 had
 been
 heard
 several
 times
 of
 late,
 patrolling
 
  the
 country;
 and,
 it
 was
 said,
 tethered
 his
 horse
 nightly
 among
 the
 
  graves
 in
 the
 churchyard.
 
 
 
  The
 sequestered
 situation
 of
 this
 church
 seems
 always
 to
 have
 made
 it
 a
 
  favorite
 haunt
 of
 troubled
 spirits.
 It
 stands
 on
 a
 knoll,
 surrounded
 by
 
  locust-­?trees
 and
 lofty
 elms,
 from
 among
 which
 its
 decent,
 whitewashed
 
  walls
 shine
 modestly
 forth,
 like
 Christian
 purity
 beaming
 through
 the
 
  shades
 of
 retirement.
 A
 gentle
 slope
 descends
 from
 it
 to
 a
 silver
 sheet
 
  of
 water,
 bordered
 by
 high
 trees,
 between
 which,
 peeps
 may
 be
 caught
 at
 
  the
 blue
 hills
 of
 the
 Hudson.
 To
 look
 upon
 its
 grass-­?grown
 yard,
 where
 
  the
 sunbeams
 seem
 to
 sleep
 so
 quietly,
 one
 would
 think
 that
 there
 at
 
  least
 the
 dead
 might
 rest
 in
 peace.
 On
 one
 side
 of
 the
 church
 extends
 a
 
  wide
 woody
 dell,
 along
 which
 raves
 a
 large
 brook
 among
 broken
 rocks
 and
 
  trunks
 of
 fallen
 trees.
 Over
 a
 deep
 black
 part
 of
 the
 stream,
 not
 far
 
  from
 the
 church,
 was
 formerly
 thrown
 a
 wooden
 bridge;
 the
 road
 that
 led
 
  to
 it,
 and
 the
 bridge
 itself,
 were
 thickly
 shaded
 by
 overhanging
 trees,
 
  which
 cast
 a
 gloom
 about
 it,
 even
 in
 the
 daytime;
 but
 occasioned
 a
 
  fearful
 darkness
 at
 night.
 Such
 was
 one
 of
 the
 favorite
 haunts
 of
 
  the
 Headless
 Horseman,
 and
 the
 place
 where
 he
 was
 most
 frequently
 
 

encountered.
 The
 tale
 was
 told
 of
 old
 Brouwer,
 a
 most
 heretical
 
  disbeliever
 in
 ghosts,
 how
 he
 met
 the
 Horseman
 returning
 from
 his
 foray
 
  into
 Sleepy
 Hollow,
 and
 was
 obliged
 to
 get
 up
 behind
 him;
 how
 they
 
  galloped
 over
 bush
 and
 brake,
 over
 hill
 and
 swamp,
 until
 they
 reached
 
  the
 bridge;
 when
 the
 Horseman
 suddenly
 turned
 into
 a
 skeleton,
 threw
 old
 
  Brouwer
 into
 the
 brook,
 and
 sprang
 away
 over
 the
 tree-­?tops
 with
 a
 clap
 
  of
 thunder.
 
 
 
  This
 story
 was
 immediately
 matched
 by
 a
 thrice
 marvellous
 adventure
 of
 
  Brom
 Bones,
 who
 made
 light
 of
 the
 Galloping
 Hessian
 as
 an
 arrant
 jockey.
 
  He
 affirmed
 that
 on
 returning
 one
 night
 from
 the
 neighboring
 village
 of
 
  Sing
 Sing,
 he
 had
 been
 overtaken
 by
 this
 midnight
 trooper;
 that
 he
 had
 
  offered
 to
 race
 with
 him
 for
 a
 bowl
 of
 punch,
 and
 should
 have
 won
 it
 
  too,
 for
 Daredevil
 beat
 the
 goblin
 horse
 all
 hollow,
 but
 just
 as
 they
 
  came
 to
 the
 church
 bridge,
 the
 Hessian
 bolted,
 and
 vanished
 in
 a
 flash
 
  of
 fire.
 
 
 
  All
 these
 tales,
 told
 in
 that
 drowsy
 undertone
 with
 which
 men
 talk
 in
 
  the
 dark,
 the
 countenances
 of
 the
 listeners
 only
 now
 and
 then
 receiving
 
  a
 casual
 gleam
 from
 the
 glare
 of
 a
 pipe,
 sank
 deep
 in
 the
 mind
 of
 
  Ichabod.
 He
 repaid
 them
 in
 kind
 with
 large
 extracts
 from
 his
 invaluable
 
  author,
 Cotton
 Mather,
 and
 added
 many
 marvellous
 events
 that
 had
 taken
 
  place
 in
 his
 native
 State
 of
 Connecticut,
 and
 fearful
 sights
 which
 he
 
 

had
 seen
 in
 his
 nightly
 walks
 about
 Sleepy
 Hollow.
 
 
 
  The
 revel
 now
 gradually
 broke
 up.
 The
 old
 farmers
 gathered
 together
 
  their
 families
 in
 their
 wagons,
 and
 were
 heard
 for
 some
 time
 rattling
 
  along
 the
 hollow
 roads,
 and
 over
 the
 distant
 hills.
 Some
 of
 the
 
  damsels
 mounted
 on
 pillions
 behind
 their
 favorite
 swains,
 and
 their
 
  light-­?hearted
 laughter,
 mingling
 with
 the
 clatter
 of
 hoofs,
 echoed
 along
 
  the
 silent
 woodlands,
 sounding
 fainter
 and
 fainter,
 until
 they
 gradually
 
  died
 away,-­?-­?and
 the
 late
 scene
 of
 noise
 and
 frolic
 was
 all
 silent
 and
 
  deserted.
 Ichabod
 only
 lingered
 behind,
 according
 to
 the
 custom
 of
 
  country
 lovers,
 to
 have
 a
 tÍte-­?‡-­?tÍte
 with
 the
 heiress;
 fully
 convinced
 
  that
 he
 was
 now
 on
 the
 high
 road
 to
 success.
 What
 passed
 at
 this
 
  interview
 I
 will
 not
 pretend
 to
 say,
 for
 in
 fact
 I
 do
 not
 know.
 
  Something,
 however,
 I
 fear
 me,
 must
 have
 gone
 wrong,
 for
 he
 certainly
 
  sallied
 forth,
 after
 no
 very
 great
 interval,
 with
 an
 air
 quite
 desolate
 
  and
 chapfallen.
 Oh,
 these
 women!
 these
 women!
 Could
 that
 girl
 have
 been
 
  playing
 off
 any
 of
 her
 coquettish
 tricks?
 Was
 her
 encouragement
 of
 the
 
  poor
 pedagogue
 all
 a
 mere
 sham
 to
 secure
 her
 conquest
 of
 his
 rival?
 
  Heaven
 only
 knows,
 not
 I!
 Let
 it
 suffice
 to
 say,
 Ichabod
 stole
 forth
 
  with
 the
 air
 of
 one
 who
 had
 been
 sacking
 a
 henroost,
 rather
 than
 a
 fair
 
  lady's
 heart.
 Without
 looking
 to
 the
 right
 or
 left
 to
 notice
 the
 scene
 
  of
 rural
 wealth,
 on
 which
 he
 had
 so
 often
 gloated,
 he
 went
 straight
 to
 
  the
 stable,
 and
 with
 several
 hearty
 cuffs
 and
 kicks
 roused
 his
 steed
 
 

most
 uncourteously
 from
 the
 comfortable
 quarters
 in
 which
 he
 was
 soundly
 
  sleeping,
 dreaming
 of
 mountains
 of
 corn
 and
 oats,
 and
 whole
 valleys
 of
 
  timothy
 and
 clover.
 
 
 
  It
 was
 the
 very
 witching
 time
 of
 night
 that
 Ichabod,
 heavy-­?hearted
 and
 
  crestfallen,
 pursued
 his
 travels
 homewards,
 along
 the
 sides
 of
 the
 
  lofty
 hills
 which
 rise
 above
 Tarry
 Town,
 and
 which
 he
 had
 traversed
 so
 
  cheerily
 in
 the
 afternoon.
 The
 hour
 was
 as
 dismal
 as
 himself.
 Far
 below
 
  him
 the
 Tappan
 Zee
 spread
 its
 dusky
 and
 indistinct
 waste
 of
 waters,
 with
 
  here
 and
 there
 the
 tall
 mast
 of
 a
 sloop,
 riding
 quietly
 at
 anchor
 under
 
  the
 land.
 In
 the
 dead
 hush
 of
 midnight,
 he
 could
 even
 hear
 the
 barking
 
  of
 the
 watchdog
 from
 the
 opposite
 shore
 of
 the
 Hudson;
 but
 it
 was
 
  so
 vague
 and
 faint
 as
 only
 to
 give
 an
 idea
 of
 his
 distance
 from
 this
 
  faithful
 companion
 of
 man.
 Now
 and
 then,
 too,
 the
 long-­?drawn
 crowing
 
  of
 a
 cock,
 accidentally
 awakened,
 would
 sound
 far,
 far
 off,
 from
 some
 
  farmhouse
 away
 among
 the
 hills-­?-­?but
 it
 was
 like
 a
 dreaming
 sound
 in
 his
 
  ear.
 No
 signs
 of
 life
 occurred
 near
 him,
 but
 occasionally
 the
 melancholy
 
  chirp
 of
 a
 cricket,
 or
 perhaps
 the
 guttural
 twang
 of
 a
 bullfrog
 from
 a
 
  neighboring
 marsh,
 as
 if
 sleeping
 uncomfortably
 and
 turning
 suddenly
 in
 
  his
 bed.
 
 
 
  All
 the
 stories
 of
 ghosts
 and
 goblins
 that
 he
 had
 heard
 in
 the
 afternoon
 
  now
 came
 crowding
 upon
 his
 recollection.
 The
 night
 grew
 darker
 and
 
 

darker;
 the
 stars
 seemed
 to
 sink
 deeper
 in
 the
 sky,
 and
 driving
 clouds
 
  occasionally
 hid
 them
 from
 his
 sight.
 He
 had
 never
 felt
 so
 lonely
 and
 
  dismal.
 He
 was,
 moreover,
 approaching
 the
 very
 place
 where
 many
 of
 the
 
  scenes
 of
 the
 ghost
 stories
 had
 been
 laid.
 In
 the
 centre
 of
 the
 road
 
  stood
 an
 enormous
 tulip-­?tree,
 which
 towered
 like
 a
 giant
 above
 all
 the
 
  other
 trees
 of
 the
 neighborhood,
 and
 formed
 a
 kind
 of
 landmark.
 Its
 
  limbs
 were
 gnarled
 and
 fantastic,
 large
 enough
 to
 form
 trunks
 for
 
  ordinary
 trees,
 twisting
 down
 almost
 to
 the
 earth,
 and
 rising
 again
 into
 
  the
 air.
 It
 was
 connected
 with
 the
 tragical
 story
 of
 the
 unfortunate
 
  AndrÈ,
 who
 had
 been
 taken
 prisoner
 hard
 by;
 and
 was
 universally
 known
 
  by
 the
 name
 of
 Major
 AndrÈ's
 tree.
 The
 common
 people
 regarded
 it
 with
 a
 
  mixture
 of
 respect
 and
 superstition,
 partly
 out
 of
 sympathy
 for
 the
 
  fate
 of
 its
 ill-­?starred
 namesake,
 and
 partly
 from
 the
 tales
 of
 strange
 
  sights,
 and
 doleful
 lamentations,
 told
 concerning
 it.
 
 
 
  As
 Ichabod
 approached
 this
 fearful
 tree,
 he
 began
 to
 whistle;
 he
 thought
 
  his
 whistle
 was
 answered;
 it
 was
 but
 a
 blast
 sweeping
 sharply
 through
 
  the
 dry
 branches.
 As
 he
 approached
 a
 little
 nearer,
 he
 thought
 he
 saw
 
  something
 white,
 hanging
 in
 the
 midst
 of
 the
 tree:
 he
 paused
 and
 ceased
 
  whistling
 but,
 on
 looking
 more
 narrowly,
 perceived
 that
 it
 was
 a
 place
 
  where
 the
 tree
 had
 been
 scathed
 by
 lightning,
 and
 the
 white
 wood
 laid
 
  bare.
 Suddenly
 he
 heard
 a
 groan-­?-­?his
 teeth
 chattered,
 and
 his
 knees
 
  smote
 against
 the
 saddle:
 it
 was
 but
 the
 rubbing
 of
 one
 huge
 bough
 upon
 
 

another,
 as
 they
 were
 swayed
 about
 by
 the
 breeze.
 He
 passed
 the
 tree
 in
 
  safety,
 but
 new
 perils
 lay
 before
 him.
 
 
 
  About
 two
 hundred
 yards
 from
 the
 tree,
 a
 small
 brook
 crossed
 the
 road,
 
  and
 ran
 into
 a
 marshy
 and
 thickly-­?wooded
 glen,
 known
 by
 the
 name
 of
 
  Wiley's
 Swamp.
 A
 few
 rough
 logs,
 laid
 side
 by
 side,
 served
 for
 a
 bridge
 
  over
 this
 stream.
 On
 that
 side
 of
 the
 road
 where
 the
 brook
 entered
 the
 
  wood,
 a
 group
 of
 oaks
 and
 chestnuts,
 matted
 thick
 with
 wild
 grape-­?vines,
 
  threw
 a
 cavernous
 gloom
 over
 it.
 To
 pass
 this
 bridge
 was
 the
 severest
 
  trial.
 It
 was
 at
 this
 identical
 spot
 that
 the
 unfortunate
 AndrÈ
 was
 
  captured,
 and
 under
 the
 covert
 of
 those
 chestnuts
 and
 vines
 were
 the
 
  sturdy
 yeomen
 concealed
 who
 surprised
 him.
 This
 has
 ever
 since
 been
 
  considered
 a
 haunted
 stream,
 and
 fearful
 are
 the
 feelings
 of
 the
 
  schoolboy
 who
 has
 to
 pass
 it
 alone
 after
 dark.
 
 
 
  As
 he
 approached
 the
 stream,
 his
 heart
 began
 to
 thump;
 he
 summoned
 up,
 
  however,
 all
 his
 resolution,
 gave
 his
 horse
 half
 a
 score
 of
 kicks
 in
 the
 
  ribs,
 and
 attempted
 to
 dash
 briskly
 across
 the
 bridge;
 but
 instead
 of
 
  starting
 forward,
 the
 perverse
 old
 animal
 made
 a
 lateral
 movement,
 and
 
  ran
 broadside
 against
 the
 fence.
 Ichabod,
 whose
 fears
 increased
 with
 the
 
  delay,
 jerked
 the
 reins
 on
 the
 other
 side,
 and
 kicked
 lustily
 with
 the
 
  contrary
 foot:
 it
 was
 all
 in
 vain;
 his
 steed
 started,
 it
 is
 true,
 but
 
  it
 was
 only
 to
 plunge
 to
 the
 opposite
 side
 of
 the
 road
 into
 a
 thicket
 of
 
 

brambles
 and
 alder
 bushes.
 The
 schoolmaster
 now
 bestowed
 both
 whip
 and
 
  heel
 upon
 the
 starveling
 ribs
 of
 old
 Gunpowder,
 who
 dashed
 forward,
 
  snuffling
 and
 snorting,
 but
 came
 to
 a
 stand
 just
 by
 the
 bridge,
 with
 a
 
  suddenness
 that
 had
 nearly
 sent
 his
 rider
 sprawling
 over
 his
 head.
 
  Just
 at
 this
 moment
 a
 plashy
 tramp
 by
 the
 side
 of
 the
 bridge
 caught
 the
 
  sensitive
 ear
 of
 Ichabod.
 In
 the
 dark
 shadow
 of
 the
 grove,
 on
 the
 margin
 
  of
 the
 brook,
 he
 beheld
 something
 huge,
 misshapen
 and
 towering.
 It
 
  stirred
 not,
 but
 seemed
 gathered
 up
 in
 the
 gloom,
 like
 some
 gigantic
 
  monster
 ready
 to
 spring
 upon
 the
 traveller.
 
 
 
  The
 hair
 of
 the
 affrighted
 pedagogue
 rose
 upon
 his
 head
 with
 terror.
 
  What
 was
 to
 be
 done?
 To
 turn
 and
 fly
 was
 now
 too
 late;
 and
 besides,
 
  what
 chance
 was
 there
 of
 escaping
 ghost
 or
 goblin,
 if
 such
 it
 was,
 which
 
  could
 ride
 upon
 the
 wings
 of
 the
 wind?
 Summoning
 up,
 therefore,
 a
 
  show
 of
 courage,
 he
 demanded
 in
 stammering
 accents,
 "Who
 are
 you?"
 
  He
 received
 no
 reply.
 He
 repeated
 his
 demand
 in
 a
 still
 more
 agitated
 
  voice.
 Still
 there
 was
 no
 answer.
 Once
 more
 he
 cudgelled
 the
 sides
 
  of
 the
 inflexible
 Gunpowder,
 and,
 shutting
 his
 eyes,
 broke
 forth
 with
 
  involuntary
 fervor
 into
 a
 psalm
 tune.
 Just
 then
 the
 shadowy
 object
 of
 
  alarm
 put
 itself
 in
 motion,
 and
 with
 a
 scramble
 and
 a
 bound
 stood
 at
 
  once
 in
 the
 middle
 of
 the
 road.
 Though
 the
 night
 was
 dark
 and
 dismal,
 
  yet
 the
 form
 of
 the
 unknown
 might
 now
 in
 some
 degree
 be
 ascertained.
 He
 
  appeared
 to
 be
 a
 horseman
 of
 large
 dimensions,
 and
 mounted
 on
 a
 black
 
 

horse
 of
 powerful
 frame.
 He
 made
 no
 offer
 of
 molestation
 or
 sociability,
 
  but
 kept
 aloof
 on
 one
 side
 of
 the
 road,
 jogging
 along
 on
 the
 blind
 side
 
  of
 old
 Gunpowder,
 who
 had
 now
 got
 over
 his
 fright
 and
 waywardness.
 
 
 
  Ichabod,
 who
 had
 no
 relish
 for
 this
 strange
 midnight
 companion,
 and
 
  bethought
 himself
 of
 the
 adventure
 of
 Brom
 Bones
 with
 the
 Galloping
 
  Hessian,
 now
 quickened
 his
 steed
 in
 hopes
 of
 leaving
 him
 behind.
 The
 
  stranger,
 however,
 quickened
 his
 horse
 to
 an
 equal
 pace.
 Ichabod
 pulled
 
  up,
 and
 fell
 into
 a
 walk,
 thinking
 to
 lag
 behind,-­?-­?the
 other
 did
 the
 
  same.
 His
 heart
 began
 to
 sink
 within
 him;
 he
 endeavored
 to
 resume
 his
 
  psalm
 tune,
 but
 his
 parched
 tongue
 clove
 to
 the
 roof
 of
 his
 mouth,
 and
 
  he
 could
 not
 utter
 a
 stave.
 There
 was
 something
 in
 the
 moody
 and
 
  dogged
 silence
 of
 this
 pertinacious
 companion
 that
 was
 mysterious
 and
 
  appalling.
 It
 was
 soon
 fearfully
 accounted
 for.
 On
 mounting
 a
 rising
 
  ground,
 which
 brought
 the
 figure
 of
 his
 fellow-­?traveller
 in
 relief
 
  against
 the
 sky,
 gigantic
 in
 height,
 and
 muffled
 in
 a
 cloak,
 Ichabod
 was
 
  horror-­?struck
 on
 perceiving
 that
 he
 was
 headless!-­?-­?but
 his
 horror
 was
 
  still
 more
 increased
 on
 observing
 that
 the
 head,
 which
 should
 have
 
  rested
 on
 his
 shoulders,
 was
 carried
 before
 him
 on
 the
 pommel
 of
 his
 
  saddle!
 His
 terror
 rose
 to
 desperation;
 he
 rained
 a
 shower
 of
 kicks
 and
 
  blows
 upon
 Gunpowder,
 hoping
 by
 a
 sudden
 movement
 to
 give
 his
 companion
 
  the
 slip;
 but
 the
 spectre
 started
 full
 jump
 with
 him.
 Away,
 then,
 they
 
  dashed
 through
 thick
 and
 thin;
 stones
 flying
 and
 sparks
 flashing
 at
 
 

every
 bound.
 Ichabod's
 flimsy
 garments
 fluttered
 in
 the
 air,
 as
 
  he
 stretched
 his
 long
 lank
 body
 away
 over
 his
 horse's
 head,
 in
 the
 
  eagerness
 of
 his
 flight.
 
 
 
  They
 had
 now
 reached
 the
 road
 which
 turns
 off
 to
 Sleepy
 Hollow;
 but
 
  Gunpowder,
 who
 seemed
 possessed
 with
 a
 demon,
 instead
 of
 keeping
 up
 it,
 
  made
 an
 opposite
 turn,
 and
 plunged
 headlong
 downhill
 to
 the
 left.
 This
 
  road
 leads
 through
 a
 sandy
 hollow
 shaded
 by
 trees
 for
 about
 a
 quarter
 
  of
 a
 mile,
 where
 it
 crosses
 the
 bridge
 famous
 in
 goblin
 story;
 and
 just
 
  beyond
 swells
 the
 green
 knoll
 on
 which
 stands
 the
 whitewashed
 church.
 
 
 
  As
 yet
 the
 panic
 of
 the
 steed
 had
 given
 his
 unskilful
 rider
 an
 apparent
 
  advantage
 in
 the
 chase,
 but
 just
 as
 he
 had
 got
 half
 way
 through
 the
 
  hollow,
 the
 girths
 of
 the
 saddle
 gave
 way,
 and
 he
 felt
 it
 slipping
 from
 
  under
 him.
 He
 seized
 it
 by
 the
 pommel,
 and
 endeavored
 to
 hold
 it
 firm,
 
  but
 in
 vain;
 and
 had
 just
 time
 to
 save
 himself
 by
 clasping
 old
 Gunpowder
 
  round
 the
 neck,
 when
 the
 saddle
 fell
 to
 the
 earth,
 and
 he
 heard
 it
 
  trampled
 under
 foot
 by
 his
 pursuer.
 For
 a
 moment
 the
 terror
 of
 Hans
 Van
 
  Ripper's
 wrath
 passed
 across
 his
 mind,-­?-­?for
 it
 was
 his
 Sunday
 saddle;
 
  but
 this
 was
 no
 time
 for
 petty
 fears;
 the
 goblin
 was
 hard
 on
 his
 
  haunches;
 and
 (unskilful
 rider
 that
 he
 was!)
 he
 had
 much
 ado
 to
 maintain
 
  his
 seat;
 sometimes
 slipping
 on
 one
 side,
 sometimes
 on
 another,
 and
 
  sometimes
 jolted
 on
 the
 high
 ridge
 of
 his
 horse's
 backbone,
 with
 a
 
 

violence
 that
 he
 verily
 feared
 would
 cleave
 him
 asunder.
 
 
 
  An
 opening
 in
 the
 trees
 now
 cheered
 him
 with
 the
 hopes
 that
 the
 church
 
  bridge
 was
 at
 hand.
 The
 wavering
 reflection
 of
 a
 silver
 star
 in
 the
 
  bosom
 of
 the
 brook
 told
 him
 that
 he
 was
 not
 mistaken.
 He
 saw
 the
 walls
 
  of
 the
 church
 dimly
 glaring
 under
 the
 trees
 beyond.
 He
 recollected
 the
 
  place
 where
 Brom
 Bones's
 ghostly
 competitor
 had
 disappeared.
 "If
 I
 can
 
  but
 reach
 that
 bridge,"
 thought
 Ichabod,
 "I
 am
 safe."
 Just
 then
 he
 heard
 
  the
 black
 steed
 panting
 and
 blowing
 close
 behind
 him;
 he
 even
 fancied
 
  that
 he
 felt
 his
 hot
 breath.
 Another
 convulsive
 kick
 in
 the
 ribs,
 and
 
  old
 Gunpowder
 sprang
 upon
 the
 bridge;
 he
 thundered
 over
 the
 resounding
 
  planks;
 he
 gained
 the
 opposite
 side;
 and
 now
 Ichabod
 cast
 a
 look
 behind
 
  to
 see
 if
 his
 pursuer
 should
 vanish,
 according
 to
 rule,
 in
 a
 flash
 of
 
  fire
 and
 brimstone.
 Just
 then
 he
 saw
 the
 goblin
 rising
 in
 his
 stirrups,
 
  and
 in
 the
 very
 act
 of
 hurling
 his
 head
 at
 him.
 Ichabod
 endeavored
 to
 
  dodge
 the
 horrible
 missile,
 but
 too
 late.
 It
 encountered
 his
 cranium
 
  with
 a
 tremendous
 crash,-­?-­?he
 was
 tumbled
 headlong
 into
 the
 dust,
 and
 
  Gunpowder,
 the
 black
 steed,
 and
 the
 goblin
 rider,
 passed
 by
 like
 a
 
  whirlwind.
 
 
 
  The
 next
 morning
 the
 old
 horse
 was
 found
 without
 his
 saddle,
 and
 with
 
  the
 bridle
 under
 his
 feet,
 soberly
 cropping
 the
 grass
 at
 his
 master's
 
  gate.
 Ichabod
 did
 not
 make
 his
 appearance
 at
 breakfast;
 dinner-­?hour
 
 

came,
 but
 no
 Ichabod.
 The
 boys
 assembled
 at
 the
 schoolhouse,
 and
 
  strolled
 idly
 about
 the
 banks
 of
 the
 brook;
 but
 no
 schoolmaster.
 Hans
 
  Van
 Ripper
 now
 began
 to
 feel
 some
 uneasiness
 about
 the
 fate
 of
 poor
 
  Ichabod,
 and
 his
 saddle.
 An
 inquiry
 was
 set
 on
 foot,
 and
 after
 diligent
 
  investigation
 they
 came
 upon
 his
 traces.
 In
 one
 part
 of
 the
 road
 leading
 
  to
 the
 church
 was
 found
 the
 saddle
 trampled
 in
 the
 dirt;
 the
 tracks
 of
 
  horses'
 hoofs
 deeply
 dented
 in
 the
 road,
 and
 evidently
 at
 furious
 speed,
 
  were
 traced
 to
 the
 bridge,
 beyond
 which,
 on
 the
 bank
 of
 a
 broad
 part
 of
 
  the
 brook,
 where
 the
 water
 ran
 deep
 and
 black,
 was
 found
 the
 hat
 of
 the
 
  unfortunate
 Ichabod,
 and
 close
 beside
 it
 a
 shattered
 pumpkin.
 
 
 
  The
 brook
 was
 searched,
 but
 the
 body
 of
 the
 schoolmaster
 was
 not
 to
 
  be
 discovered.
 Hans
 Van
 Ripper
 as
 executor
 of
 his
 estate,
 examined
 the
 
  bundle
 which
 contained
 all
 his
 worldly
 effects.
 They
 consisted
 of
 two
 
  shirts
 and
 a
 half;
 two
 stocks
 for
 the
 neck;
 a
 pair
 or
 two
 of
 worsted
 
  stockings;
 an
 old
 pair
 of
 corduroy
 small-­?clothes;
 a
 rusty
 razor;
 a
 book
 
  of
 psalm
 tunes
 full
 of
 dog's-­?ears;
 and
 a
 broken
 pitch-­?pipe.
 As
 to
 the
 
  books
 and
 furniture
 of
 the
 schoolhouse,
 they
 belonged
 to
 the
 community,
 
  excepting
 Cotton
 Mather's
 "History
 of
 Witchcraft,"
 a
 "New
 England
 
  Almanac,"
 and
 a
 book
 of
 dreams
 and
 fortune-­?telling;
 in
 which
 last
 was
 
  a
 sheet
 of
 foolscap
 much
 scribbled
 and
 blotted
 in
 several
 fruitless
 
  attempts
 to
 make
 a
 copy
 of
 verses
 in
 honor
 of
 the
 heiress
 of
 Van
 Tassel.
 
  These
 magic
 books
 and
 the
 poetic
 scrawl
 were
 forthwith
 consigned
 to
 the
 
 

flames
 by
 Hans
 Van
 Ripper;
 who,
 from
 that
 time
 forward,
 determined
 to
 
  send
 his
 children
 no
 more
 to
 school,
 observing
 that
 he
 never
 knew
 
  any
 good
 come
 of
 this
 same
 reading
 and
 writing.
 Whatever
 money
 the
 
  schoolmaster
 possessed,
 and
 he
 had
 received
 his
 quarter's
 pay
 but
 a
 
  day
 or
 two
 before,
 he
 must
 have
 had
 about
 his
 person
 at
 the
 time
 of
 his
 
  disappearance.
 
 
 
  The
 mysterious
 event
 caused
 much
 speculation
 at
 the
 church
 on
 the
 
  following
 Sunday.
 Knots
 of
 gazers
 and
 gossips
 were
 collected
 in
 the
 
  churchyard,
 at
 the
 bridge,
 and
 at
 the
 spot
 where
 the
 hat
 and
 pumpkin
 
  had
 been
 found.
 The
 stories
 of
 Brouwer,
 of
 Bones,
 and
 a
 whole
 budget
 of
 
  others
 were
 called
 to
 mind;
 and
 when
 they
 had
 diligently
 considered
 them
 
  all,
 and
 compared
 them
 with
 the
 symptoms
 of
 the
 present
 case,
 they
 shook
 
  their
 heads,
 and
 came
 to
 the
 conclusion
 that
 Ichabod
 had
 been
 carried
 
  off
 by
 the
 Galloping
 Hessian.
 As
 he
 was
 a
 bachelor,
 and
 in
 nobody's
 
  debt,
 nobody
 troubled
 his
 head
 any
 more
 about
 him;
 the
 school
 was
 
  removed
 to
 a
 different
 quarter
 of
 the
 hollow,
 and
 another
 pedagogue
 
  reigned
 in
 his
 stead.
 
 
 
  It
 is
 true,
 an
 old
 farmer,
 who
 had
 been
 down
 to
 New
 York
 on
 a
 visit
 
  several
 years
 after,
 and
 from
 whom
 this
 account
 of
 the
 ghostly
 adventure
 
  was
 received,
 brought
 home
 the
 intelligence
 that
 Ichabod
 Crane
 was
 still
 
  alive;
 that
 he
 had
 left
 the
 neighborhood
 partly
 through
 fear
 of
 the
 
 

goblin
 and
 Hans
 Van
 Ripper,
 and
 partly
 in
 mortification
 at
 having
 been
 
  suddenly
 dismissed
 by
 the
 heiress;
 that
 he
 had
 changed
 his
 quarters
 to
 a
 
  distant
 part
 of
 the
 country;
 had
 kept
 school
 and
 studied
 law
 at
 the
 same
 
  time;
 had
 been
 admitted
 to
 the
 bar;
 turned
 politician;
 electioneered;
 
  written
 for
 the
 newspapers;
 and
 finally
 had
 been
 made
 a
 justice
 of
 
  the
 Ten
 Pound
 Court.
 Brom
 Bones,
 too,
 who,
 shortly
 after
 his
 rival's
 
  disappearance
 conducted
 the
 blooming
 Katrina
 in
 triumph
 to
 the
 altar,
 
  was
 observed
 to
 look
 exceedingly
 knowing
 whenever
 the
 story
 of
 Ichabod
 
  was
 related,
 and
 always
 burst
 into
 a
 hearty
 laugh
 at
 the
 mention
 of
 the
 
  pumpkin;
 which
 led
 some
 to
 suspect
 that
 he
 knew
 more
 about
 the
 matter
 
  than
 he
 chose
 to
 tell.
 
 
 
  The
 old
 country
 wives,
 however,
 who
 are
 the
 best
 judges
 of
 these
 
  matters,
 maintain
 to
 this
 day
 that
 Ichabod
 was
 spirited
 away
 by
 
  supernatural
 means;
 and
 it
 is
 a
 favorite
 story
 often
 told
 about
 the
 
  neighborhood
 round
 the
 winter
 evening
 fire.
 The
 bridge
 became
 more
 than
 
  ever
 an
 object
 of
 superstitious
 awe;
 and
 that
 may
 be
 the
 reason
 why
 the
 
  road
 has
 been
 altered
 of
 late
 years,
 so
 as
 to
 approach
 the
 church
 by
 
  the
 border
 of
 the
 millpond.
 The
 schoolhouse
 being
 deserted
 soon
 fell
 to
 
  decay,
 and
 was
 reported
 to
 be
 haunted
 by
 the
 ghost
 of
 the
 unfortunate
 
  pedagogue
 and
 the
 plowboy,
 loitering
 homeward
 of
 a
 still
 summer
 evening,
 
  has
 often
 fancied
 his
 voice
 at
 a
 distance,
 chanting
 a
 melancholy
 psalm
 
  tune
 among
 the
 tranquil
 solitudes
 of
 Sleepy
 Hollow.
 
 


 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Postscript
 
 
  Found
 in
 the
 handwriting
 of
 Mr.
 Knickerbocker
 
 
  The
 preceding
 tale
 is
 given
 almost
 in
 the
 precise
 words
 in
 which
 I
 
  heard
 it
 related
 at
 a
 Corporation
 meeting
 at
 the
 ancient
 city
 of
 
  Manhattoes,
 at
 which
 were
 present
 many
 of
 its
 sagest
 and
 most
 
  illustrious
 burghers.
 The
 narrator
 was
 a
 pleasant,
 shabby,
 gentlemanly
 
  old
 fellow,
 in
 pepper-­?and-­?salt
 clothes,
 with
 a
 sadly
 humourous
 face,
 
  and
 one
 whom
 I
 strongly
 suspected
 of
 being
 poor-­?-­?he
 made
 such
 efforts
 
  to
 be
 entertaining.
 When
 his
 story
 was
 concluded,
 there
 was
 much
 
  laughter
 and
 approbation,
 particularly
 from
 two
 or
 three
 deputy
 
  aldermen,
 who
 had
 been
 asleep
 the
 greater
 part
 of
 the
 time.
 There
 was,
 
  however,
 one
 tall,
 dry-­?looking
 old
 gentleman,
 with
 beetling
 eyebrows,
 
  who
 maintained
 a
 grave
 and
 rather
 severe
 face
 throughout,
 now
 and
 then
 
  folding
 his
 arms,
 inclining
 his
 head,
 and
 looking
 down
 upon
 the
 floor,
 
  as
 if
 turning
 a
 doubt
 over
 in
 his
 mind.
 He
 was
 one
 of
 your
 wary
 men,
 
  who
 never
 laugh
 but
 upon
 good
 grounds-­?-­?when
 they
 have
 reason
 and
 law
 on
 
  their
 side.
 When
 the
 mirth
 of
 the
 rest
 of
 the
 company
 had
 subsided,
 and
 
  silence
 was
 restored,
 he
 leaned
 one
 arm
 on
 the
 elbow
 of
 his
 chair,
 and
 
  sticking
 the
 other
 akimbo,
 demanded,
 with
 a
 slight,
 but
 exceedingly
 
  sage
 motion
 of
 the
 head,
 and
 contraction
 of
 the
 brow,
 what
 was
 the
 
  moral
 of
 the
 story,
 and
 what
 it
 went
 to
 prove?
 
 
 
 

The
 story-­?teller,
 who
 was
 just
 putting
 a
 glass
 of
 wine
 to
 his
 lips,
 as
 
  a
 refreshment
 after
 his
 toils,
 paused
 for
 a
 moment,
 looked
 at
 his
 
  inquirer
 with
 an
 air
 of
 infinite
 deference,
 and,
 lowering
 the
 glass
 
  slowly
 to
 the
 table,
 observed
 that
 the
 story
 was
 intended
 most
 
  logically
 to
 prove-­?-­?
 
 
 
  "That
 there
 is
 no
 situation
 in
 life
 but
 has
 its
 advantages
 and
 
  pleasures-­?-­?provided
 we
 will
 but
 take
 a
 joke
 as
 we
 find
 it:
 
 
 
  "That,
 therefore,
 he
 that
 runs
 races
 with
 goblin
 troopers
 is
 likely
 to
 
  have
 rough
 riding
 of
 it.
 
 
 
  "Ergo,
 for
 a
 country
 schoolmaster
 to
 be
 refused
 the
 hand
 of
 a
 Dutch
 
  heiress
 is
 a
 certain
 step
 to
 high
 preferment
 in
 the
 state."
 
 
 
  The
 cautious
 old
 gentleman
 knit
 his
 brows
 tenfold
 closer
 after
 this
 
  explanation,
 being
 sorely
 puzzled
 by
 the
 ratiocination
 of
 the
 
  syllogism,
 while,
 methought,
 the
 one
 in
 pepper-­?and-­?salt
 eyed
 him
 with
 
  something
 of
 a
 triumphant
 leer.
 At
 length
 he
 observed
 that
 all
 this
 was
 
  very
 well,
 but
 still
 he
 thought
 the
 story
 a
 little
 on
 the
 
  extravagant-­?-­?there
 were
 one
 or
 two
 points
 on
 which
 he
 had
 his
 doubts.
 
 
 
  "Faith,
 sir,"
 replied
 the
 story-­?teller,
 "as
 to
 that
 matter,
 I
 don't
 
 

believe
 one-­?half
 of
 it
 myself."
 
 D.
 K.
 
 
 
  THE
 END.
 
 
 
 



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