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.