THE STORY OF SLEEPY HOLLOW

BY

WASHINGTON IRVING

Sleepy Hollow: The Story

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER

It was a nice place to fall asleep.

Of dreams that flit before the half-closed eye, and of happy castles in the passing clouds,

Always blooming around a summer sky.

Castle of Laziness.

In the middle of one of the large coves that cut into the eastern side of the Hudson River, at
the wide part of the river that the Dutch called the Tappan Zed and where they always
shortened their sails and asked St. Nicholas to protect them, is a small market town or rural
port that some people call Greensburgh but is more commonly and correctly called Tarry
Town. We've been told that this name was given by the good women of the nearby country
because their husbands would always hang out at the village bar on market days. Even so, I
can't say for sure that it's true. I'm just pointing out the fact to be clear and honest. It's one of
the nicest places in the world, and it's not too far from this village—maybe two miles. It's a
small valley, or rather a spit of land between high hills. A small brook flows through it with
just enough of a hum to put one to sleep, and the odd whistle of a bird or tap of a woodpecker
is almost the only sound that breaks the constant quiet.

I remember that when I was young, I shot my first squirrel in a grove of tall walnut trees on
one side of the valley. I had walked into it at noon, when nature is especially quiet, and was
shocked by the roar of my own gun, which broke the Sabbath silence and was repeated and
amplified by the angry echoes. If I ever needed a place to get away from the world and its
distractions and dream away the last bits of a hard life, this little valley would be the best
place I could think of.

This secluded glen has been called "Sleepy Hollow" for a long time because of how quiet it is
and how strange the people who live there, who are the descendants of the first Dutch settlers,
are. The boys who live there are called "Sleepy Hollow Boys" by everyone in the surrounding
area. There seems to be a haze of sleepiness and daydreams over the land and in the air. Some
people say that the place was cursed by a high German doctor in the early days of the
settlement, while others say that an old Indian chief who was the prophet or wizard of his
tribe held his powwows there before Master Hendrick Hudson found the country. It's true that
the place is still controlled by some kind of witchcraft, which puts a spell on the minds of the
good people and makes them walk around in a dreamy state. They believe all sorts of strange
things, go into trances and have dreams, and often see strange things and hear music and
voices in the air. The whole neighbourhood is full of local stories, spooky places, and dusk
myths. Stars and meteors shoot across the valley more often than anywhere else in the
country, and the nightmare, with her whole nine fold, seems to choose it as her favourite
place to play.

The most powerful ghost in this magical area, though, is an image of a person on a horse
without a head. It seems to be in charge of all the air powers. Some people say it's the ghost
of a Hessian soldier whose head was taken off by a cannonball in an unnamed battle during
the Revolutionary War. The ghost is often seen by people in the countryside moving quickly
through the dark at night, as if on the wind. His favourite places to hang out are not just in the
valley, but also on the nearby roads and especially near a church that is not far away. In fact,
some of the most reliable historians in that area, who have carefully gathered and sorted the
rumours about this ghost, say that the trooper's body was buried in the churchyard, so the
ghost rides out at night to the scene of the battle in search of his head, and that the rushing
speed with which he sometimes passes through the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is because
he is late and in a hurry to get back to the church.

This is the general idea behind the tale of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow, which
has given rise to many wild stories in that area of shadows. The ghost is known as the
Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow at all country fires.

It's interesting that the tendency to have visions isn't just a trait of the valley's natives, but is
something that everyone who lives there for a while picks up unknowingly. No matter how
awake they were before they went to that sleepy area, they will soon breathe in the witching
impact of the air and start to become more creative, dream, and see ghosts.

I talk about this quiet place with all the praise I can muster, because it is in such small,
secluded Dutch valleys, found here and there in the big state of New York, that population,
manners, and customs stay the same, while the great stream of migration and improvement,
which is constantly changing other parts of this restless country, goes by them without being
noticed. They're like those little pools of still water next to a fast-moving stream, where
straws and bubbles can float quietly at anchor or slowly spin in their fake harbour without
being bothered by the fast-moving stream. Even though it's been a long time since I last
walked through Sleepy Hollow, I wonder if I won't still find the same trees and the same
families living in its safe centre.

In the distant past of American history, about thirty years ago, a good spirit named Ichabod
Crane lived here. He stayed, or "tarried," in Sleepy Hollow to teach the children in the area.
He was born in Connecticut, a state that gives the Union both intellectual and physical
pioneers and sends out thousands of backwoods woodsmen and country schoolteachers every
year. Crane was not an odd name for him. He was tall but very skinny, with narrow
shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that hung a mile from his sleeves, feet that could have
been used as shovels, and a body that didn't fit together well at all. His head was small and
flat on top. It had big ears, big green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, which made it look
like a weather-cock sitting on his skinny neck to tell which way the wind was blowing. On a
windy day, if you saw him walking along the side of a hill while his clothes flapped and
bagged around him, you might have thought he was the god of famine or a scarecrow that got
away from a cornfield.

His school was a low building with one big room. It was made of rough logs, and the
windows were partly covered and partly fixed with old copy-book pages. It was kept safe
when it wasn't being used by twisting a wire in the door handle and putting stakes in the
window shutters. This way, a thief could easily get in, but it would be hard for him to get out.
The architect, Yost Van Houten, probably got this idea from the mystery of an eel-pot. The
schoolhouse was in a nice but lonely place at the bottom of a wooded hill. There was a brook
nearby, and a big birch tree grew at one end of it. From there, on a lazy summer day, you
could hear the low hum of his students' voices as they went over their lessons, like the
buzzing of a beehive. Every once in a while, the hum would be broken by the master's
authoritative voice in a tone of threat or command, or by the horrifying sound of the birch as
he pushed some slow learner along the flowery path of knowledge. He was a good man, and
he always remembered the golden rule, "Spare the rod and spoil the child." Ichabod Crane's
students were not spoiled, though.

I wouldn't want you to think, though, that he was one of those cruel school potentates who
enjoy making their subjects suffer. On the contrary, he gave justice with fairness instead of
harshness, taking the burden off the weak and putting it on the strong. Your small, weak child
who cried out at the slightest touch of the rod was given a break, but a little Dutch boy with a
broad skirt and a bad head was given twice as much. He sulked, grew bigger, and became
more stubborn and grumpy under the birch. All of this was what he called "doing his job for
their parents," and he never hit a child without telling the hurting one that "he would
remember it and thank him for it the longest day he had to live."

When school was over, he would play with and hang out with the older boys. On holiday
afternoons, he would take some of the younger boys home, especially if they had pretty
sisters or moms who were known for being good cooks. In fact, it was in his best interest to
stay on good terms with his students. The money he made from his school was small and
wouldn't have been enough to feed him every day. He was a big eater and, even though he
was skinny, he could eat like an anaconda. However, as was the custom in those parts of the
country, he was boarded and lodged at the homes of the farmers whose children he taught. He
stayed in each of these for a week at a time, moving around the neighbourhood with all of his
belongings tied in a cotton towel.
So that all of this wouldn't be too hard on the wallets of his rural clients, who tend to see the
cost of schooling as a terrible load and schoolmasters as nothing but drones, he found ways to
be both useful and pleasant. He sometimes helped the farmers with the smaller jobs on their
farms. He helped make hay, fix fences, take the horses to water, get the cows off the field,
and cut wood for the winter fire. He also gave up the sense of superiority and total power he
had in his little kingdom, the school, and became very kind and easy to get along with. He
was liked by the women because he pet the children, especially the younger ones. He would
sit with a child on one knee and rock a cradle with his foot for hours on end, just like the lion
was brave when the lamb held it.

He had other jobs, but he was also the singing master of the neighbourhood. He taught the
young people how to sing psalms and made a lot of money from it. On Sundays, he was very
proud to stand in front of the church gallery with a group of his favourite singers, where, in
his mind, he totally stole the palm from the priest. Sure enough, his voice was louder than
everyone else's in the church. On a quiet Sunday morning, you can still hear strange tremors
in that church, and some say they come from Ichabod Crane's nose. So, the good teacher got
by in a way that is often called "by hook or by crook." He made a lot of little changes to make
things work, and people who didn't know about the hard work of thinking thought he had a
great life.

In a rural area, the schoolmaster is usually a man of some importance to the women. He is
seen as a kind of lazy gentleman, with much better taste and talents than the rough country
swains, and he knows less than everyone but the priest. So, when he walks into a farmhouse,
it's likely that there will be a bit of a stir at the tea table and that an extra dish of cakes or
sweets will be brought out, or maybe even a silver tea pot. So, our man of books was
especially happy to see all the country damsels smiling. How he would stand out among them
in the churchyard on Sundays between services! Gathering grapes for them from the wild
vines that grew on the nearby trees, reading the epitaphs on the tombstones for their
amusement, or strolling with a group of them along the banks of the nearby millpond, while
the more shy country bumpkins hung back, envious of his superior elegance and address.

Because he moved around a lot, he was also like a wandering newspaper, bringing all the
latest stories from house to house. When he showed up, people were always happy to see
him. The women also thought he was very smart because he had read several books all the
way through and knew everything about Cotton Mather's history of New England witchcraft,
which he strongly believed in.

In fact, he was a strange mix of small cleverness and simple trust. Both his hunger for the
amazing and his ability to understand it were out of this world, and both had grown since he
moved to this magical place. No story was too gross or scary for his big mouth to handle.
When he got out of school in the afternoon, he liked to stretch out on the rich bed of clover
next to the little brook that ran by his schoolhouse and talk about old Mather's scary stories
until the setting sun turned the printed page into a blur in front of 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-will1 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. Even the fireflies, which shone brightest in the
darkest places, would sometimes startle him when a particularly bright one would fly across
his path. If, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came flying at him in a clumsy way, the
poor varlet was ready to die because he thought he had been hit with a witch's token. When
this happened, the only thing he could do to stop thinking or get rid of evil spirits was to sing
psalm tunes. The good people of Sleepy Hollow would often be scared when they heard his
nasal melody, "in linked sweetness long drawn out," coming from a hill far away or along a
dark road.

Another scary thing he liked to do was spend long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives
as they spun by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and sputtering along the hearth, and
listen to their amazing stories about ghosts and goblins, haunted fields, haunted brooks,
haunted bridges, haunted houses, and especially the headless horseman, or "galloping
Hessian of the Hollow," as they sometimes called him. He would tell them stories about
witchcraft, bad omens, and strange sounds and sights in the air that were common in the early
days of Connecticut. He would also scare them horribly with his theories about comets and
shooting stars, and by telling them that the world really did turn around and that they were
often upside down.

But if all of this was fun while he was snuggled up in the chimney corner of a room that was
lit up by a red glow from the crackling wood fire and where, of course, no ghost would show
its face, it was more than paid for by the terrifying walk back home. In the dim, scary light of
a cold night, what scary shapes and shadows were in his way? What a longing look was on
his face as he watched every shaky ray of light streaming across the waste fields from a
window far away. How many times was he scared by a bush covered in snow that stood in his
way like a ghost? How often did he cringe in fear when he heard the sound of his own
footsteps on the frozen ground? He was afraid to look over his shoulder in case he saw
someone rude walking close behind him. — and how often he was completely shocked when
he heard a strong wind roaring through the woods and thought it was the Galloping Hessian
on one of his midnight patrols!

All of these, though, were just fears of the night, phantoms of the mind that walked in the
dark; and though he had seen many ghosts in his time and been chased by Satan in different
forms on his lonely walks, daylight put an end to all of these bad things, and he would have
had a good life in spite of the devil and all of his schemes, if his path hadn't been crossed by a
being that makes people more confused than ghosts, goblins,

Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a wealthy Dutch farmer, was one of the
singing followers who met with him once a week to learn how to sing psalms. She was a
beautiful young woman of eighteen, as plump as a partridge and as ripe and rosy-cheeked as
one of her father's peaches. She was known all over the world, not just for her beauty, but
also for her high standards. She was still a bit of a courtesan, which could be seen in her
dress, which was a mix of old and new styles. This was the best way to show off her beauty.
She wore the pure yellow gold jewellery that her great-great-grandmother had brought from
Saardam. She also wore the tempting stomacher from the old days and a provocatively short
skirt that showed off the prettiest foot and ankle in the whole country.

Ichabod Crane was weak and stupid when it came to sex, so it's not surprising that he fell for
such a tempting treat so quickly, especially after he went to see her at her father's house. Old
Baltus Van Tassel was the best example of a successful, happy, and kind farmer. He didn't
often look or think about things outside of his own farm, but inside those limits, everything
was safe, happy, and in good shape. He was happy with how much money he had, but he
wasn't proud of it. He was more interested in how much food he had than how well he lived.
His base was on the banks of the Hudson River, in one of those green, protected, and rich
spots where Dutch farmers love to nestle. A big elm tree with wide branches grew over it. At
the base of the tree, a spring of the softest, sweetest water bubbled up in a little barrel-shaped
well. The water sparkled as it ran through the grass and into a nearby brook that ran through
alders and dwarf willows. Close to the farm house was a huge barn that could have been a
church. Every window and crack seemed to be full of the farm's goods; the flail was busy
ringing inside from morning to night; swallows and martins skimmed twittering around 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 in their chests, and others swelling, cooing, and bowing.
Slim, ungainly pigs were grunting in the peace and plenty of their pens. From these pens,
groups of sucking pigs would run out as if to snuff out the air. A stately squadron of snowy
geese was riding in an adjacent pond, escorted by whole fleets of ducks. Regiments of
turkeys were gobbling through the farm yard, and guinea fowls were fussing about it with
their peevish, discontented cries, like bad-tempered women. Before the barn door, the brave
cock strutted like a husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his polished wings and
crowing with pride and happiness in his heart. Sometimes, he tore up the ground with his feet
and then invited his hungry family of wives and children to eat the tasty treat he had found.

When the teacher saw this sumptuous promise of delicious winter food, his mouth watered. In
his hungry mind, he saw every roast pig running around with a pudding in its stomach and an
apple in its 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 were
sitting together in dishes like a married couple, with a decent competency of onion sauce. In
the pigs, he saw where the bacon and ham would be cut. He didn't see a turkey that wasn't
wrapped up delicately with its gizzard under its wing, and maybe a necklace of tasty
sausages. Bright Chanticleer himself was lying on his back in a side dish with his claws up,
as if he wanted the quarter that his noble spirit wouldn't let him ask for when he was alive.
As Ichabod thought about all of this, and as he rolled his big green eyes over the fat
meadowlands, the rich fields of wheat, rye, buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the orchards
loaded with red fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned
for the damsel who was to inherit these domains, and his mind grew with the idea of how
they could be easily turned into cash and the money invested in No, his busy mind had
already made his hopes come true. He saw a beautiful Katrina with a whole family of
children riding on top of a waggon full of household goods, with pots and kettles dangling
below. He also saw himself riding a pacing mare with a colt at her heels, heading to
Kentucky, Tennessee, or who knows where.

When he walked into the house, his heart was completely won. It was a large farmhouse with
a low-sloping roof and a high ridge. It was built in the style of the first Dutch residents, and
the low overhanging eaves made a piazza in front that could be closed off when it rained.
Under this were hung flails, chains, different tools for farming, and fishing nets for the river
nearby. Along the sides, benches were built for use in the summer. A big spinning wheel at
one end and a churn at the other showed that this important porch could be used for many
different things. From this square, Ichabod walked into the hall, which was the heart of the
house and where people usually lived. Here, rows of beautiful silver on a long table caught
his attention. In one corner, there was a big bag of wool ready to be spun, and in another,
there was a lot of linsey-woolsey that had just come off the loom. Ears of Indian corn and
strings of dried apples and peaches hung in festoons along the walls, mixing with the gaud of
red peppers. A door that was left open let him see into the best parlour, where the claw-footed
chairs and dark mahogany tables

Ichabod's mind was no longer at peace as soon as he saw these beautiful places. All he could
think about was how to win the heart of the beautiful daughter of Van Tassel. In this venture,
however, he faced more real problems than a knight-errant of old, who usually only had to
deal with giants, sorcerers, fire-breathing dragons, and other easy-to-beat foes. He had to get
through gates of iron and brass and walls of adamant to get to the castle keep, where the
woman of his heart was locked up. He did all of this as easily as a man would carve his way
to the centre of a Christmas Ichabod, on the other hand, had to win the heart of a country
coquette who was full of whims and caprices that kept throwing up new problems and
roadblocks. He also had to deal with a lot of scary real-life opponents in the form of her many
rustic admirers, who stood guard at every doorway to her heart, keeping an angry eye on each
other but ready to work together against any new rival.

The most dangerous of these was a big, roaring, roostering blade named Abraham, or, in
Dutch, Brom Van Brunt, who was known as the hero of the country for his acts of strength
and bravery. He had broad shoulders and two sets of joints. He had short, curly black hair and
a bluff, but not ugly, face that had a mix of swagger and fun. His nickname, BROM BONES,
came from the fact that he had the size and strength of Hercules and could move very
quickly. He was known for having a lot of horse-riding knowledge and skill. He was as
skilled on a horse as a Tartar. He was first in all races and cockfights, and his physical
strength gave him the upper hand in all arguments. He put his hat on one side and gave his
choices with an air and tone that left no room for argument or appeal. He was always up for a
fight or a good time. However, he was more mischievous than mean, and despite his rough
exterior, he had a strong dose of waggish good humour at his core. He had three or four lucky
friends who looked up to him. At their head, he travelled the country, going to every fight or
party for miles around. In the winter, he wore a fur cap with a fox's tail on top, which made
him stand out. When people at a country meeting saw this well-known crest flying around
with a group of hard riders, they always waited for a storm. Sometimes his gang could be
heard running past the farmhouses at midnight, whooping and hollering like a group of Don
Cossacks. This would wake up the old ladies, who would listen for a moment until Brom
Bones and his gang were out of sight before shouting, "Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his
gang!"His neighbours looked at him with a mix of fear, respect, and goodwill. Whenever a
crazy joke or a fight broke out in the area, they always shook their heads and said they were
sure Brom Bones was behind it.

This rantipole hero had been trying to get Katrina's attention for a while. His advances were
like a bear's loving touches and kisses, but it was said that she didn't completely dash his
dreams. It's true that his advances made other men back off, since they didn't want to go
against a lion in his love affairs. In fact, when his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel's paling
on a Sunday night, which was a sure sign that his master was courting, or "sparking," inside,
all other suitors gave up and took the war somewhere else.

This was the kind of tough opponent Ichabod Crane had to face, and a stronger man than he
would have run away from him.

13

A smarter man would have given up on the race. He was, however, a good mix of flexibility
and determination. He was both soft and strong, like a supple-jack. Even though he bent, he
never broke, and even though he bowed under the smallest amount of pressure, as soon as it
was gone, jerk! He stood straight and held his head up as high as ever.

It would have been crazy for him to fight his enemy in the open, because he was not a person
who could be stopped in his love, just like Achilles. So, Ichabod made his moves in a way
that was quiet and softly suggestive. He often went to the farms under the guise of being a
singing teacher, but he didn't worry about the parents getting in the way, which is a common
problem for lovers. Balt Van Tassel was a kind, easygoing man. He loved his daughter more
than he loved his pipe, and as a sensible man and a good father, he always let her have her
way. His famous little wife also had to take care of her house and her chickens. She was wise
enough to realise that ducks and geese are stupid and need to be cared for, but girls can take
care of themselves. So, while the busy lady ran around the house or spun on her spinning
wheel at one end of the piazza, honest Balt would sit and smoke his evening pipe at the other
end, watching a little wooden warrior fight the wind on top of the barn with a sword in each
hand. In the meantime, Ichabod would argue with the daughter by the spring, under the big
elm tree, or while strolling in the evening, which was a good time for lovers to talk.

I say I don't know how guys win the hearts of women. They have always been a mystery and
a source of wonder to me. Some seem to have only one weak spot, or door, while others seem
to have a thousand ways in and out, which means they could be taken in a thousand different
ways. It takes a lot of skill to get the first one, but it takes even more skill to keep the second
one, because the person has to fight for his fortress at every door and window. So, someone
who wins a thousand ordinary hearts deserves some fame, but someone who wins and keeps
the heart of a coquette is a true hero. This was not the case with the brave Brom Bones,
though, and as soon as Ichabod Crane showed interest, it was clear that Brom Bones's interest
in him dropped. His horse was no longer seen tied to the palings on Sunday nights, and he
and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow slowly became enemies.

Brom, who had a bit of rough chivalry in him, would have liked to go to war and settle their
claims to the lady the way the knights-errant of old did: by single combat. But Ichabod was
too aware of his opponent's superior strength to fight him. He had heard Bones boast that he
would "double up the schoolmaster and lay him on a shelf of his own." There was something
very annoying about this stubbornly peaceful system. Brom had no choice but to draw on his
stock of country craziness and play pranks on his foe that were rude and mean. Bones and his
group of rough riders started to pick on Ichabod for no reason. They made trouble in his
previously quiet lands. They stopped the smoke from coming out of his singing school by
blocking the chimney. They broke into the schoolhouse at night, despite the strong locks on
the doors and windows, and turned everything upside down. This made the poor
schoolmaster think that all the witches in the country met there. But what was even more
annoying was that Brom used any chance he got to make fun of him in front of his mistress.
He also had a rogue dog that he taught to whine in the most ridiculous way, and he used that
dog as Ichabod's rival to teach his mistress how to sing psalms.

In this way, things went on for a while without changing the relative positions of the two
sides in any important way. On a beautiful fall afternoon, Ichabod sat in deep thought on the
high stool from which he generally watched everything going on in his little literary world.

In his hand, he held a ferrule, which was a symbol of absolute power. Behind the throne, the
birch of justice rested on three nails and was a constant fear for bad people. On the desk in
front of him were various illegal items and weapons found on the bodies of idle children,
such as half-eaten apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly cages, and a whole army of wild little
paper gamecocks. There must have been a terrible act of justice recently, because all of his
students were busy working on their books or talking to each other behind his back while
keeping one eye on him. There was a kind of noisy silence in the classroom. It was suddenly
stopped by a black man wearing a tow-cloth jacket and trowsers and a hat with a round crown
that looked like Mercury's cap. He was riding a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he held
with a rope as a lead. He came clattering up to the school door to invite Ichabod to a party or
"quilting frolic" that would be held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's. After delivering
his message, he dashed over the brook and was seen scampering up the hollow, full of the
importance and hurry of his mission.

The once quiet school room was now full of noise and activity. The students were rushed
through their lessons, and they weren't allowed to stop for small things. Those who were
quick could skip over half without getting in trouble, and those who were slow had a clever
trick every now and then to help them catch up or get over a hard word. Books were thrown
on the floor instead of being put back on the shelves, inkstands were turned over, and chairs
were thrown down. The whole school was let out an hour early, and the kids ran around the
green like a group of young imps, yelping and making noise as they celebrated their early
freedom.

The brave Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour in his bathroom, cleaning and
furbishing up his best and only rusty black suit and arranging his appearance with a piece of
broken looking glass that hung in the schoolhouse. So he could look like a warrior in front of
his lady, he took a horse from the farmer with whom he lived, a choleric old Dutchman
named Hans Van Ripper. He then mounted the horse and rode off like a knight-errant looking
for adventures. But, in the spirit of a love story, I should describe how my hero and his horse
look and what they have. The animal he rode was a broken-down plough horse that had
outlived almost everything but his meanness. He was thin and ragged, with a neck like a
sheep's and a head like a hammer. His rusty mane and tail were twisted and knotted with
burrs. One eye had lost its pupil and was glaring and ghostly, but the other had the look of a
real devil in it. Still, his name, Gunpowder, tells us that he must have had fire and guts in his
day. He had, in fact, been his master, the choleric Van Ripper's favourite horse. Van Ripper
was an angry rider, and it's likely that he put some of his own spirit into the horse. Even
though he looked old and broken down, he had more of the devil hiding in him than any
young filly in the country.

Ichabod was a good match for such a horse. He rode with short stirrups that brought his knees
almost up to the pommel of the saddle. His sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers', and he
held his whip like a sceptre in a perpendicular position in his hand. As his horse ran, the
movement of his arms reminded me of a pair of wings flapping. His thin strip of forehead
could be called a nose, and a small wool hat sat on top of it. The skirts of his black coat
fluttered almost to the horse's tail. Ichabod and his horse looked like this as they stumbled out
of Hans Van Ripper's gate, and it was a rare sight to see something like that in the middle of
the day.

As I've already said, it was a beautiful fall day. The sky was clear and calm, and nature had
that rich, golden look that we always connect with plenty. The woods were a sombre brown
and yellow, and the frosts had turned some of the more delicate trees into bright orange,
purple, and red. Wild ducks began to appear in large groups in the sky. The bark of the
squirrel could be heard from the beech and hickory nut trees, and the quail's thoughtful
whistle could be heard from the nearby grass field.
The little birds were having their last meals. In the middle of their fun, they flew from bush to
bush and tree to tree, singing and playing as they went. They were erratic because there were
so many different things around them. There was the honest cock-robin, which was the
favourite game of young sportsmen because of its loud, angry call. There were also the
twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds, the golden-winged woodpecker with his crimson
crest, broad black gorget, and beautiful plumage, the cedar bird with its red-tipped wings and
yellow-tipped tail, and its little monteiro cap of feathers. There was also the blue jay, that
noisy cox

As Ichabod jogged slowly along, his eye, which was always on the lookout for signs of food
excess, swept with joy over the treasures of happy fall. On all sides, he saw huge amounts of
apples. Some were hanging from the trees, others were in boxes and barrels for the market,
and still others were piled high for the cider press. Farther on, he saw vast fields of Indian
corn, with its golden ears peeking out from behind its leaves and promising cakes and hasty
pudding; and yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, with their round bellies facing the sun
and promising the richest of pies; and then he came to the fragrant buckwheat fields, where
he could smell the scent of the beehive, and as he saw them, he had soft thoughts of slapjaks.

So, he filled his mind with many sweet thoughts and "sugared suppositions" as he walked
along the sides of a range of hills that look out on some of the best views of the great Hudson.
The sun slowly moved his wide disc towards the west. The wide part of the Tappan Zed was
still and smooth, but every once in a while, a small wave moved and stretched the blue shade
of a rock in the distance. There were a few yellow clouds in the sky, but there wasn't a breeze
to move them. The horizon was a light golden colour that turned into a bright apple green and
then into the deep blue of the middle of the sky. A ray of light remained on the tree tops of
the cliffs that hung over some parts of the river. This gave the dark grey and purple rocky
sides of the cliffs more depth. A sailboat was hanging out in the distance, slowly going down
with the tide. Its sail was hanging uselessly from the mast, and because the water was still, it
looked like the boat was floating in the air.

When Ichabod got to Herr Van Tassel's castle in the evening, it was full of the best and
brightest people from the neighbouring country. Old farmers, a hardy race with leathery
faces, wore hand-woven coats and pants, blue socks, big shoes, and beautiful silver buckles.
Their young, thin little ladies wore close-fitting caps, short dresses with long waists,
homespun petticoats, scissors and pincushions in their pockets, and colourful cloth pockets on
the outside. Buxom girls who looked almost as old as their moms, except when they wore a
straw hat, a fine ribbon, or maybe a white dress. The sons wore short, square-skirted coats
with rows of huge brass buttons, and their hair was usually done in the style of the time,
especially if they could get their hands on an eel skin, which was known all over the country
as a great way to feed and improve hair.
Brom Bones, on the other hand, was the star of the scene. He rode his favourite horse,
Daredevil, to the meeting. Like Brom, Daredevil was tough and mischievous, and no one but
Brom could control it. In fact, he was known for liking wild animals that did all kinds of
tricks and put the rider's neck in danger. He thought that a well-trained horse wasn't good
enough for a boy with spirit.

I wouldn't stop for long to think about the world of charms that exploded before my hero's
eyes when he walked into Van Tassel's state parlour. Not those of a group of curvy young
women with their expensive red and white dresses, but the many charms of a real Dutch
country tea table in the rich season of fall. So many different kinds of cakes, some of which
are so hard to describe that only experienced Dutch women would know what they were.
There was the doughy doughnut, the soft oly koek, and the crunchy, crumbly cruller. There
were also sweet cakes, short cakes, ginger cakes, honey cakes, and every other kind of cake
you could think of. Then there were apple pies, peach pies, and pumpkin pies. There were
also slices of ham and smoked beef, as well as delicious dishes of preserved plums, peaches,
pears, and quinces. There were also broiled shad and roasted chickens, as well as bowls of
milk and cream. They were all mixed together, pretty much as I've described, with the
motherly tea pot sending up clouds of steam in the middle. God bless the mark! I need air and

I don't have time to talk about this dinner as much as it deserves because I'm eager to move
on with my story. Ichabod Crane wasn't in as much of a hurry as his researcher, so he was
able to give each delicate enough attention.

He was a kind, grateful person whose heart grew bigger when he was happy, and his mood
went up when he ate, like it does for some men when they drink. He also couldn't help but
roll his big eyes around him as he ate and laugh at the thought that one day he might be in
charge of all this wealth and splendour. Then he thought about how soon he would turn his
back on the old schoolhouse, snap his fingers in Hans Van Ripper's and everyone else's faces,
and kick any travelling teacher out of the door who dared to call him friend.

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved around among his guests with a face as round and happy as the
harvest moon, full of happiness and happiness. The only things he did to show hospitality
were shake hands, slap people on the shoulder, laugh loudly and tell them to 'fall down and
help themselves'.

And now the music from the hall or common room called people to the dance. The drummer
was an old black man with grey hair who had been playing in the neighbourhood for more
than 50 years. His instrument was old and worn, just like him. Most of the time, he scraped
on two or three strings, moving his head along with every movement of the bow, bending
almost to the ground and striking his foot when a new pair was about to start.
Ichabod was just as proud of his dancing as he was of his singing. Not a single part of him
was still. If you had seen his loosely hung body moving and clattering around the room, you
would have thought Saint Vitus, the saint who protects dancers, was standing right in front of
you. All the black people in the area were impressed by him. They came from the farm and
the surrounding area and stood in a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and window,
looking at the scene with joy, rolling their white eyeballs, and grinning from ear to ear. How
could the beating of urchins be anything but lively and happy? The lady of his heart was his
dance partner, and she smiled politely whenever he looked at her. Meanwhile, Brom Bones,
who was deeply in love and jealous, sat alone in a corner and stewed.

When the dance was over, Ichabod was drawn to a group of sager people who, along with old
Van Tassel, were smoking and talking about the past while telling long stories about the war.

At the time I'm talking about, this neighbourhood was one of those well-known places that
are full of history and great people. During the war, the British and American lines ran close
to it. Because of this, it was a place where raiders, refugees, cowboys, and other types of
border heroes would hang out. Just enough time had passed for each storyteller to add a little
bit of fantasy to his story and, because his memory wasn't very clear, make himself the hero
of every adventure.

There was a story about a big Dutchman with a blue beard named Doffue Martling. He
almost took a British ship with an old iron nine-pounder gun from a mud breastwork, but the
gun broke after the sixth shot. And there was an old man, whose name won't be mentioned
because he was too wealthy to be mentioned lightly, who was a great defender and deflected
a musket ball with a small sword at the Battle of White Plains. He felt the ball go around the
blade and hit the hilt, and he was always ready to show the sword with the hilt a little bent as
proof. There were a few more who were just as good on the battlefield, and not a single one
of them didn't think he had a big part in ending the war in a good way.

But none of these stories were as scary as the ones about ghosts and apparitions. This kind of
mythical gems abound in the area.

Local stories and beliefs do best in these quiet places where people have lived for a long time,
but most of our country places are filled with people who move around a lot. Also, ghosts
don't have much support in most of our villages because they have barely had time to wake
up from their first nap and go to their graves before their friends who are still alive have
moved away. This means that when ghosts go out at night to do their rounds, they have no
one to talk to. This is probably why we don't hear much about ghosts anywhere but in Dutch
towns that have been around for a long time.

But the closeness of Sleepy Hollow was almost certainly the main reason why there were so
many spooky stories in this area. There was a disease in the air that came from that haunted
area. It breathed out a dreamy atmosphere that spread all over the land. A lot of the people
from Sleepy Hollow were at Van Tassel's, and as usual, they were telling their strange and
wonderful stories. Many sad stories were told about funeral trains and the big tree in the
neighbourhood where Major Andre was taken and where grief cries and wailing could be
heard and seen. Some people also talked about the woman in white who lived in the dark glen
at Raven Rock. She died there in the snow and was often heard screaming before a storm on
winter nights. Most of the stories, though, were about Sleepy Hollow's most famous ghost,
the headless horseman, who had been heard roaming the countryside recently and, according
to legend, tied his horse at night to the graves in the churchyard.

This church seems to have always been a favourite place for unhappy spirits to hang out
because of how isolated it is. It sits on a hill and is surrounded by locust trees and tall elms.
Its painted walls shine humbly from among the trees, like the purity of Christianity shining
through the shadows of retirement. It has a smooth drop down to a silver sheet of water,
which is surrounded by tall trees through which you can see the blue hills of the Hudson. If
you look at its grassy garden, where the sunbeams seem to be sleeping quietly, you might
think that the dead could at least rest there in peace. On one side of the church, there is a wide
wooded valley with a big brook running through it. The valley is full of broken rocks and tree
stumps. Not far from the church, there used to be a wooden bridge over a deep, dark part of
the stream. Both the road leading to the bridge and the bridge itself were heavily covered by
trees, which made it dark even during the day and scary at night. This was one of the places
where the headless horseman liked to hang out and where he was most often seen. Old
Brouwer was a very heretical person who didn't believe in ghosts. There was a story about
how he met the horseman coming back from Sleepy Hollow and had to follow him. They
galloped over bush and brake, hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge, where the
horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, and ran away
over the treetops with a clap of thunder.

This story was quickly topped by Brom Bones's three-times-as-great adventure, in which he
made fun of the sprinting Hessian by calling him a crazy jockey.

He said that on his way home one night from the nearby village of Sing Sing, he had been
caught by this midnight trooper. He had offered to race with him for a bowl of punch and
should have won it because Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but just as they got to
the church bridge, the Hessian ran away and disappeared in a flash of fire.

Ichabod thought about all of these stories for a long time. They were told in that sleepy way
men talk in the dark, with the listeners' faces occasionally lit up by the glow of a pipe. He
gave them long excerpts from his best book, which was written by Cotton Mather. He also
told them about many amazing things that had happened in his home state of Connecticut and
scary things he had seen on his nightly walks around Sleepy Hollow.

The party started to wind down. The old farmers got their families together in their waggons,
which could be heard rolling for a while along the hollow roads and over the hills in the
distance. Some of the damsels rode on pillions behind their favourite swains. Their
lighthearted laughter mixed with the sound of the horses' hooves and echoed through the
quiet woods, getting softer and softer until they finally stopped, leaving the late scene of
noise and fun empty and quiet. Ichabod only stayed behind because that's what country fans
do. He wanted to talk to the princess one-on-one and was sure that he was now on the way to
success. I won't pretend to know what happened at this interview, because I don't. I'm afraid,
though, that something must have gone wrong, because he came back out after not too long
with a very sad and glum look on his face. — These ladies! these girls! Could that girl have
used one of her flirty moves on him? Was all of her support for the poor teacher just a ruse to
get rid of his rival? — Heaven knows, I don't! It's enough to say that Ichabod snuck out like
he had been robbing a henhouse instead of a pretty girl's heart. He went straight to the stable
and rudely woke up his horse, who was soundly sleeping and dreaming of mountains of corn
and oats and whole valleys of timothy and clover. He didn't look to the right or left, where he
had often bragged about the wealth of the countryside, but instead went straight to the stable.

At the witching hour of the night, Ichabod went home with a sad heart and a broken spirit. He
walked along the sides of the high hills that rise above Tarry Town, which he had walked so
happily through in the afternoon. The hour was just as sad as he was. Far below him, the
Tappan Zed was a dark, undefined mass of water with the occasional tall mast of a sailboat at
rest under the land. In the dead quiet of midnight, he could even hear the watch dog barking
from the other side of the Hudson. However, the sound was so faint that it only gave him an
idea of how far he was from this faithful man's friend. Sometimes, the long, drawn-out
crowing of a cock that had been accidentally woken up would come from a farm house way
out in the hills, but it sounded like he was dreaming to him. There were no signs of life near
him, but sometimes he could hear the sad chirp of a cricket or the gruff sound of a bullfrog
coming from a nearby swamp, as if he were sleeping badly and turning quickly in his bed.

All the ghost and goblin stories he had heard in the afternoon came back to him all at once.
As the night went on, it got darker and darker. The stars seemed to get lower in the sky, and
sometimes moving clouds blocked his view of them. He had never felt so sad and alone
before. He was also getting close to the place where many of the ghost stories had been set. A
huge tulip tree stood in the middle of the road. It was taller than all the other trees in the
neighbourhood and served as a kind of sign. Its arms were twisted and weird. They were big
enough to be the stems of normal trees, and they went almost to the ground and back up into
the air. It had something to do with the sad story of Andre, who was taken prisoner close by,
and was called "Major Andre's tree" by everyone. People treated it with a mix of respect and
superstition, partly because they felt sorry for its namesake's bad luck and partly because they
had heard stories of strange things happening there and sad songs about it.

As Ichabod got closer to the scary tree, he started to whistle. He thought he heard a reply, but
it was just a sharp wind blowing through the dry branches. As he got closer, he thought he
saw something white hanging in the middle of the tree. He stopped whistling and looked
closer. When he saw that it was a place where lightning had hit the tree and left the white
wood exposed, he stopped whistling. Suddenly, he heard a groan. His teeth chattered and his
knees hit the saddle. It was just two large branches rubbing against each other as they moved
in the wind. He got past the tree without getting hurt, but he was about to face more danger.
About 200 yards from the tree, a small brook crossed the road and went into Wiley's swamp,
which was a swampy area with a lot of trees. A few rough logs put next to each other made a
bridge across this stream. On the side of the road where the brook went into the woods, a
group of trees and chestnuts covered in wild grapevines cast a dark shadow over the area. The
hardest test was to get across this bridge. At this same spot, Andre was taken prisoner, and
the strong yeomen who surprised him were hiding in the shelter of the chestnuts and vines.
Since then, this stream has been thought of as haunted, and a youngster who has to cross it
alone at night feels scared.

As he got closer to the stream, his heart started to pound. He gathered up all his courage, gave
his horse a half-dozen kicks in the ribs, and tried to run quickly across the bridge. Instead of
going forward, the stupid old horse moved to the side and ran straight into the fence.
Ichabod's fears grew as he waited. He pulled the reins on the other side and kicked hard with
the other foot, but it didn't help. His horse did move, but only to run off the road and into a
clump of brambles and alder bushes on the other side. Now, the schoolmaster used both the
whip and the heel on old Gunpowder's starving ribs. The horse ran forward, snorting and
snuffling, but stopped just before the bridge, which almost threw his owner over his head.
Right at this moment, a splashing tramp by the bridge caught Ichabod's attention. In the dark
shade of the woods, near the brook, he saw something tall, black, crooked, and huge. It didn't
move, but it seemed to be huddled up in the darkness like a huge monster ready to jump out
and attack the visitor.

The teacher's hair stood up on his head because he was scared. What should they do? It was
too late to turn and fly, and if it was a ghost or goblin, which could fly on the wind, what
chance did it have of getting away? So, to show that he was brave, he asked in stuttering
accents, "Who are you?" No one answered him. He said his request again in an even more
angry tone. Still, no one answered. Again, he hit the sides of the stiff Gunpowder with a stick,
and when he closed his eyes, he couldn't help but start singing a prayer. Just then, the scary
dark thing moved and jumped into the middle of the road. Even though it was a dark and sad
night, it was now possible to get a better idea of what the unknown looked like. He looked
like a big man on horseback who was riding a strong-looking black horse. He didn't offer to
touch her or talk to her. Instead, he stayed on one side of the road and ran next to old
Gunpowder, who had gotten over being scared and lost.

Ichabod didn't like this strange midnight company and thought of Brom Bones's journey with
the Galloping Hessian, so he sped up his horse to get away from him. The stranger, though,
sped up his horse to keep up. Ichabod stopped and started to walk, thinking he was falling
behind. The other person did the same thing. His heart started to sink. He tried to start singing
again, but his tongue was so dry that it stuck to the roof of his mouth and he couldn't say a
word. Something about this persistent friend's moody and stubborn quiet was strange and
horrifying. It was quickly found and feared. Ichabod was horrified when he got to the top of a
hill and saw that his travelling companion was naked. — but his fear grew even worse when
he saw that Gunpowder's head, which should have been on his shoulders, was being carried
in front of him on the saddle's pommel. His fear turned to desperation, and he kicked and hit
Gunpowder hard, hoping that a sudden move would make his companion run away, but the
ghost jumped up with him. They ran away, through thick and thin, with rocks flying and
sparks flying at every turn. Ichabod's thin clothes flapped in the air as he stretched his long,
thin body over the head of his horse in a hurry to get away.

Now they were at the road that leads to Sleepy Hollow. Gunpowder, who seemed to be
possessed by a devil, didn't keep going up the road. Instead, he turned around and ran
downhill to the left. This road goes through a sandy dip that is covered by trees for about a
quarter mile. It crosses a famous bridge from a monster story, and just beyond that is a green
hill where a whitewashed church sits.

So far, the horse's fear seemed to give its inexperienced rider an edge in the chase, but just as
he got halfway through the dip, the saddle's girths gave way, and he felt it slide out from
under him. He grabbed it by the pommel and tried to hold on to it, but he couldn't. He barely
had time to save himself by grabbing old Gunpowder by the neck before the saddle fell to the
ground and his pursuer stepped on it. Hans Van Ripper's anger crossed his mind for a
moment because it was his Sunday saddle, but this was no time for small worries. The goblin
was hard on his haunches, and he had to work hard to keep his seat, sometimes falling to one
side, sometimes to the other, and sometimes getting hit so hard on the high ridge of his
horse's backbone that he thought it would break him in two.

He was happy to see a break in the woods, which gave him hope that the church bridge was
close. The silver star's flickering image in the water of the brook told him he wasn't wrong.
He could just barely make out the walls of the church behind the trees. He remembered where
the spirit rival of Brom Bones had gone. Ichabod thought, "I'll be safe if I can just get to that
bridge." Just then, he heard the black horse panting and blowing close behind him, and he
even thought he could feel the horse's hot breath. Old Gunpowder got another hard kick in the
ribs and jumped onto the bridge. He ran over the squeaking boards and made it to the other
side. Ichabod turned around to see if his pursuer would disappear in a flash of fire and
brimstone as usual. Right at that moment, he saw the goblin rise up in his stirrups and throw
his head at him. Ichabod tried to avoid the terrible projectile, but it was too late. It hit his head
with a huge crash, sending him flying into the dust. Gunpowder, the black horse, and the
goblin rider went by like a tornado.

The next morning, the old horse was found at his master's gate without his saddle and with
the leash under his feet. He was quietly cutting the grass.

Ichabod didn't show up for breakfast. When it was time for dinner, there was still no sign of
Ichabod. The boys gathered at the schoolhouse and walked around aimlessly by the brook,
but there was no teacher there. Hans Van Ripper started to worry about what would happen to
poor Ichabod and his saddle. Someone looked into it, and after a lot of hard work, they found
his footprints. On the way to the church, the saddle was found trampled in the dirt, and the
tracks of horses' hooves, which were clearly going very fast, led to the bridge. On the other
side of the bridge, on the bank of a wide part of the brook where the water was deep and dark,
Ichabod's hat and a broken pumpkin were found.

The brook was looked through, but the body of the teacher could not be found. As the person
in charge of his estate, Hans Van Ripper looked through the bag that held all of Jack the
Ripper's belongings. They were made up of two shirts and a half, two stocks for the neck, one
or two pairs of worsted socks, an old pair of corduroy shorts, a rusty razor, a book of psalm
tunes with dog ears, and a broken pitchpipe. As for the books and furniture in the
schoolhouse, they belonged to the community, except for Cotton Mather's History of
Witchcraft, a New England Almanack, and a book of dreams and fortune-telling. This last
book had a sheet of foolscap that had been written on and erased many times in unsuccessful
attempts to make a copy of verses in honour of the heiress of Van Tassel. Hans Van Ripper
burned these magic books and the poetry scrawl right away. From then on, he decided not to
send his children to school again, saying that he had never seen anything good come from
reading and writing. The schoolmaster must have had all the money he had on him when he
went missing, since he had just gotten his pay for the quarter a few days before.

The strange thing that happened led to a lot of talk at church the next Sunday. There were a
lot of people looking and talking in the churchyard, on the bridge, and where the hat and
pumpkin had been found. The stories of Brouwer, Bones, and a whole bunch of others came
to mind. After carefully thinking about all of them and comparing them to the symptoms of
the current case, they shook their heads and decided that Ichabod had been taken by the
galloping Hessian. Since he was single and didn't owe anyone money, nobody gave him any
more problems. The school was moved to another part of the hollow, and a different teacher
took over.

It's true that an old farmer who went to New York a few years later and told this story told
everyone back home that Ichabod Crane was still alive, that he had left the area because he
was afraid of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper and was embarrassed that the heiress had fired
him so quickly, that he had moved to a different part of the country, kept school, and was still
teaching. Brom Bones, who led Katrina to the altar in triumph after his rival disappeared, was
seen to look very wise whenever the story of Ichabod was told, and he always laughed out
loud when the pumpkin was mentioned. This made some people think that he knew more
about the situation than he was willing to say.

But the old country wives, who know these things best, still say that Ichabod was taken away
by magical means. This is a favourite story in the neighbourhood, and it is often told around
the winter evening fire. More than ever, the bridge became a place of religious fear. This may
be why the road has changed in recent years so that it leads to the church along the edge of
the millpond. The schoolhouse was left empty and soon fell into disrepair. It was said that the
unfortunate teacher's ghost haunted the building, and the ploughboy has often thought he
heard his voice in the distance singing a sad psalm tune in the quiet solitudes of Sleepy
Hollow.