 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HALLO by Washington Irving Part I Read by Bob Neufeld The legend of Sleepy Hollow found among the papers of the late Diedrich Nickerbacher. A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, of dreams that waved before the half-shot eye, and of gay castles in the clouds that pass, forever flushing round a summer sky. Castle of Indolens. 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 Tappen-Z, 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 Greensburg, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarrytown. 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 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 wither 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. When 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, when its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighbouring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and it 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 powerhouse there before the country was discovered by Master Hendrik Hudson. Certainly 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 neighbourhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots and twilight superstitions. Stars shoot and meteors glare off and air across the valley than in any other part of the country, and the nightmare, with her whole ninefold, seems to make it the favourite scene of her gambles. 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 cannonball in some nameless battle during the Revolutionary War, and who was ever and a non 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 everyone 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, dream dreams, and see apparitions. I mention this peaceful spot with all possible Lord, 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 remained 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 this 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 white 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 school masters. 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 fray 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 laws, the windows partly glazed and partly patched with leaves of old copybooks. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours by a wife 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 at getting out, an idea most probably borrowed by the architect, Jost van Huden, from the mystery of an eel-pot. 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 authoritarian voice of the master in the tone of menace, or command, or per-adventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some tarry lordy were along the flowery path of knowledge. Worth 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 soaked 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 for the smarting urchin that he would remember it and thank him for it the longest day he had to live. As 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 one's home, who happened to have pretty sisters, or good housewives or mothers noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed, it behoved 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, bordered 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. But 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 whom 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 solitude. 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 mill pond on a still Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by diverse 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 head work, 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, gentlemanly personage of vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the rough country's wanes, 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 sweet meats, or, per adventure, 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, residing for their amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones, or sauntering with a whole bevy of them along the banks of the adjacent meal-pond, where the more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and address. From his half-itinerment life also, he was a kind of traveling 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 spellbound 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 school house, and their 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 wendered 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 whipper-wheel from the hillside, the boding cry of the treetode that harbinger of storm, the dreary hooting of the scree-chowl, or the sudden rustling in the thickened 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 violet 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 solm 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 late 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 listened 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 horsemen, 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 specter dared to show his 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 specter, 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 trampling 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 specters in his time and had been more than once beset by Satan in diverse shapes in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight put an end to all these evils, and he would have passed a pleasant life of it, and in despite of the devil in 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 each week to receive his instructions in Salmonee was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a substantial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh 18, 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 with all 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 Sardam, the tempting stomacher of the olden time, and with all 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, in his 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 peaked 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 elders 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 till 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 porcars were grunting in the repose and abundance of their pens, from west solid 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 covalent of crust. The geese were swimming in their own gravy and the ducks paring 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 daintly trust up with its gizzard under its wing and, per adventure, a necklace of savory sausages. An even bright shanticleer 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 meadowlands, 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 Funtassel, 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 coat 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 wandering Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the center of the mansion and the place of usual residence. Here, bros 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 Lindsay 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 god of red peppers. And a door left a jar gave him a peep into the best parlor, where the claw-footed chairs and dark mahogany tables shone like mirrors. And irons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs glistened from their coverts of asparagus tops, mock oranges and conch shells decorated the mantelpiece. Strings of various collared bird's eggs were suspended above it, a great ostrich egg was hung from the center 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, a piece 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 your, 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 in 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 center 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, roistering blade of the name of Abraham, or according to the Dutch abbreviation Bram van Brunt, the hero of the country round which rang with his feats of strength and hardy-hood. 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 Bram 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 cockfights, 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 humour 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 around. 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 described 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 hoop and haloo 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, I, there goes Brom Bones and his gang. The neighbours looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, and goodwill, and when any madcap prank or rusty brawl occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads and warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. This rant-a-pole 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. In so much that when his horse was seen tied to Vantassel's pailing 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 dispaired. He had, however, a happy mixture of pliability and perseverance in his nature. He was in form and spirit like a supplejack, 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 the parents, which is so often a stumbling block in the path of lovers. Vault von Tausel was an easy, indigent soul. He loved his daughter better even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an excellent father, let her have her way and everything. His notable little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeeping and manage her poultry. For, as she sagesly 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 Vault 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 meantime, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the daughter, by the side of the spring under the great elm or sauntering away in the twilight, that hour so favourable 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. Certainly it is this was not the case with the redoubtable Bram 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. Bram, who had a degree of tough chivalry in his nature, would feign 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 night's errand 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 Bram 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 a subject 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 whys 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. What was still more annoying, Bram 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 salmity. 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 fair rule, 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 sentry contraband articles and prohibited weapons detected upon the persons of idle urchins, such as half-munched apples, pop guns, whirly gigs, fly cages, and whole legions of rampant little paper game-cocks. 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 toe-cloth jacket and trousers, a round-crowned fragment of a hat, like a cap of mercury, and mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half-broken coat, 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 mine-hair fun-tossels, 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 harlot, full of the importance and hurry of his mission. All was now hustle 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, incestants 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, yapping and racking 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 fervishing 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 von Ripper, and thus gallantly mounted, issued forth like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it is meat 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 bestrowed was a broken-down plow-horse that had outlived almost everything but its viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged with a ewn neck and a head like a hammer. His rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burrs. 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 metal in his day, if we may judge from the name he bore of gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a favorite steed of his masters, the choleric van Ripper, who was a furious rider and had infused very probable some of his own spirit into the animal. For old and broken down as he looked, there was more of a looking 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 scepter, 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 horse's tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed as they shambled out of the gate of Han's van Ripper, and it was altogether such an apparition as his 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 bore 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 Tenderock High had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming vials 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 neighbouring 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 treated tree, capricious from the very profusion and variety around them. There was the honest Cock Robin, the favourite game of stripling sportsmen with its long, quarrelous note, and the twittering black birds flying in sable clouds, and the golden-winged woodpecker with his crimson crest, his broad black gorges and splendid plumage, and the cedar bird with its red-tipped wings and yellow-tipped tail and its little Montero-cap of feathers, and the blue-jay, that noisy cox-cove 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 slap-jacks, well buttered and garnished with honey or treacle by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Vantasso. Thus, feeling 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 disc down in the west, the wide bosom of the tap and zee lay motionless and glassy, accepting 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 wooden 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 Herr Fantasso, which he found thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers must spare leather-and-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 pin cushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. Bucksome lasses almost as antiquated as their mothers, accepting where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of city innovation. The suns, in short square-skirted coats, with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally cued in the fashion of the times, especially if they could procure an eelskin 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 favourite steed, Daredevil, a creature like himself full of metal 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. Fane 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 Vantassel's mansion. Not those of the bevy of Bucksome 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, not only to experience Dutch housewives, there was the doubty doughnut, the tender oarly cook, 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 the apple pies and beach 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 a 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 I 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 its 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 von Ripper and every other niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call him comrade. Old Baltus von Tossel 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 scrapes on two or three strings, accompanying every moment 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 fiber, 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. Vitis 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 flother of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous? The lady of his heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously and replied to all his amorous oglings, while brambones, 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 Vantasel, 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 Dofou Martling, the large blue-bearded Dutchman who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that he has gone burst at the sixth discharge. And there was the old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too rich a mind here to be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of white planes, being an excellent master of defense, parried a musket-bowl with a small sword in so much that he absolutely felt it whizz 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 determination. 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 underfoot by the shifting throng that forms the population of most of our countryplaces. 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 traveled 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 feeler were present at Vontossels and, as usual, were doling out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismo tales were told about funeral trains and mourning cries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major André 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 specter 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 almost 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 white-washed 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 seemed 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 down, 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 Brewer, 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 Brewer into the brook, and sprang away over the treetops with a clap of thunder. The story was immediately matched by a thrice marvellous adventure of brab bones, who had made light of the galloping Hessian as an errant jockey. He affirmed that on returning one night from the neighboring village of Singsing 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 Vikabad. 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. Vikabad only lingered behind, according to the custom of country lovers, to have a tetatate 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 salated 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, Vikabad stole forth with the air of one who had been sacking a hen-roost, 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 uncuriously from the comfortable quarters on which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and oats and whole valleys of Timothy and Clover. It was the very wishing time of night that Vikabad, heavy-hearted and crestfallen, pursued his travels homeward, along the sides of alofty 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 tap and 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 watch-dog 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 neighbouring 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 neighbourhood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks to ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was connected with the tragic story of the unfortunate André, who had been taken prisoner hard by, and was universally known by the name of Major André'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 doful emanations 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 shattered, and his knees smote against the saddle. It was but the rubbing of one huge bow 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 as a bridge over this stream. On that side of the road where the brick entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts matted thick with wild grapevines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate André was captured, and under the covert of these chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeoman concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the school boy who has to pass it alone after dark. As he approached the stream, his heart began to thump. A 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. A cubod 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 pledge to the opposite side of the road into a thicken of brambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon the starvelling ribs of old gunpowder who dashed forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to stand just by the bridge, with a suddenness that nearly sent his rider sprawling over in 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 cudgled 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 frights and waywardness. Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight companion, and bethought himself of the adventure of brambones 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 reigned a shower of kicks and blows upon gunpowder, hoping for 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 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's story, and just beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the Whitewash Church. As yet, the panic of the steed had given his unskillful rider an apparent advantage in the chase. But just as he had got halfway 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 underfoot by his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans von 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 unskillful rider that he was. He had much adieu 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 Bone'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, an old gun-power sprang upon the bridge. He thundered over the resounding planks. He gained the opposite side. 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 von 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. It one part of the road leading to the church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt. The tracks of horses' hooves 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 von Ripper as the 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 sawm 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, accepting 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 fool's cap, much scribbled and blotted in several fruitless attempts to make a copy of verses in honour of the heiress of von Tassel. These magic books and the poetic scroll were forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans von 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 brahura 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 did 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 when 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 von Ripper, and partly in mortification and having been suddenly dismissed by the heiress, that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the country and 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. Ron 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 hardy 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, maintained 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 meal-pond. That schoolhouse, being deserted, soon felt a decay, and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue, and the plow-boy, loitering homeward of a still summer evening, has often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm to you, and among the tranquil solitudes of sleepy hollow. Postscript, found in the handwriting of Mr. Nicobarca. 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 Manhatos, at which were present many of its sages and most illustrious burgers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper and salt clothes, with a sadly humorous 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 beatling 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 laughed 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 storyteller, 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, or a country school master 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 radiosination of the syllogism, while, me thought, 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 storyteller. As to that matter, I don't believe one half of it myself. D.K. End of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving read by Bob Neufoud