Went by Cascadia
In þe bosom of won of þose roomy cofes whice brit þe eastern score of þe Hudson, at þat grate broddening of þe ea nemmened by þe fern Duce sailers þe Tappan Zee, and whare hie always glewly scortened sail and besawt þe beeld of Holy Nickolas when hie fared, þare lies a small ceaping tune or upland port, whice by sum is cied Greenborow, but whice is more meanly and fittingly known by þe name of Tary Tune. Þiss name was yeafen, we ar told, in former days, by þe good husewifes of þe nayboring scire, from þe unswaying wont of hir weres to tary abute on ceaping days. Be þat as it may, ice asooþe þiss not, but only nemmen it, for þe sake of being careful and trewþful. Not far from þiss þorp, maybe abute two miles, þare is a littel deen or raþer lap of land amung hie hills, whice is won of þe stillest stows in þe hole werld. A small brook glides þro it, wiþ only babbel enuff to lull man to rest; and þe unoft whistel of an erscehen or tapping of a woodpecker is almost þe only lude þat efer brakes in upon þe efen roo.
Ice mimmer þat, when a knafe, my first fand at oakwern scooting was in a grofe of tall walnut trees þat scades won side of þe deen. Ice had wandered into it at noontime, when all kind is selcooþly still, and was starteled by þe roar of mine own gun, as it broke þe Sabbaþ stillness umb and was lengþened and scilled by þe wroþ eftludes. iff efer ice scood wisce for a hafen whiþer ice mite steal from þe werld and all its bisiness, and dream friþfully away þe lafe of a life beset, ice know of non more toward þan þiss littel deen.
From þe listless restfulness of þe stow, and þe ferly erd of its heems, hoo ar afterbares from þe form Duce settelers, þiss closed off glen has long been known by þe name of SLEEPY HOLLOW, and its cerlisce yung men ar cied þe Sleepy Hollow Knafes þroute all þe nayboring land. A drusy, dreamy sway seems to hang ofer þe land, and to steep þe lift itself. Sum say þat þe stow was bewiced by a Hie Garman leece, in þe erly days of þe setteling; oþers, þat an old Indisce þeeden, þe dry or sooþsayer of his þeed, held his puwuws þare before þe land was onfund by Her Hendrick Hudson. Wiss it is, þe stow still gose on under þe sway of sum wicing þrake, þat holds a spell ofer þe minds of þe good leed, making hem to walk in an unending daydream. Hie ar yeafen to all kinds of wundersum beleefs, ar beholden to spells and meetings, and often see ferly sites, and hear soon and stefens in þe lift. Þe hole nayborhood teems wiþ nearby tales, wiced steds, and twilite offgalþs; stars scoot and þe faxed glare oftener þwares þe deen þan in any oþer deal of þe land, and þe nitemare, wiþ her hole ninefold, seems to make it þe fondest setting of her play.
Þe main goast, huwefer, þat stalks þiss bewiced scire, and seems to be rixer of all þe þrakes of þe lift, is þe dwimmer of an ansen on horseback, wiþute a hed. It is sed by sum to be þe goast of a Hessisce harman, hoos hed had been born away by a gunstone, in sum nameless hild midst þe Oferþrowing Wie, and hoo is efer and anon seen by þe cerlfolk hirrying along in þe gloom of nite, as iff on þe fiþers of þe wind. His roamings ar not haþered to þe deen, but strece at times to þe nayboring roads, and often to þe naywist of a circe at no grate farl. Indeed, sum of þe most sooþfast stearmen of þose scires, hoo haf been careful in gaþering and samming þe floating trewþs and tales abute þiss dwimmer, tell of þe boddy of þe harman hafing been baried in þe circeyard, þe goast rides forþ to þe setting of guþe in nitely hunt for his hed, and þat þe ruscing speed wiþ whice he sumtimes flies along þe Hollow, like a midnite blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hirry to yet back to þe circeyard before daybrake.
Suce is þe mean baring of þiss taled offgalþ, whice has brawt antimber for many a wild tale in þat land of scaddows; and þe dwimmer is known at all þe upland firesides, by þe name of þe Hedless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.
It is markworþy þat þe leaning to swefens ice haf nemmened is not bund to þe inborn leeds of þe deen, but is unwittingly drunk in by efery man hoo dwells þare for a time. Huwefer wide awake hie may haf been before hie infared þat sleepy land, hie ar witted, in a littel time, to breaþe in þe wicing sway of þe lift, and begin to grow faþomsum, to dream dreams, and to see dwimmers.
Ice nemmen þiss friþful stow wiþ all mitely lofe, for it is in suce littel sweþered Duce deens, fund here and þare inbosomed in þe grate Rice of New York, þat leeds, sids, and wons ar steddy, while þe grate flood of fare and bisiness, whice is making unending wends in oþer deals of þiss restless land, sweeps hem by unhowed. Hie ar like þose littel nooks of still wotter, whice hem a swift stream, whare we may see þe straw and bubbel riding stilly at anker, or slowly wharfing in hir littel harbor, unscaken by þe rusce of þe nearby farþ. Þaw many years haf gon by sinse ice trod þe drusy scades of Sleepy Hollow, ice wunder yet wheþer ice scood not still find þe same trees and þe same maiþs ideling in its sceltered bosom.
In þiss bystow of kind þare abode, in a farlen eld of Americkisce yore, þat is to say, sum þirty years sinse, a worþy wite of þe name of Ickabod Crane, hoo abided, or, as he sed it, “taried,” in Sleepy Hollow, on þe grunds of teacing þe cildren of þe naywist. He was an inlander of Conneticket, a Rice whice yares þe Woning wiþ grundbrakers for þe mind as well as for þe wold, and sends forþ yearly its wereds of edgeland woodsmen and upland teacers. Þe toname of Crane was not unfitting to his ansen. He was tall, but full lank, wiþ narow scolders, long arms and scanks, hands þat swung a mile ute of his slefes, feet þat mite haf werked as scufels, and his hole frame most limply hung togeþer. His hed was small, and flat at top, wiþ ettinisce ears, grate green glassy iyes, and a long snipe nose, so þat it looked like a weþercock sat upon his spindel neck to tell whice way þe wind blew. To see him striding along þe ridge of a hill on a windy day, wiþ his cloþes swelling and fluttering abute him, man mite haf misnimmen him for derþ itself aliting upon þe erþ, or sum scewel atwinded from a cornfeeld.
His lorehuse was a scort bilding of won grate room, ruffly bilt of timbers; þe windows glased in deal, and in deal þaced wiþ leafes of old writingbooks. It was most cleferly sickered at emty stunds, by a wiþe twisted in þe handel of þe dore, and stakes set ayenst þe window scutters; so þat þaw a þeef mite infare wiþ gratest eaþ, he wood find sum scame in yetting ute,—a begrip most likely barrowed by þe crafter, Yost Van Houten, from þe rune of an eelpot. Þe lorehuse stood in a raþer lonely but cweem sted, rite at þe foot of a woody hill, wiþ a brook running nearby, and a striking birce tree growing at won end of it. From hense þe soft mumbel of his conners stefens, gowing ofer hir readings, mite be herd in a drusy summers day, like þe hum of a beehife, broken nuw and þen by þe rixing stefen of þe master, in þe pice of þret or bidding, or, maybe, by þe iyful lude of þe birce, as he scied sum latred tarier along þe blossomed paþ of knowledge. Trewþ to say, he was an uprite man, and efer bore in mind þe golden saw, “Spare þe rod and mar þe cild.” Ickabod Cranes conners sooþly wer not marred.
Ice wood not haf it þawt, huwefer, þat he was won of þose reeþ leedhates of þe lorehuse hoo nim win from þe smart of hir lerners; indeed, he yafe ritewiseness wiþ screwdness raþer þan strengþ; nimming þe birden from þe backs of þe woke, and laying it on þose of þe strong. Þe slite tiny knafe, þat crindged at þe least brandiscing of þe rod, was let by; but þe needs of ritewiseness wer fulfilled by wreaking a twifold deal on sum littel tuff wuwheded, brodbottomed Duce cit, hoo brooded and swelled and grew dogged and glum beneaþ þe birce. All þiss he cied “doing his wicken by hir kennends;” and he nefer wreaked a witeswing wiþute following it by þe oaþ, so sooþing to þe smarting cit, þat “he wood mun it and þank him for it þe longest day he had to lif.”
When lerning stunds wer ofer, he was efen þe fellow and playmet of þe older knafes; and on holiday afternoons wood bare sum of þe smaller wons home, hoo oferly had pretty sisters, or good husewifes for moþers, marked for þe cweems of þe cupboard. Indeed, it behofed him to keep in good standing wiþ his conners. Þe ernings arising from his lorehuse wer small, and wood haf been hardly enuff to aford him his daily bred, for he was a grate feeder, and, þaw lank, had þe widening mite of a piþon; but to help ute his upkeep, he was, as was wont in þose lands, boarded and hused at þe huses of þe bures hoos cildren he tawt. Wiþ þese he lifed won after þe oþer a weke at a time, þus gowing all umb þe nayborhood, wiþ all his werldawt tied up in a godweb handcloþ.
Þat all þiss mite not be too hefy on þe seeds of his upland barers, hoo ar cwick to þink þe fee of lerning a swer birden, and teacers as but drones, he had sundry ways of making himself boþ helpful and hartsum. He helped þe bures from time to time in þe liter swinks of hir werk, helped to make hay, beeted þe edders, brawt þe horses to wotter, drofe þe cuws from leasow, and copped wood for þe winter fire. He laid aside, too, all þe hie manscip and scere weeld wiþ whice he lorded it in his littel coaserdom, þe lorehuse, and became wunderfully friþful and kind. He fund heeld in þe iyes of þe moþers by stroking þe cildren, hure þe yungest; and like þe bold lee, whice whilom so lofesumly þe lamb did hold, he wood sit wiþ a cild on won knee, and rock a cradel wiþ his foot for hole stunds togeþer.
As well as his oþer arfeþs, he was þe singing master of þe nayborhood, and picked up many brite scillings by teacing þe yung folks þe salms. It was a þing of no littel pride to him on Sundays, to nim his sted at fore of þe circe, wiþ a band of cosen singers; whare in his own mind, he fully bore away þe sie from þe preest. Wiss it is, his stefen eftluded far abufe all þe lafe of þe crude; and þare ar selcooþ cwafers still to be herd in þat circe, and whice may be herd half a mile off, full to þe wiþer side of þe millpond, on a still Sunday morning, whice ar sed to be ritefully beyat from þe nose of Ickabod Crane. Þus, by sundry littel makescifts, in þat clefer way whice is oft nemmened “by hook and by crook,” þe worþy teacer yat on þolenly enuff, and was þawt, by all hoo understood noþing of þe swink of hedwerk, to haf a wunderfully eaþ life of it.
Þe teacer is meanly a man of sum wait in þe wifely crude of an upland nayborhood; being þawt a kind of idel, hend leed, of muce better sced and deeds þan þe ruff upland swans, and indeed, underly in lerning only to þe preest. His cumming, þarefore, is fit to bring abute sum littel stir at þe teabeed of an irþhuse, and þe eking of a fulsum disce of kices and sweetmeats, or, maybe, þe duþe of a silfer teapot. Ure man of stafes, þarefore, was ferly winfast in þe smirks of all þe upland mewels. Huw he wood mix amung hem in þe circeyard, between rites on Sundays; gaþering baries for hem from þe wild winetrees þat oferran þe umbfanging woods; yedding for hir lake all þe barileeþs on þe grafestones; or walking, wiþ a hole swarm of hem, along þe banks of þe nayboring millpond; while þe more scy upland clods hung sceepiscely back, onding his better hendness and speece.
From his halfwandering life, also, he was a kind of walking kenbook, baring þe hole wait of þe hearsay abute tune from huse to huse, so þat his cumming was always greeted wiþ cweem. He was, moreofer, held by þe wifemen as a man of grate lerning, for he had red many books full þro, and was a fulframed master of Cotton Maþers “Stear of New England Wicecraft,” in whice, by þe way, he most fromly and strongly belefed.
He was, in sooþ, a selcooþ mix of small screwdness and samwise afoldness. His maw for þe wundersum, and his þrakes of grasping it, wer efenly grate; and boþe had been hiþened by his abode in þiss spellbund scire. No tale was too fat or fifelisce for his wide swallow. It was often his win, after his conners wer let ute in þe afternoon, to strece himself on þe rice bed of clofer bunding þe littel brook þat whimpered by his lorehuse, and þare con ofer old Maþers dredful tales, hent þe gaþering dusk of efening made þe þruced leaf but a mist before his iyes. Þen, as he wended his way by sluw and stream and iyful woodland, to þe irþhuse whare he was boarded at þe time, efery lude of kind, at þat wicing stund, fluttered his hiþened faþoming,—þe moan of þe whipperwill from þe hillside, þe boding roop of þe tree toad, þat foreridel of storm, þe dreary hooting of þe scree ule, or þe cwick rusteling in þe þicket of birds fritened from hir roost. Þe fireflies, too, whice sparkeled most britely in þe darkest steds, nuw and þen starteled him, as won of seldseen briteness wood stream þwares his paþ; and if, at unset stefen, a grate wanwit of a beetel came swinging his blundering flite ayenst him, þe arm knafe was reddy to yeafe up þe goast, wiþ þe þawt þat he was struck wiþ a wices token. His only liss in suce þrows, iyþer to drune þawt or drife away efel goasts, was to sing salms and þe good folk of Sleepy Hollow, as hie sat by hir dores of an efening, wer often filled wiþ iye at hearing his nosely swin, “in lenced sweetness long drawn ute,” floating from þe farlen hill, or along þe dusky road.
Anoþer of his springs of fearful win was to spend long winter efenings wiþ þe old Duce wifes, as hie sat spinning by þe fire, wiþ a row of appels breeding and spitting along þe harþ, and listen to hir wundersum tales of goasts and pucks, and dwimmered feelds, and dwimmered brooks, and dwimmered bridges, and dwimmered huses, and markedly of þe hedless horseman, or Riding Hessman of þe Hollow, as hie sumtimes cied him. He wood þrill hem efenly by his tales of wicecraft, and of þe iyful halsends and doomful sites and ludes in þe lift, whice rixt in þe erlier times of Conneticket, and wood friten hem wofully wiþ weens upon scooting and faxed stars; and wiþ þe teenful trewþ þat þe werld did indeed wharfe umb, and þat hie wer half þe time upside dune!
But iff þare was a cweem in all þiss, while softly cuddeling in þe flew halk of a room þat was all of a ruddy glow from þe crackeling wood fire, and whare, suttely, no scade dared to scow its ansen, it was dearly nimmen away by þe brows of his following walk homewards. What fearful scapes and scaddows beset his paþ, amidst þe dim and gastly glare of a snowy nite! Wiþ what wistful look did he iye efery cwifering beam of lite streaming þwares þe weast feelds from sum farlen window! Huw often was he breed by sum scrub scruded wiþ snow, whice, like a sceeted goast, beset his paþ! Huw often did he scrink wiþ kirdeling iye at þe lude of his own steps on þe frosty rind beneaþ his feet; and dred to look ofer his scolder, lest he scood behold sum uncooþ wite walking nie behind him! And huw often was he þrown into full brow by sum ruscing blast, huling amung þe trees, in þe þawt þat it was þe Riding Hessman on won of his nitely seecings!
All þese, huwefer, wer but brows of þe nite, scades of þe mind þat walk in darkness; and þaw he had seen many dwimmers in his time, and been more þan onse beset by Satan in sundry scapes, in his lonely wandering, yet daylite put an end to all þese efels; and he wood haf had a winsum life of it, þe Defel and all his werks notwiþstanding, iff his paþ had not been beset by a being þat brings more masing to lifing man þan goasts, pucks, and þe hole stock of wices put togeþer, and þat was—a girl.
Amung þe conners of singing hoo gaþered, won efening in eace weke, to fang his teacings in salms, was Katrina Van Tassel, þe dawter and only cild of a rice Duce bure. Sce was a blossoming maid of fresce ateteen; full as a feeldhen; ripe and melting and rosicheked as won of her faþers persocks, and namecooþ, not only for her lite, but her grate hopes. Sce was wiþall a littel of a flirt, as mite be ayetted efen in her cloþing, whice was a mix of fern and anward trends, as most fit to set off her spell. Sce wore wreats of lutter yellow gold, whice her grate grate eldmoþer had brawt ofer from Saardam; þe costening foredeal of þe olden time, and wiþall a heddily scort undergore, to scow þe prettiest foot and ankel in þe scire umb.
Ickabod Crane had a soft and witless hart towards wifekind; and it is not to be wundered at þat so costening a snead soon fund heeld in his iyes, hure after he had neesed her faþers bold. Old Baltus Van Tassel was þe fulframed bisen of a þeeing, eaþheeld, yeafelharted bure. He seldom, it is trew, sent iyþer his iyes or his þawts beyond þe bunds of his own land; but wiþin þose eferyþing was cweem, winsum and hale. He was cweemed wiþ his welþ, but not prude of it; and prided himself raþer upon þe harty fulþ, þan þe way in whice he lifed. His stronghold was setteled on þe banks of þe Hudson, in won of þose green, sceltered, battel nooks in whice þe Duce buwers ar so fond of nesteling. A grate elm tree spred its brod buws ofer it, at þe foot of whice bubbeled up a spring of þe softest and sweetest wotter, in a littel well bilt from a bidden; and þen stole sparkeling away þro þe grass, to a nayboring brook, þat babbeled along amung alders and dwarf willows. Hard by þe irþhuse was a widegale barn, þat mite haf werked as a circe; efery window and crack of whice seemed bersting forþ wiþ þe frattows of þe irþ; þe þrescer was bisily luding wiþin it from morning to nite; swallows glode twittering abute þe eafes; and rows of dufes, sum wiþ won iye went upward, as iff wacing þe weþer, sum wiþ hir heds under hir fiþers or beried in hir bosoms, and oþers swelling, and cooing, and buwing abute hir ladies, wer neeting þe sunscine on þe roof. Sleke unweeldy hogs wer grunting in þe stillness and fulþ of hir pens, from whense came forþ, nuw and þen, bands of sucking swine, as iff to sniff þe lift. A friþe hoose of snowy geese wer riding in a nayboring pond, leading hole fleets of ducks; wereds of Terkicocks wer strutting þro þe irþyard, and Ginnifule fretting abute it, like screwisce husewifes, wiþ hir whining, upset roop. Before þe barn dore strutted þe knitely cock, þat scape of a were, a driten and a good her, clapping his sliked fiþers and crowing in þe pride and win of his hart,—sumtimes taring up þe erþ wiþ his feet, and þen yeafelly cying his eferhungry maiþ of wifes and cildren to neet þe rice snead whice he had onfund.
Þe teacers muþe wottered as he looked upon þiss þromly hope of wunderful winter fare. In his abiting minds iye, he faþomed efery breeding hog running abute wiþ filling in its belly, and an appel in his muþe; þe dufes wer put well to bed in a cweem bake, and tucked in wiþ a whittel of rind; þe geese wer swimming in hir own sew; and þe ducks twinning warmly in disces, like wedded twosums, wiþ a fair deal of inleke sew. In þe swine he saw carfed ute þe sleke side of spice to cum, and dripping sweetened ham; not a Terkicock but he beheld nimmelly set up, wiþ its maw under its fiþer, and, maybe, a ring of tooþsum wersts; and efen brite rooster himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side disce, wiþ uplifted claws, as iff crafing þat milþ whice his hend goast sperned to ask while lifing.
As þe bewiced Ickabod faþomed all þiss, and as he went his grate green iyes ofer þe fat meddow lands, þe rice feelds of wheat, of rie, of buckwheat, and Indisce corn, and þe grofes birdened wiþ ruddy ofets, whice beclipt þe warm stedding of Van Tassel, his hart yerned after þe maiden hoo was to erfe þese lands, and his faþoming widened wiþ þe þawt, huw hie mite be reddily went into scat, and þe yeeld put into widegale deals of wild land, and scindel kinhofes in þe wilderness. No, his bisy þawt alreddy knew his hopes, and scowed to him þe blossoming Katrina, wiþ a hole maiþ of cildren, sat on þe top of a wain laden wiþ homewares, wiþ pots and cettels swinging beneaþ; and he beheld himself bestriding a stepping mare, wiþ a colt at her heels, setting ute for Kentucky, Tennessee,—or þe Lord knows whare!
When he infared þe huse, þe oferwinning of his hart was fulldon. It was won of þose roomy irþhuses, wiþ hieridged but slitely sloping roofes, bilt in þe way handed dune from þe first Duce settelers; þe neþer beeteling eafes making a portick along þe fore, closenly in bad weþer. Under þiss wer hung þrescers, belts, sundry tools of irþ, and nets for fiscing in þe nayboring ea. Bences wer bilt along þe sides for þe summer; and a grate spinningwheel at won end, and a cirn at þe oþer, scowed þe sundry ends to whice þiss waity portick mite be put. From þiss þe wundering Ickabod infared þe hall, whice made up þe middel of þe bold, and þe wonly lifingsted. Here rows of scining hardtin, spred ute on a long sideboard, bliked his iyes. In won whem stood a grate ceed of wool, reddy to be spun; in anoþer an andefen of linsiwool fresce from þe weafeloom; ears of Indisce corn, and strings of dried appels and persocks, hung in brite wreaþes along þe walls, mingeled wiþ þe sparks of red peppers; and a dore left acar yafe him a peep into þe best sittingroom, whare þe clawfooted selds and dark mahoggany beeds scone like silfer; firedogs, wiþ hir lasting scufels and tongs, glistened from hir scelter of erþnafel tops; foken cinappels and conkscells frattowed þe harþscelf, strings of bleefaw birds ayren wer seemed abufe it; a grate strite ay was hung from þe middel of þe room, and a hirn cupboard, knowingly left open, scowed widegale maþoms of old silfer and well beeted cinaware.
From þe britom Ickabod laid his iyes upon þese lands of win, þe friþ of his mind was at an end, and his only conning was huw to win þe heeld of þe unefened dawter of Van Tassel. In þiss undernimming, huwefer, he had more sooþ hardscips þan often fell to þe lot of a wandering knite of yore, hoo seldom had anyþing but ettins, wices, firy drakes, and suce like eaþ oferwon fows, to fite wiþ and had to make his way only þrew gates of iron or brass, and walls of adamas to þe fasten keep, whare þe lady of his hart was held; all whice he fulfilled as eaþ as a man wood carfe his way to þe middel of a Cristmas bake; and þen þe lady yafe him her hand as was wont. Ickabod, on þe oþer hand, had to win his way to þe hart of an upland maid, beset wiþ a mase of whims and bees, whice wer forefer rearing new hardscips and remmings; and he had to yain a hoose of fearful fowmen of sooþ flesce and blud, þe sundry upland swans, hoo beset efery gateway to her hart, keeping a waceful and wroþ iye upon eace oþer, but reddy to fly ute in þe scared end ayenst any new wiþerwin.
Amung þese, þe most friteful was a hefiset, roaring, brandiscing blade, of þe name of Abraham, or, fitting to þe Duce scortening, Brom Van Brunt, þe heleþ of þe land umb, whice rang wiþ his deeds of strengþ and hardihood. He was brodscoldered and full liþe, wiþ scort kerly black hair, and a flat but not unwinsum anlet, hafing a mingeled whiþ of fun and lonk. From his ettinisce frame and grate mite of lim he had been yeafen þe ekename of BROM BONES, by whice he was known by all. He was mear for his grate knowledge and craft in horsemanscip, being as limmer on horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost at all reases and cockfites; and, wiþ þe weeld whice boddily strengþ always yets in upland life, was þe daysman in all flites, setting his hat on won side, and yeafing his cirs a whiþ and pice þat brooked no yensay or bead. He was always reddy for iyþer fite or play; but had more impisceness þan illwill in his boddy; and wiþ all his oferbaring ruffness, þare was a strong lair of waggisce good at bottom. He had þree or fore good siþers, hoo held him as hir bisen, and at þe hed of hoom he sawt þe land, scowing up at efery setting of flite or merrimake for miles umb. In cold weþer his hallmark was a hide cap, topped wiþ a leeming foxes tail; and when þe folks at an upland gaþering made ute þiss wellknown mark at farl, whipping abute amung a hoose of hard riders, hie always stood by for a storm. Sumtimes his crude wood be herd ruscing along by þe irþhuses at midnite, wiþ whoop and halloo, like a hoose of Don Cossacks; and þe old ladies, starteled ute of hir sleep, wood listen for a britom hent þe waremen had clattered by, and þen roop, “O, þare gose Brom Bones and his gang!” Þe naybors looked upon him wiþ a mix of iye, fondness, and goodwill; and, when any madcap prat or upland sake befell in þe naywist, always scook hir heds, and þawt Brom Bones to be at þe bottom of it.
Þiss rakisce heleþ had for sum time cosen þe blossoming Katrina for þe markel of his uncooþ kniteliness, and þaw his lufesum teasings wer sumþing like þe friþful strokes of a bare, it was yet whispered þat sce did not altogeþer wiþhold his hopes. Wiss it is, his flirtings wer beacons for oþer swans to sweþer, hoo had no wisce to irse a lee in his lufe; insomuce, þat when his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel’s stake, on a Sunday nite, a wiss token þat his master was wooing, or, as it is nemmened, “sparking,” wiþin, all oþer swans went by in wanhope, and bore þe wie into oþer lands.
Suce was þe fritening wiþerwin wiþ hoom Ickabod Crane had to sake, and, all þings in hand, a stronger man wood haf scrunk from þe fite, and a wiser man wood haf yeafen up hope. He had, huwefer, a winful mix of bendsumness and singaleness in his erd; he was in boddy and goast as woodbine—yeelding, but tuff; þaw he bent, he nefer broke; and þaw he buwed beneaþ þe slitest þresting, yet, þe iyeblink it was away—spring!—he was as uprite, and held his hed as hie as efer.
To haf nimmen þe feeld openly ayenst his fow wood haf been madness; for he was not a man to be hindered in his wooings, any more þan þat stormy lufer, Ackilles, Ickabod, þarefore, made his inroads in a slite and friþfully hinting way. Under sceeld of his wicken of singingmaster, he neesed oft þe irþhuse; not þat he had anyþing to wirry from þe nosy hindering of kennends, whice is so often a hirdel in þe paþ of lufers. Balt Van Tassel was an eaþ yeafel sowl; he lufed his dawter better efen þan his pipe, and, like a fair man and a grate faþer, let her haf her way in eferyþing. His markworþy littel wife too, had enuff to do wiþ her husekeeping and her fule; for, as sce wisely saw, ducks and geese ar witless þings, and must be looked after, but girls can care for hemselfes. Þus, while þe bisy lady busteled abute þe huse, or noted her spinningwheel at won end of þe portick, good old Balt wood sit smoking his efening pipe at þe oþer, wacing þe deeds of a littel wooden dring, hoo, yared wiþ a sord in eace hand, was most dutily fiting þe wind on þe steepel of þe barn. In þe meantime, Ickabod wood flirt on wiþ þe dawter by þe side of þe spring under þe grate elm, or walking along in þe twilite, þe stund so fair to þe lufers words.
Ice bode not to know huw wifemens harts ar wooed and won. To me hie haf always been þings of riddel and fondness. Sum seem to haf but won wokeness, or dore of infare; while oþers haf a þusand roads, and may be fanged in a þusand sundry ways. It is a grate sie of craft to win þe former, but a still grater seeþing of plot to keep hold of þe latter, for man must fite for his keep at efery dore and window. He hoo wins a þusand mean harts is þarefore berited to sum lise; but he hoo keeps unkneated sway ofer þe hart of a flirt is indeed a heleþ. Wiss it is, þiss was not þe fall wiþ þe fearful Brom Bones; and from þe britom Ickabod Crane made his inroads, þe cares of þe former suttelly fell; his horse was no longer seen tied to þe stakes on Sunday nites, and a dedly faiþ arose stepwise between him and þe teacer of Sleepy Hollow.
Brom, hoo had a bit of ruff hendness in him, wood fain haf born þings to open guþecraft and haf setteled hir rites to þe lady, by way of þose most piþy and afold reckoners, þe wandering knites of yore,—by fite of stand; but Ickabod was too wary of þe grater mite of his fow to infare into a fite ayenst him; he had oferherd a beet of Bones, þat he wood “bend þe teacer in two, and lay him on a scelf of his own lorehuse;” and he was too wary to yeafe him a bire. Þare was sumþing full irsing in þe doggedly friþful setup; it left Brom no sidecir but to draw upon þe stock of upland waggisceness in his being, and to play off uncooþ prats upon his fow. Ickabod became þe markel of playful ite to Bones and his gang of ruff riders. Hie haried his hiþerto friþful abodes; smoked ute his singing teacings by stopping up þe flew; broke into þe lorehuse at nite, dredful fastenings of wiþe and window stakes notwiþstanding, and went eferyþing upside dune, so þat þe arm teacer began to þink all þe wices in þe land held hir meetings þare. But what was still more þorny, Brom num all bires to make him a laffingstock in þe naywist of his maid, and had a lorel dog hoom he tawt to whine in þe most moonstruck way, and brawt in as a wiþerwin of Ickabods, to teace her þe salms.
In þiss way þings went on for sum time, wiþute bringing abute any trew wend on þe barings of þe kneating waremen. On a good harfest afternoon, Ickabod, in a þawtful mood, sat hie upon þe lifty stool from whense he waced ofer all þe þings in his littel kingdom of books. In his hand he swayed a twig, þat kinyard of full mite; þe birce of ritewiseness rested on þree nails behind þe seld, an unyeelding brow to efeldoers, while on þe board before him mite be seen sundry runnings and forbidden weppons, fund upon þe boddies of idel knafes, suce as halfeaten appels, popguns, whirligigs, flypens, and hole wereds of wild littel bookfell gamecocks. Seemingly þare had been sum iyful deed of ritewiseness lately don, for his conners wer all bisily ernest upon hir books, or slily whispering behind hem wiþ won iye kept upon þe master; and a kind of droning stillness rixt þroute þe room. It was broken at onse by þe lending of a black in hirden hackel and brices, a sinwelt groat of a hat, like þe cap of Hermes, and stelled on þe back of a worn dune, wild, halfbroken colt, whice he stiteled wiþ a rope by way of stopper. He came clattering up to þe lorehuse dore wiþ a laþing to Ickabod to cum to a merrimake or “sowing simbel,” to be held þat efening at her Van Tassels; and hafing betawt his errand wiþ þat whiþ of wait, and fand at good speece, whice a black is pat to scow on small errands of þe kind, he rusced ofer þe brook, and was seen bolting away up þe hollow, full of þe wait and hirry of his undernimming.
All was nuw bustel and upstir in þe late still loreroom. Þe conners wer hirried þro hir readings wiþute stopping at þe small þings; þose hoo wer nimmel hopt ofer half wiþ freedom, and þose hoo wer latred had a smart hit nuw and þen in þe rear, to cwicken hir speed or help hem ofer a tall werd. Books wer flung aside wiþute being put away on þe scelfes, bleckerns wer oferwalted, bences þrown dune, and þe hole lorehuse was let ute a stund before þe wonly time, bersting forþ like a wered of yung imps, yelping and running abute þe green winfast at hir erly leesing.
Þe knitely Ickabod nuw spent at least anoþer half stund at his baþroom, sweeping and ednewing his best, and indeed only good utefit of rusty black, and diting his locks by a bit of broken looking glass þat hung up in þe lorehuse. Þat he mite make his atewing before his maiden in þe trew way of a knite, he barrowed a horse from þe bure wiþ hoom he was hused, a wroþ old Duceman of þe name of Hans Van Ripper, and, þus boldly riding, sent forþ like a wandering knite seecing rose. But it is meet ice scood, in þe trew erd of a lufetale, yeafe sum rake of þe looks and yare of my heleþ and his steed. Þe dere he bestrode was a broken dune pluwhorse, þat had utelifed almost eferyþing but its reeþness. He was þin and ruff, wiþ a ewe neck, and a hed like a hammer; his rusty mane and tail wer knotted and twisted wiþ hedgehogs; won iye had lost its see, and was glaring and goastly, but þe oþer had þe gleam of a sooþfast defel in it. Still he must haf had fire and mettel in his day, iff we may deem from þe name he bore of Gundust. He had, in sooþ, been a darling steed of his masters, þe wroþ Van Ripper, hoo was a reeþ rider, and had steeped, most likely, sum of his own goast into þe dere; for, old and broken dune as he looked, þare was more of þe hufing defel in him þan in any yung fole in þe land.
Ickabod was a fitting rider for suce a steed. He rode wiþ scort stirrops, whice brawt his knees nearly up to þe knap of his saddel; his scarp elbows stuck ute like a grasshoppers; he bore his whip uprite in his hand, like a kinyard, and as his horse ran on, þe scriþing of his arms was not unlike þe flapping of a set of fiþers. A small wool hat rested on þe top of his nose, for so his geason belt of forehed mite be cied, and þe tail of his black hackel fluttered ute almost to þe horses tail. Suce was þe ansen of Ickabod and his steed as hie scammeled ute of þe gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogeþer suce a dwimmer as is seldom to be met wiþ in brod daylite.
It was, as ice haf sed, a good harfest day; þe hefens wer open and hoder, and kind wore þat rice and golden cloþ whice we always þeed wiþ þe þawt of fulþ. Þe wolds had put on hir stern brune and gold, while sum trees of þe nescer kind had been bitten by þe frosts into brite reds of blud, welk, and yellow. Streaming rows of wild ducks began to atew hie in þe lift; þe bark of þe oakwern mite be herd from þe grofes of beece and hickery nuts, and þe þawtful whistel of þe erscehen at betwixtfacks from þe nayboring fallow feeld.
Þe small birds wer nimming hir farewell simbels. In þe fullness of hir merrimake, hie fluttered, cirping and playing from busce to busce, and tree to tree, whimsy only from þe fulþ and sundry abute hem. Þare was þe good cock ruddock, þe darling game of þe yung hunter, wiþ its lude cwafering pice; and þe twittering blackbirds flying in cludes of bleck; and þe golden fiþered woodpecker wiþ his bludred cop, his brod black halse, and þromly feþers; and þe cedderbird, wiþ its redtipt fiþers and yellowtipt tail and its littel hunting cap of feþers; and þe hewnbird, þat lude coxcomb, in his winful litehewn hackel and white undercloþes, screeing and cattering, nodding and bobbing and buwing, and licetting to be in good standing wiþ efery songster of þe grofe.
As Ickabod went slowly on his way, his iye, efer open to efery token of fulþ of food, full of win ofer þe sink of mary harfest. On all sides he beheld grate stock of appels; sum hanging in swer welþ on þe trees; sum gaþered into leeps and biddens for ceapstow; oþers drawn up in rice heaps for þe wring. Farþer on he beheld grate feelds of Indisce corn, wiþ its golden ears peeping from hir leafy scelter, and holding ute þe dream of kices and oatmeal; and þe yellow peapons lying beneaþ hem, rearing hir fair sinwelt bellies to þe sun, and yeafing hefy hopes of þe ricest of bakes; and anon he fared by þe sweet buckwheat feelds breaþing þe smell of þe beehife, and as he beheld hem, soft foreþawts stole ofer his mind of littel pankices, well buttered, and topped wiþ hunny and treehunny, by þe nesce littel hand of Katrina Van Tassel.
Þus feeding his mind wiþ many sweet þawts and “sweetened weenings,” he fared along þe sides of a row of hills whice look ute upon sum of þe goodliest sites of þe mity Hudson. Þe sun stepwise wheeled his brod scife dune in þe west. Þe wide bosom of þe Tappan Zee lay still and glassy, but þat here and þare a friþful scriþing wafed and lengþened þe hewn scaddow of þe farlen barow. A few elksand cludes floated in þe hefens, wiþute a breþ of lift to scriþe hem. Þe liftline was of a good golden hew, wending stepwise into a lutter appel green, and from þat into þe deep hewn of þe midhefen. A sloping beam taried on þe woody ridges of þe cliffs þat oferhung sum deals of þe ea, yeafing grater depþ to þe dark gray and welkred of hir rocky sides. A sloop was tarying in þe farl, dropping slowly dune wiþ þe tide, her sail hanging bootlessly ayenst þe mast; and as þe glass of þe hefens gleamed along þe still wotter, it seemed as iff þe scip was seemed in þe lift.
It was toward efening þat Ickabod lended at þe keep of þe Her Van Tassel, whice he fund þronged wiþ þe pride and blossom of þe nayboring land. Old bures, a lean stock of leþern anlet, in homespun hackels and brices, hewn stockings, wide scews, and þromly hardtin dalks. Hir cwick, wiþered littel ladies, in nie crimpt caps, longlapt scort kirtels, homespun undergores, wiþ scears and pinwangers, and sundry bleefaw sacks hanging on þe uteside. Buxom girls, almost as fernly cloþed as hir moþers, but for whare a straw hat, a good snood, or maybe a white hackel, yafe tokens of borowly craft. Þe suns, in scort hard hemmed hackels, wiþ rows of grate brass knaps, and hir hair meanly lined up in þe way of þe times, hure iff hie cood addel an eelhide for it, it being held hie þroute þe land as a mity carer and strengþener of þe hair.
Brom Bones, huwefer, was þe heleþ of þe setting, hafing cum to þe gaþering on his darling steed Daredefel, a wite, like himself, full of dute and play, and whice no man but himself cood stitel. He was, in sooþ, marked for cosing reeþ dere, yeafen to all kinds of prats whice kept þe rider in unending plee of his neck, for he held a yeelding, wellbroken horse as unwerþy of a man of fire.
Fain wood ice stall to dwell upon þe werld of spells þat berst upon þe bewiced stare of my heleþ, as he infared þe hend foreroom of Van Tassels bold. Not þose of þe band of buxom girls, wiþ hir wunderful scowing of red and white; but þe full spells of a trew Duce upland teabeed, in þe smacksum time of harfest. Suce heapt up scales of kices of sundry and almost untellenly kinds, known only to fulfledged Duce husewifes! Þare was þe duty downut, þe nesce oly koek, and þe brittel and crummeling cruller; sweet kices and scort kices, infer kices and hunny kices, þe hole maiþ of kices. And þen þare wer appel bakes, and persock bakes, and peapon bakes; besides sneads of ham and smoked roþerflesce; and moreofer smackful disces of akept plums, and persocks, and pares, and codappels; not to nemmen cooked scad and breeded cickens; togeþer wiþ bowls of milk and ream, and mingeled abute, pretty muce as ice haf told hem, wiþ þe moþerly teapot sending up its cludes of steam from þe midst—Hefen bless þe mark! Ice wisce for breþ and time to moot þiss simbel as it meeds, and am too keen to yet on wiþ my tale. Winfully, Ickabod Crane was not in so grate a hirry as his teller, but did good by efery smack.
He was a kind and þankful wite, hoos hart widened in deal as his boddy was filled wiþ good mirþ, and hoos goast rose wiþ eating, as sum waremens do wiþ drink. He cood not help too, wharfing his grate iyes umb him as he ate, and cuckeling wiþ þe mite þat he won day be lord of all þiss setting of almost unfaþomenly þrom and tortness. Þen, he þawt, huw soon he’d wend his back upon þe old lorehuse; snap his fingers in þe anlet of Hans Van Ripper, and efery oþer gneed huser, and kick any wandering teacer ute of dores þat scood dare to cie him frend!
Old Baltus Van Tassel scroþe abute amung his yests wiþ an anlet widened wiþ cweem and goodliness, sinwelt and winfast as þe harfest moon. His frendly tokens wer scort, but telling, being held to a scake of þe hand, a slap on þe scolder, a lude laff, and a þrucing laþing to “fall to, and help hemselfes.”
And nuw þe lude of þe soon from þe mean room, or hall, cied to þe tumb. Þe gleeman was an old grayhedded black, hoo had been þe wandering band of þe nayborhood for more þan fifty years. His tool was as old and worn as himself. Þe grater deal of þe time he yat by on two or þree strings, lasting efery scriþing of þe bow wiþ a scriþing of þe hed, buwing almost to þe grund, and stamping his foot whenefer a fresce twosum wer to start.
Ickabod prided himself upon his tumbing as muce as upon his song. Not a lim, not a þew abute him was idel; and to haf seen his freely hung frame in full speed, and clattering abute þe room, þuw woodst haf þawt Holy Vitus himself, þat blessed lord of þe tumb, was spelled before þee in þe flesce. He was þe iye of all þe blacks, hoo, hafing gaþered, of all elds and grates, from þe irþ and þe nayborhood, stood bilding a heap of scining black anlets at efery dore and window, staring wiþ win at þe site, wharfing hir white iyeballs, and scowing grinning rows of elpsbone from ear to ear. Huw cood þe beater of cits be oþerwise þan lifely and winfast? Þe lady of his hart was his mone in þe tumb, and smirking eestily in anser to all his lofeful iyings; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten wiþ lufe and ond, sat brooding by himself in won hirn.
When þe tumb was at an end, Ickabod was drawn to a knot of þe wiser folks, hoo, wiþ Old Van Tassel, sat smoking at won end of þe portick, talking ofer former times, and drawing ute long tales abute þe wie.
Þiss nayborhood, at þe time of whice ice am speaking, was won of þose hily held steds whice ar rife wiþ tales and grate men. Þe Brittisce and Americkisce line had run near it in þe wie; it had, þarefore, been þe setting of reafing, and swarming wiþ þose unsetteled, þose on horseback, and all kinds of edgeland manscip. Rite enuff time had gon by to miten eace teller to umbhang his tale wiþ a littel becumming leasespell, and, in þe unsuttelness of his min, to make himself þe heleþ of efery deed.
Þere was þe tale of Doffue Martling, a grate hewnbearded Duceman, hoo had nearly nimmen a Brittisce scip wiþ an old iron nine punder from a mud brestwerk, only þat his gun berst at þe sixþ firing. And þare was an old her hoo scall be nameless, being too rice a wareman to litely nemmened, hoo, in þe guþe of White Flats, being an orped master of ward, wiþset a flone wiþ a small sord, insomuce þat he trewly felt it whirl umb þe blade, and strike off at þe hilt; in seeþing of whice he was reddy at any time to scow þe sord, wiþ þe hilt a littel bent. Þare wer many more þat had been efenly grate in þe feeld, not won of hoom was swayed but þat he had a grate hand in bringing þe wie to a good end.
But all þese wer noþing to þe tales of goasts and dwimmers þat followed after. Þe nayborhood is rice in taled sink of þe kind. Nearby tales and offgalþs þee best in þese sceltered, long setteled cofes, but ar trampeled under foot by þe scifting þrong þat makes up þe leeds of most of ure upland steds. Besides, þare is no filst for goasts in most of ure þorps, for hie haf hardly had time to end hir first nap and wend hemselfes in hir grafes, before hir frends still lifing haf fared away from þe nayborhood; so þat when hie cum ute at nite to walk hir ways, hie haf no frend left to cie upon. Þiss is maybe þe inting why we so seldom hear of goasts but for in ure long setteled Duce tunes.
Þe rite inting, huwefer, of þe rifeness of eldrice tales in þese lands, was tweeless owing to þe naywist of Sleepy Hollow. Þare was a sickness in þe lift itself þat blew from þat dwimmered scire; it breaþed forþ a whiþ of dreams and faþomings smitting all þe land. Many of þe Sleepy Hollow folk wer þare at Van Tassels, and, as was wont, wer doling ute hir wild and wunderful tales. Many sarrowful wer told abute baryels, and morning roops and reats herd and seen abute þe grate tree whare þe wreced Hieward André was nimmen, and whice stood in þe nayborhood. Sum nemmening was made also of þe wifeman in white, þat dwelt in þe dark glen at Rafen Rock, and was often herd to scree on winter nites before a storm, hafing swelted þare in þe snow. Þe main deal of þe tales, huwefer, went upon þe darling dwimmer of Sleepy Hollow, þe Hedless Horseman, hoo had been herd many times of late, wandering þe scire; and, it was sed, hiced his horse nitely amung þe grafes in þe circeyard.
Þe wiþdrawn sted of þiss circe seems always to haf made it a darling abode of moodsick goasts. It stands on a knoll, beclipt by codtrees and lifty elms, from amung whice its good, whitewasced walls scine meeþfully forþ, like Cristen lutterness beaming þro þe scades of sweþering. A slite slope alites from it to a silfer sceet of wotter, bunded by hie trees, between whice, peeps may be fanged at þe hewn hills of þe Hudson. To look upon its grassgrown yard, whare þe sunbeams seem to sleep so stilly, man wood þink þat þare at least þe ded mite rest in friþ. On won side of þe circe streces a wide woody dell, along whice winds a great brook amung broken rocks and stocks of fallen trees. Ofer a deep black deal of þe stream, not far from þe circe, was formerly þrown a wooden bridge; þe road þat led to it, and þe bridge itself, wer þickly scaded by oferhanging trees, whice þrew a gloom abute it, efen in þe daytime; but brawt abute a fearful darkness at nite. Suce was won of þe darling abodes of þe Hedless Horseman, and þe sted whare he was most often yained. Þe tale was told of old Brouwer, a most dwildy unbelefer in goasts, huw he met þe Horseman eftcumming from his inroad into Sleepy Hollow, and was bund to yet up behind him; huw hie rode ofer busce and brake, ofer hill and sluw, hent hie reaced þe bridge; when þe Horseman went swiftly into a boneframe, þrew old Brouwer into þe brook, and sprang away ofer þe treetops wiþ a clap of þunder.
Þiss tale was at onse met by a þrise wunderful rose of Brom Bones, hoo made lite of þe Riding Hessman as a wandering reaser. He seeþed þat on eftcumming won nite from þe nayboring þorp of Sing Sing, he had been ofernimmen by þiss midnite harman; þat he had offered to rease wiþ him for a bowl of mix, and scood haf won it too, for Daredefel beat þe puckisce horse all hollow, but rite as hie came to þe circe bridge; þe Hessman bolted, and swinded in a blike of fire.
All þese tales, told in þat drusy way wiþ whice waremen talk in þe dark, þe ansens of þe listeners only nuw and þen fanging a littel gleam from þe glare of a pipe, sank deep in þe mind of Ickabod. He foryeelded hem in kind wiþ grate cwids from his dear bookwrite, Cotton Maþer, and eked many wunderful þings þat had befallen in his inborn Rice of Conneticket, and fearful sites whice he had seen in his nitely walks abute Sleepy Hollow.
Þe merrimake nuw slowly broke up. Þe old bures gaþered togeþer hir maiþs in hir wains, and wer herd for sum time ratteling along þe hollow roads, and ofer þe farlen hills. Sum of þe maidens rode on seats behind hir cosen swans, and hir liteharted laffter, mingeling wiþ þe clatter of hoofes, eftluded along þe still woodlands, luding softer and softer, hent hie stepwise swinded,—and þe late setting of lude and merrimake was all still and forsaken. Ickabod only taried behind, by þe won of upland lufers, to haf a hed to hed wiþ þe maiden of þe huse; fully won ofer þat he was nuw on þe hie road to speed. What went on in þiss meeting ice will not licet to say, for in sooþ ice know not. Sumþing, huwefer, ice fear me, must haf gon wuw, for he wisly came forþ, after no grate betwixtfack, wiþ an ansen raþer lorn and unmoody. O, þese wifemen! þese wifemen! Cood þat girl haf been playing off any of her flirtful prats? Was her boldening of þe arm teacer all a scam to sicker her nimming of his fow? Hefen only knows, not ice! Let it be enuff to say, Ickabod stole forþ wiþ þe whiþ of man hoo had been winning ofer a henroost, raþer þan a fair ladies hart. Wiþute looking to þe rite or left to mark þe setting of upland welþ, on whice he had so often crowed, he went strait to þe horsern, and wiþ many harty blows and kicks woke his steed unhendly from þe cweem sted in whice he was sundly sleeping, dreaming of barows of corn and oats, and hole deens of clofer and catstailgrass.
It was þe wicing time of nite itself þat Ickabod, hefiharted and lorn, followed his paþ homewards, along þe sides of þe lift hills whice rise abufe Tary Tune, and whice he had fared so marily in þe afternoon. Þe stund was as grim as his mood. Far beneaþ him þe Tappan Zee spred its dusky and unsuttel weasten of wotters, wiþ here and þare þe tall mast of a sloop, riding softly at anker under þe land. In þe ded husce of midnite, he cood efen hear þe barking of þe wacedog from þe wiþer score of þe Hudson; but it was so unsuttel and slite as only to yeafe a ween of his farl from þiss troþful siþer of man. Nuw and þen, too, þe longdrawn crowing of a cock, unwittingly awoken, wood lude far, far off, from sum irþhuse away amung þe hills—but it was like a dreaming lude in his ear. No tokens of life befell near him, but from time to time þe yoomer cirp of a hillhoamer, or maybe þe deep twang of a bullfrog from a nayboring marsce, as iff sleeping uncweemly and starting swiftly in þe bed.
All þe tales of goasts and pucks þat he had herd in þe afternoon nuw came cruding upon his min. Þe nite grew darker and darker; þe stars seemed to sink deeper in þe hefens, and drifing cludes from time to time hid hem from his site. He had nefer felt so lonely and lorn. He was, moreofer, nearing þe sted itself þat had been þe setting of many of þose goast tales. In þe middel of þe road stood a grate saddeltree, whice kiþed like an ettin abufe all þe oþer trees of þe nayborhood, and made a kind of landmark. Its buws wer gnarled and ferly, grate enuff to be as stocks for mean trees, twisting dune almost to þe erþ, and rising ayen into þe lift. It was lenced wiþ þe sarrowful tale of þe wreced André, hoo had been hafted hard by; and was known by all by þe name of Hieward Andrés tree. Þe cerlfolk held it wiþ a mix of werþ and offgalþ, in deal ute of rewþ for its illstarred namesake, and in deal from þe tales of ferly sites, and dreary woops, told abute it.
As Ickabod nied þiss fearful tree, he began to whistel; he þawt his whistel was ansered; it was but a blast sweeping scarply þro þe dry buws. As he drew a littel nearer, he þawt he saw sumþing white, hanging in þe midst of þe tree; he stalled and stopt whisteling but, on looking more narowly, saw þat it was a sted whare þe tree had been rined by litening, and þe white wood laid bare. At onse he herd a groan—his teeþ cattered, and his knees smote ayenst þe saddel: it was but þe gniding of won grate buw upon anoþer, as hie wer swayed abute by þe wind. He went by þe tree in sickerhood, but new plites lay before him.
Abute two hundred yards from þe tree, a small brook flowed þwares þe road, and ran into a marscy and þickly wooded glen, known by þe name of Wileys Sluw. A few ruff timbers, laid side by side, made up þe bridge ofer þiss stream. On þat side of þe road whare þe brook infared þe wood, a cluster of oaks and cestnuts, matted þick wiþ wild winetrees, þrew a widegale gloom ofer it. To fare þiss bridge was þe sternest fand. It was at þiss sted itself þat þe wreced André was fanged, and under þe scelter of þose cestnuts and winetrees wer þe yomen hidden hoo seated hem. Þiss has efer sinse been þawt a dwimmered stream, and fearful ar þe feelings of þe knafe hoo has to fare it alone after dark.
As he nied þe stream, his hart began to þump; he cied up, huwefer, all his will, yafe his horse ten kicks in þe ribs, and fanded to rusce cwickly þwares þe bridge; but insted of starting forward, þe þwire old dere made a sideways swing, and ran brodside ayenst þe edder. Ickabod, hoos fears waxt wiþ þe fristing, firked þe lines on þe oþer side, and kicked lustily wiþ þe wiþer foot: it was all for nawt; his steed started, it is trew, but it was only to dife to þe wiþer side of þe road into a þicket of brambels and alder busces. Þe teacer nuw bestowed boþ whip and heel upon þe starfeling ribs of old Gundust, hoo rusced forward, sniffeling and snorting, but came to a stand rite by þe bridge, wiþ a cwickness þat had nearly sent his rider sprawling ofer his hed. Rite at þiss britom a plascy tramp by þe side of þe bridge fanged þe keen ear of Ickabod. In þe dark scaddow of þe grofe, on þe edge of þe brook, he beheld sumþing ettinische, misscapen and kiþing. It stirred not, but seemed gaþered up in þe gloom, like sum grate fifel reddy to spring upon þe wayfarer.
Þe hair of þe afrited teacer rose upon his hed wiþ brow. What was to be don? To wend and fly was nuw too late; and besides, what likelihood was þare of atwinding goast or puck, iff suce it was, whice cood ride upon þe fiþers of þe wind? Cying up, þarefore, a scow of dute, asked it a stammering tungfall, “Hoo art þuw?” He yat no anser. He eftledged his ask in a still more upset stefen. Still þare was no anser. Onse more he clubbed þe sides of þe unbendenly Gundust, and, scutting his iyes, broke forþ wiþ unwillsum ellen into a salm. Rite þen þe scaddowy þing of frite put itself scriþing, and wiþ a clatter and a leap stood at onse in þe middel of þe road. Þaw þe nite was dark and lorn, þe scape of þe unknown mite nuw in sum way yet be kenned. He seemed to be a horseman of grate standing, and sat on a black horse of a mity frame. He made no offer of boþer or frendscip, but kept cool on won side of þe road, clopping along on þe blind side of old Gundust, hoo had nuw yat ofer his frite and waywardness.
Ickabod, hoo had no list for þiss ferly midnite siþer, and beþawt himself of þe rose of Brom Bones wiþ þe Riding Hessman, nuw cwickened his steed in hopes of leafing him behind. Þe fremmedling, huwefer, cwickened his horse to an efen step. Ickabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, þinking to slip behind,—þe oþer did þe same. His hart began to sink wiþin him; he fanded to pick up his salm, but his þirsty tung clofe to þe roof of his muþe, and he cood not utter a werd. þare was sumþing in þe moody and dogged stillness of þiss stiþe siþer þat was runy and fritening. It was soon fearfully reced. On climbing a rising grund, whice brawt þe ansen of his samedsiþer stark ayenst þe hefens, ettinisce in hiþe, and husced in a loþ, Ickabod was fearstruck on ayetting þat he was hedless!—but his brow was still hiþened on ayetting þat þe hed, whice scood haf rested on his scolders, was born before him on þe knap of his saddel! His brow rose to ormood; he rained a scure of kicks and blows upon Gundust, hoping by a swift scriþing to yeafe his siþer þe slip; but þe dwimmer started full leap wiþ him. Away, þen, hie rusced þro þick and þin; stones flying and sparks leeming at efery step. Ickabods þin cloþing fluttered in þe lift, as he strawt his long lank boddy away ofer his horses hed, in þe keenness of his flite.
Hie had nuw reaced þe road whice bends off to Sleepy Hollow; but Gundust, hoo seemed indwelt by a puck, insted of keeping up it, made a wiþer wend, and dofe hedlong dunehill to þe left. þiss road leads þro a sandy hollow scaded by trees for abute a forþ of a mile, whare it reaces þe bridge mear in þe goast tale; and rite beyond swells þe green knoll on whice stands þe whitewasced circe.
As yet þe frite of þe steed had yeafen his uncrafty rider a seeming note in þe rease, but rite as he had yat halfway þro þe hollow, þe belts of þe saddel yafe way, and he felt it slipping from under him. He fanged it by þe knap, and fanded to hold it trum, but for nawt; and had only time to nere himself by clasping old Gundust umb þe neck, when þe saddel fell to þe erþ, and he herd it trampeled under foot by his hunter. For a britom þe brow of Hans Van Rippers wraþ went þro his mind,—for it was his Sunday saddel; but þiss was no time for small fears; þe puck was hard on his rear; and (uncrafty rider þat he was!) he had muce ado to keep hold of his seat; sumtimes slipping on won side, sumtimes on anoþer, and sumtimes scook on þe hie ridge of his horses backbone, wiþ a heast þat he trewly feared wood cleafe him asunder.
An opening in þe trees nuw cirked him wiþ þe hopes þat þe circe bridge was at hand. Þe wafering glass of a silfer star in þe bosom of þe brook told him þat he was not misnimmen. He saw þe walls of þe circe dimly glaring under þe trees beyond. He mimmered þe sted whare Brom Bones goastly fow had swinded. “If ice can but reace þat bridge,” þawt Ickabod, “ice am sund.” Rite þen he herd þe black steed orþing and blowing nie behind him; he efen faþomed þat he felt his hot breþ. Anoþer fitful kick in þe ribs, and old Gundust sprang upon þe bridge; he þundered ofer þe clattering þills; he reaced þe wiþer side; and nuw Ickabod þrew a look behind to see iff his hunter scood swind, as was wont, in a leem of fire and brimstone. Rite þen he saw þe puck rising in his stirrops, and in þe deed itself of reeling his hed at him. Ickabod fanded to ward off þe iyful flone, but too late. It met his hed wiþ a grate crasce,—he was tumbeled hedlong into þe dust, and Gundust, þe black steed, and þe puck rider, went by like a whirlwind.
Þe next morning þe old horse was fund wiþute his saddel, and wiþ þe bridel under his feet, coolly cropping þe grass at his masters gate. Ickabod did not atew at breckfast; efening stund came, but no Ickabod. Þe knafes forgaþered at þe lorehuse, and walked idely abute þe banks of þe brook; but no teacer. Hans Van Ripper nuw began to feel sum uneaþ abute þe orlay of arm Ickabod, and his saddel. A fraining was set on foot, and after ernest seecing hie came upon his spores. In won deal of þe road leading to þe circe was fund þe saddel trampeled in þe erþ; þe loasts of horses hoofes deeply þruced in þe road, and suttely at reeþ speed, wer followed to þe bridge, beyond whice, on þe bank of a brod deal of þe brook, whare þe water ran deep and black, was fund þe hat of þe wreced Ickabod, and nie beside it a broken peapon.
Þe brook was seeced, but þe boddy of þe teacer was not to be fund. Hans Van Ripper as fulfiller of his eþel, smayed þe bundel whice held all his werldawt. Hie wer made up of two scirts and a half; two stocks for þe neck; a twosum or two of wirsted stockings; and old set of ruff smallcloþes; a rusty scearsax; a book of salms full of dogears; and a broken picepipe. As to þe books and idisce of þe lorehuse, hie belonged to þe tune, but for Cotton Maþers “Stear of Wicecraft,” a “New England Yearbook,” and a book of dreams and halsing; in whice last was a leaf muce written and smeared in many bleadless fands to make a clofe of ferses for þe dawter of Van Tassel. Þese books of drycraft and þe leeþs wer forþwiþ sent to þe fire by Hans Van Ripper; hoo, from þat time forward, cose to send his cildren no more to lern, saying þat he nefer knew any good to cum of þiss same reading and writing. Whatefer yeeld þe teacer had, and he had fanged his forþs yeeld but a day or two before, he must haf had abute his boddy at þe time of his swinding.
Þe runy befalling brawt muce weening at þe circe on þe following Sunday. Knots of wacers and bisyboddies wer gaþered in þe circeyard, at þe bridge, and at þe sted whare þe hat and peapon had been fund. Þe tales of Brouwer, of Bones, and a hole stock of oþers wer cied to mind; and when hie had keenly looked ofer hem all, and likened hem wiþ þe marks of þe fall at hand, hie scook hir heds, and came to þe end þat Ickabod had been born off by þe Riding Hessman. As he was unwed, and in noboddies scild, noboddy wirried hir hed any more abute him; þe lorehuse was scriþen to a sundry deal of þe hollow, and anoþer teacer rixt in his sted.
It is trew, an old bure, hoo had been dune to New York many years after, and from hoom þiss rake of þe goastly rose was fanged, brawt home þe knowledge þat Ickabod Crane was still alife; þat he had left þe nayborhood in deal þro fear of þe puck and Hans Van Ripper, and in deal in scame at hafing been swiftly spirned by þe maiden; þat he had scifted his steddings to a farlen deal of þe rice; had tawt and conned ea at þe same time; had becum a ewwit; þen a weelder; ran for wicken; written for þe tidings; and at last had been made a deemer of þe Ten Pund Doomern. Brom Bones, too, hoo, scortly after his fows swinding led þe blossoming Katrina siefast to þe alter, was seen to look full knowing whenefer þe tale of Ickabod was told, and always berst into a harty laff at þe nemmening of þe peapon; whice led sum to inkel þat he knew more abute þe þing þan he cose to tell.
Þe old upland wifes, huwefer, hoo ar þe best deemers of þese þings, hold to þiss day þat Ickabod was born away by eldrice means; and it is a darling tale often told abute þe nayborhood umb þe winter efening fire. Þe bridge became more þan efer a þing of fearful iye; and þat may be þe grunds on whice þe road has been scriþen of late years, so as to nie þe circe by þe edge of þe millpond. Þe lorehuse being forsaken soon fell to rot, and was sed to be inerded by þe goast of þe wreced teacer and þe pluwknafe, tarying homeward on a still summer efening, has often faþomed his stefen at a farl, singing a sarrowful salm amung þe hoder stillness of Sleepy Hollow.
FUND IN ÞE HANDWRITING OF HER KNICKERBOCKER.
Þe foregowing tale is yeafen almost in þe werds hemselfes in whice ice herd it told at a Bisiness meeting in þe fern borow of Manhattoes, at whice wer þare many of its wisest and mearest borowers. Þe teller was a winsum, scabby, herly old fellow, in salt and pepper cloþes, wiþ a sadly playful anlet, and hoom ice strongly inkeled of being arm—he made suce fands to be gripping. When his tale was ended, þare was muce laffter and lofe, hure from two or þree yomen aldermen, hoo had been asleep þe grater deal of þe time. þare was, huwefer, won tall, dry looking old her, wiþ beeteling iyebruws, hoo kept a grafe and raþer stern anlet þroute, nuw and þen folding his arms, nodding his hed, and looking dune upon þe flore, as iff wharfing a twee ofer in his mind. He was won of þe wary waremen, hoo nefer laff but upon good grunds—when hie haf rode and ea on hir side. When þe mirþ of þe lafe of þe folk had gon by, and stillness was edstaddeled, he lent won arm on þe elbow of his seld, and sticking þe oþer akimbow, asked, wiþ a slite, but oferly wise nod of þe head, and scortening of þe bruw, what was þe reading of þe tale, and what it went to asooþe?
Þe taleteller, hoo was rite putting a glass of wine to his lips, as a liss after his swink, stalled for a britom, looked at his frainer wiþ a whiþ of unbunded yeelding, and, setting þe glass slowly dune to þe beed, sed þat þe tale was etteled most rodefully to asooþe?
“Þat þare is no þing in life but has its boots and cweems—yeafen we will but nim a prat as we find it:
“Þat þarefore, he þat runs reases wiþ puckisce harmen is likely to haf ruff riding of it.”
“Þus, for an upland teacer to be werned þe hand of a Duce maiden is a wiss step to rising hie in þe hoad.”
Þe wary old her knit his bruws tenfold titer after þiss recing, being sorely mased by þe werding of þe rode, while, meþawt, þe man in salt and pepper iyed him wiþ sumþing of a siefast lere. At lengþ he ayetted þat all þiss was full well, but still he þawt þe tale a littel on þe wild side—þere wer won or two ords on whice he had his twees.
“Troþ, her,” ancwoþe þe taleteller, “as to þat, ice belefen’t won half of it myself.”