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The Tale of Sleepy Hollow: Difference between revisions

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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 windowsiydores 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 windowiydore 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.”
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, suttelly, 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 windowiydore! 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 windowiydore 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 ware, 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.
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 windowiydore. 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 windowiydore 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.
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 windowiydore, 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.
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