The Tale of Sleepy Hollow: Difference between revisions
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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 boþe 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 copt 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
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.
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
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.
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 iydore, 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
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.
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 lifty hills whice rise
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
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 wonse 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.