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<big><div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">'''ÞETHE TALE OF SLEEPY HOLLOW'''</big></div>
 
<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">''By Washington Irving <br /> Went by Cascadia''</div>
 
 
<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">FUND AMUNGAMONG ÞETHE WRITS OF ÞETHE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER.</div>
 
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''A cweeming land of drusy head it was,''<br />
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 hafen, 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 wares 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.
''Of halfshut eye and late days sweven;''<br />
''And blissful keeps in the cludes that fare,''<br />
''Forever flushing umb a summer heaven.''<br />
:::::- KEEP OF SLOTHHOOD.
 
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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.
 
In the bosom of one of those roomy coves which brit the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that great broadening of the ea named by the fern Duch sailers the Tappan Zee, and where hy always glewly shortened sail and besought the beeld of Holy Nickolas when hy fared, there lies a small cheaptune or upland harbor, which by sum is named Greensburgh, but which is more often and fittingly known by the name of Tarry Tune. This name was yeaven, we are told, in former days, by the good husewives of the neighboring shire, from the unswaying wont of hir weres to tarry abute on cheaping days. Be that as it may, I asoothe this not, but only nemmen it, for the sake of being careful and trewthful. Not far from this thorp, maybe abute two miles, there is a littel deen or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of the stillest stows in the whole world. A small brook glides thrugh it, with only babbel enugh to lull man to rest; and the unoft whistel of an earshhen or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only lude that ever breaks in on the even roo.
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.
 
I mimmer that, when a knave, my first fand at oakwern shooting was in a grove of tall walnut trees that shades one side of the deen. I had wandered into it at noontime, when all kind is ferly still, and was startelled by the roar of mine own gun, as it broke the restday stillness umb and was lengthened and thrown by the wroth ashilling. If ever I shud wish for a harbor whither I might steal from the world and all its bisiness, and sweven softly away the lave of a life beset, I know of none more toward than this littel deen.
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.
 
From the listless restfulness of the stow, and the ferly eard of its heems, who are afterbears from the form Duch settellers, this closed off glen has long been known by the name of SLEEPY HOLLOW, and its churlish yong men are named the Sleepy Hollow Knaves thrughute all the neighboring land. A drusy, swevenish sway is seen to hang over the land, and to steep the lift itself. Sum say that the stow was bewiched by a High Garman leech, in the early days of the settelling; others, that an old Indish theeden, the dry or soothsayer of his theed, held his puwues there before the land was fund by Her Hendrick Hudson. Wiss it is, the stow still goes on under the sway of sum wiching thrake, that holds a spell over the minds of the good leeds, making hem to walk in an unending swoon. Hy are yeaven to all kinds of wondersum beleefs, are beholden to spells and meetings, and often see ferly sights, and hear soon and stevens in the lift. The whole neighborhood teems with upland tales, wiched steads, and twilight offgalths; stars shoot and gleam oftener thwares the deen than in any other deal of the land, and the nightmare, with her whole ninefold, is seen to make it the fondest setting of her play.
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.
 
The main goast, huever, that stalks this bewiched shire, and looks to be rixer of all the thrakes of the lift, is the dwimmer of an ansen on horseback, withute a head. It is said by sum to be the goast of a Hessish harman, whose head had been born away by a gunstone, in sum nameless hild midst the Overthrowing Wie, and who is ever and anon seen by the churlfolk hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the fithers of the wind. His roamings are not hathered to the deen, but strech at times to the neighboring roads, and hure to the neighwist of a church not far off. Indeed, sum of the most soothfast stearmen of those shires, who have been careful in gathering and samming the floating trewths and tales abute this goast, tell of the harmans body having been beried in the churchyard, the goast rides forth to the setting of guthe in nightly hunt for his head, and that the rushing speed with which he sumtimes flies along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to eftcum to the churchyard before daybreak.
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.
 
Such is the oft bearing of this taled offgalth, which has brought antimber for many a wild tale in that land of shadows; and the goast is known at all the upland firesides, by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.
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 ilk trees and þe ilk maiþs ideling in its sceltered bosom.
 
It is markworthy that the leaning to swevens I have nemmened is not bund to the inborn leeds of the deen, but is unwittingly drunk in by every man who dwells there for a time. Huever wide awake hy may have been before hy infared that sleepy land, hy are wiss, in a littel time, to breathe in the wiching sway of the lift, and begin to grow fathomsum, to sweven, and to see dwimmers.
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.
 
I nemmen this frithful stow with all mightly loave, for it is in such littel swethered Duch deens, fund here and there inbosomed in the great Rich of New York, that leeds, sids, and wons are steady, while the great flood of fare and bisiness, which is making unending wends in other deals of this restless land, sweeps hem by unhowed. Hy are like those littel hirns of still water, which hem a swift stream, where we may see the straw and bubbel riding stilly at anker, or slowly wharving in hir littel harbor, unshaken by the rush of the nearby farth. Thaugh many years have gone by sinse I trod the drusy shades of Sleepy Hollow, I wonder yet whether I shud not still find the ilk trees and the ilk maiths idelling in its sheltered bosom.
His lorehuse was a scort bilding of won grate room, ruffly bilt of timbers; þe iydores 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 iydore 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.
 
In this bystow of kind there abode, in a farlen eld of Americkish yore, that is to say, sum thirty years sinse, a worthy wight by the name of Ickabod Crane, who abode, or, as he said it, “tarried,” in Sleepy Hollow, forthat he was teaching the children of the nearby land. He was born in Conneticket, a Rich which yares the Oning with grundbreakers for the mind as well as for the wold, and sends forth yearly its wereds of edgeland woodsmen and upland teachers. The toname of Crane was not unfitting to his ansen. He was tall, but full lank, with narrow sholders, long arms and shanks, hands that swung a mile ute of his sleeves, feet that might have worked as shovels, and his whole frame most woakly hangen together. His head was small, and flat at the top, with ettinish ears, great green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked as if a weathercock sat atop his spindel neck to tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding along the ridge of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes swelling and fluttering abute him, man might have misnimmen him for dearth itself alighting on the earth, or sum shewel atwinded from a cornfeeld.
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.”
 
His lorehuse was a short bilding of one great room, rughly bilt of timbers; the eyedoors half glased, and half thached with leaves of old writingbooks. It was most cleverly sickered at empty times, by a withe twined in the handel of the door, and stakes set ayenst the eyedoor shutters; so that thaugh a theef might infare with greatest eath, he wud find sum shame in yetting ute,—a mark most likely borrowed by the crafter, Yost Van Houten, from the rune of an eelpot. The lorehuse stood in a rather lonely but cweem stead, right at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running nearby, and a striking birch tree growing at one end of it. From hense the soft mumbel of his conners stevens, going over hir readings, might be heard on a drusy summers day, like the hum of a beehive, broken nu and then by the rixing steven of the master, in the pich of threat or bidding, or, maybe, by the eyful lude of the birch, as he shied sum latred tarrier along the blossomed path of knowledge. Trewth to say, he was an upright man, and ever bore in mind the golden saw, “Spare the rod and mar the child.” Ickabod Cranes conners soothly were not marred.
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.
 
I wud not have it thought, huever, that he was one of those reeth leedhates of the lorehuse who nim win from the trey of hir learners; indeed, he yave rightwiseness with shrewdness rather than strength; nimming the birden from the backs of the woak, and laying it on those of the strong. The slight tiny knave, that cringed at the least brandishing of the rod, was let by; but the needs of rightwiseness were fulfilled by wreaking a twifold deal on sum littel tugh wughheaded, broadbottomed Duch chit, who brooded and swole and grew dogged and glum beneath the birch. All this he named “doing his wicken by hir kennends;” and he never wreaked a witeswing withute following it by the oath, so soothing to the smarting chit, that “he wud mun it and thank him for it the longest day he had to live.”
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.
 
When learningtide was over, he was even the frend and playmone of the older knaves; and on holiday afternoons wud bear sum of the smaller ones home, who overly had pretty susters, or good husewives for mothers, marked for the cweems of the cupboard. Indeed, it behooved him to keep in good standing with his conners. The earnings arising from his lorehuse were small, and wud have been hardly enugh to aford him his daily bread, for he was a great feeder, and, thaugh lank, had the widening might of a pithon; but to help ute his upkeep, he was, as was wont in those lands, boarded and hused at the huses of the bures whose children he taught. With these he lived one after the other a week at a time, thus going all umb the neighborhood, with all his worldaught tied up in a woodwool handcloth.
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 abuf 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.
 
That all this might not be too heavy on the seeds of his upland bearers, who are cwick to think the fee of learning a sweer birden, and teachers as but drones, he had sundry ways of making himself bo helpful and heartsum. He helped the bures from time to time in the lighter swinks of hir work, helped to make hay, beeted the edders, brought the horses to water, drove the kine from leasow, and chopt wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the high manship and mighty weeld with which he lorded it in his littel kingdom, the lorehuse, and became wonderfully frithful and kind. He fund heeld in the eyes of the mothers by stroking the children, hure the yongest; and like the bold lee, which whilom so loavesumly the lamb did hold, he wud sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradel with his foot for whole stunds together.
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 well as his other arveths, he was the songmaster of the neighborhood, and pickt up many bright shillings by teaching the yong folks the salms. It was a thing of no littel pride to him on Sundays, to nim his stead at the churches fore, with a band of chosen singers; where in his own mind, he fully bore away the sie from the preest. Wiss it is, his steven ashilled far above all the lave of the crude; and there are selcooth cwavers still to be heard in that church, and which may be heard half a mile off, full to the wither side of the millpond, on a still Sunday morning, which are said to be rightfully beyat from the nose of Ickabod Crane. Thus, by sundry littel makeshifts, in that clever way which is oft named “by hook and by crook,” the worthy teacher yat on tholenly enugh, and was thought, by all who understood nothing of the swink of headwork, to have a wonderfully eath life of it.
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.
 
The teacher is often a man of sum weight among the wives of an upland neighborhood; being thought a kind of idel, hend leed, of much better shed and deeds than the rugh upland churls, and indeed, in learning only under the preest. His cumming, therefore, is fit to bring abute sum littel stir at the teabeed of an irthhuse, and the eking of a fulsum dish of kiches and sweetmeats, or, maybe, the duthe of a silver teapot. Ure man of staves, therefore, was ferly winfast in the smirks of all the upland mewels. Hu he wud mingel with hem in the churchyard, between rights on Sundays; gathering berries for hem from the wild winetrees that overran the umbfanging woods; yedding for hir mirth all the beryleeths on the gravestones; or walking, with a whole swarm of hem, along the banks of the neighboring millpond; while the shyer upland clods hanged sheepishly back, holding ond for his better speech and hendness.
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.
 
From his halfwandering life, also, he was a kind of walking kenbook, bearing the whole weight of the hearsay abute tune from huse to huse, so that his cumming was always greeted with cweem. He was, moreover, held by the wives as a were of great learning, for he had read many books full thrugh, and was a fulframed master of Cotton Mathers “Stear of New England Wichcraft,” in which, by the way, he most strongly and fromly beleeved.
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!
 
He was, in sooth, a selcooth mong of small shrewdness and samwise afoldness. His maw for the wondersum, and his thrakes of grasping it, were evenly great; and bo had been highthened by his abode in this spellbund shire. No tale was too fat or fivellish for his wide swallow. It was often his win, after his conners were let ute in the afternoon, to strech himself on the rich bed of clover lining the littel brook that whimpered by his lorehuse, and there con over old Mathers dreadful tales, hent the gathering dusk of evening made the thruched leaf but a mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way by slugh and stream and eyful woodland, to the irthhuse where he was boarded at the time, every lude of kind, at that wiching tide, fluttered his highthened fathoming,—the moan of the whipperwill from the hillside, the boding roop of the tree toad, that foreridel of storm, the dreary hooting of the shree ule, or the cwick rustelling in the thicket of birds frightened from hir roost. The fireflies, too, which sparkelled most brightly in the darkest steads, nu and then startelled him, as one of seldseen brightness wud stream thwares his path; and if, at unset steven, a great wanwit of a beetel came swinging his bumbelling flight ayenst him, the arm knave was ready to yeave up the goast, with the thought that he was struck with a wiches token. His only liss in such throes, either to drune thought or drive away evil goasts, was to sing salms and the good folk of Sleepy Hollow, as hy sat by hir doors of an evening, were often filled with ey at hearing his nosely swin, “in lenched sweetness long drawn ute,” floating from the farlen hill, or along the dusky road.
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 iydore! 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!
 
Another of his springs of fearful win was spending long winter evenings with the old Duch wives, as hy sat spinning by the fire, with a row of appels breeding and spitting along the hearth, and listen to hir wondersum tales of goasts and pucks, and goastfeelds, and goastbrooks, and goastbridges, and goasthuses, and markedly of the headless horseman, or Riding Hessman of the Hollow, as hy sumtimes named him. He wud thrill hem evenly with his tales of wichcraft, and of the eyful halsends and doomful sights and ludes in the lift, which rixt in the earlier times of Conneticket, and wud frighten hem woefully with weens on shooting and faxed stars; and with the teenful trewth that the world did indeed wharve umb, and that hy were half the time upside dune!
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 wonse 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.
 
But if there was a cweem in all this, while softly cuddelling in the flew halk of a room that was all of a ruddy glow from the crackelling woodfire, and where, suttelly, no shade dared to show its anlet, it was dearly nimmen away by the brows of his following walk homewards. What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path, amidst the dim and gastly gleam of a snowy night! With what wistful look did he eye every cwivering lightbeam streaming thwares the weastfeelds from sum farlen eyedoor! Hu often was he breed by sum shrub shruded with snow, which, like a sheeted goast, beset his path! Hu often did he shrink with curdelling ey at the lude of his own steps on the frosty rind beneath his feet; and dread to look over his sholder, lest he shud behold sum uncooth wight walking nigh behind him! And hu often was he thrown into full brow by sum rushing blast, huling among the trees, in the thought that it was the Riding Hessman on one of his nightly seechings!
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.
 
All these, huever, were but brows of the night, shades of the mind that walk in darkness; and thaugh he had seen many dwimmers in his time, and been more than onse beset by Satan in sundry shapes, in his lonely wandering, yet daylight put an end to all these evils; and he wud have had a winsum life of it, the Devil and all his works notwithstanding, if his path had not been beset by a being that brings more masing to living were than goasts, pucks, and the whole stock of wiches put together, and that was—a maid.
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 iydore 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.
 
Among the conners of singing who gathered, one evening in each week, to fang his teachings in salms, was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a rich Duch bure. She was a blossoming maid of fresh eightteen; full as a feeldhen; ripe and melting and roosicheeked as one of her fathers persocks, and namecooth, not only for her lite, but her great hopes. She was withall a littel of a flirt, as might be ayetted even in her clothing, which was a mong of fern and anward trends, as most fit to set off her spell. She wore wreats of lutter yellow gold, which her great great eldmother had brought over from Saardam; the costening foredeal of the olden time, and withall a headily short undergore, to show the prettiest foot and anclee in the shire umb.
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.
 
Ickabod Crane had a soft and witless heart towards wifekind; and it is not to be wondered at that so costening a snead soon fund heeld in his eyes, hure after he had neesed her fathers bold. Old Baltus Van Tassel was the fulframed bisen of a theeing, eathheeld, yeavelhearted bure. He seldom, it is trew, sent either his iyes or his thoughts beyond the edges of his own land; but within those everything was cweem, winsum and hale. He was cweemed with his wealth, but not prude of it; and prided himself rather on the hearty fulth he lived in, than the way in which he lived. His stronghold was settelled on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, battel nooks in which the Duch bures are so fond of nestelling. A great elmtree spread its broad bughs over it, at the foot of which bubbelled up a spring of the softest and sweetest water, in a littel well bilt from a bidden; and then stole sparkelling away thrugh the grass, to a neighboring brook, that babbelled along among alders and dwarfwillows. Hard by the irthhuse was a widegale barn, that might have worked as a church; every eyedoor and crack of which looked to be bursting forth with the fratows of the irth; the thresher was bisily shilling within it from morning to night; swallows glode twittering abute the eaves; and rows of doves, sum with one eye went upward, as if waching the weather, sum with hir heads under hir fithers or beried in hir bosoms, and others swelling, and cooing, and buing abute hir ladies, were noting the sunshine on the roof. Sleek unweeldy hogs were grunting in the stillness and fulth of hir pens, from whense came forth, nu and then, hooses of sucking swine, as if to sniff the lift. A frithe few snowy geese were riding in a neighboring pond, leading whole fleets of ducks; wereds of Turkicocks were stepping thrugh the irthyard, and Ginnyfule fretting abute it, like shrewish husewives, with hir whining, upset roop. Before the barn door walked the knightly cock, that shape of a were, a drighten and a good her, clapping his sliked fithers and crowing in the pride and win of his heart,—sumtimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then yeavelly chying his eferhungry maith of wives and children to neet the rich snead which he had fund.
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!
 
The teachers muthe watered as he looked on this thromly hope of wonderful winter fare. In his abiting minds eye, he fathomed every breeding hog running abute with filling in its belly, and an appel in its muthe; the doves were put well to bed in a cweem bake, and tuckt in with a whittel of rind; the geese were swimming in hir own sews; and the ducks twinning warmly in dishes, like wedded twosums, with a fair deal of inleek dip. In the swine he saw carved ute the sleek side of spich to cum, and dripping sweetened ham; not a Turkicock but he beheld nimbelly set up, with its maw under its fither, and, maybe, a ring of toothsum wursts; and even bright rooster himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that milth which his hend goast spurned to ask while living.
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 abuf 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.
 
As the bewiched Ickabod fathomed all this, and as he went his great green eyes over the fat meadowlands, the rich feelds of wheat, of rie, of buckwheat, and Indish corn, and the groves birdened with ruddy ovets, which beclipt the warm steading of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the maiden who was to erve these lands, and his fathoming widened with the thought, hu hy might be readily went into shat, and the yeeld put into widegale deals of wildland, and shindel kinhoves in the wilderness. No, his bisy thought already knew his hopes, and shew to him the blossoming Katrina, with a whole maith of children, sat on the top of a wain laden with homewares, with pots and chettels swinging beneath; and he beheld himself bestriding a stepping mare, with a colt at her heels, setting ute for Kentucky, Tennessee,—or the Lord knows where!
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.
 
When he infared the huse, his heart was fully won over. It was one of those roomy irthhuses, with highridged but slightly sloping rooves, bilt in the way handed dune from the first Duch settellers; the nether beeteling eaves making a portick along the fore, which cud be closed in bad weather. Under this were hangen threshers, belts, sundry tools of irth, and nets for fishing in the neighboring ea. Benches were bilt along the sides for the summer; and a great spinningwheel at one end, and a churn at the other, shew the sundry ends to which this weighty portick might be put. From this the wondering Ickabod infared the hall, which made up the middel of the bold, and the wonly livingstead. Here rows of shining hardtin, spread ute on a long sideboard, bliked his eyes. In one whem stood a great cheed of wool, ready to be spun; in another an andeven of linsiwool fresh from the weaveloom; ears of Indish corn, and strings of dried appels and persocks, hanged in bright wreathes along the walls, mingelled with the sparks of red peppers; and a door left achar yave him a peep into the best sittingroom, where the clawfooted selds and dark mahoggany beeds shone like silver; firedogs, with hir lasting shovels and tongs, glistened from hir shelter of earthnavel tops; foken chinappels and conkshells fratowed the hearthshelf, strings of bleefaw birds eyren were seemed above it; a great strite ey was hangen from the middel of the room, and a hirn cupboard, knowingly left open, shew widegale mathoms of old silver and wellbeeted chinaware.
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, topt 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.
 
From the brightom Ickabod laid his eyes on these lands of win, his minds frith was at an end, and his only conning was hu to win the heeld of the unevened daughter of Van Tassel. In this upnimming, huever, he had more sooth hardships than often fell to the lot of a wandering knight of yore, who seldom had anything but ettins, wiches, firy drakes, and such like eath beaten foes, to fight with and had to make his way only thrugh gates of iron or brass, and walls of stone to the fasten keep, where the lady of his heart was held; all which he fulfilled as eath as a man wud carve his way to the middel of a Cristmas bake; and then the lady yave him her hand as was wont. Ickabod, on the other hand, had to win his way to the heart of an upland maid, beset with a mase of whims and bees, which were forever rearing new hardships and remmings; and he had to meet a hoose of fearful foemen of sooth flesh and blood, the sundry upland wooers, who beset every gateway to her heart, keeping a wachful and wroth eye on each other, but ready to fly ute in the shared end ayenst any new foe.
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.
 
Among these, the most frightful was a heaviset, roaring, brandishing blade, by the name of Abraham, or, fitting to the Duch shortening, Brom Van Brunt, the heleth of the shire umb, which rang with his deeds of strength and hardihood. He was broadsholdered and mighty lithe, with short lockered black hair, and a flat but not unwinsum anlet, having a mingelled whith of glee and lonk. From his ettinish frame and great might of limb he had been yeaven the ekename of BROM BONES, by which he was known by all. He was mear for his great knowledge and craft in horsemanship, being as limber on horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost at all reases and cockfights; and, with the weeld which bodily strength always yets in upland life, was the daysman in all flites, setting his hat on one side, and yeaving his churs a whith and pich that brooked no yensay or bead. He was always ready for either fight or play; but had more impishness than loath in his body; and with all his overbearing rughness, there was a strong layer of sly good at the bottom. He had three or fore good sithers, who held him as hir bisen, and at the head of whom he sought the land, showing up at every setting of flite or merrimake for miles umb. In cold weather his hallmark was a hide cap, topt with a leeming foxtail; and when the folks at an upland gathering made ute this wellknown mark far off, whipping abute among a hoose of hard riders, hy always stood by for a storm. Sumtimes his crude wud be heard rushing along by the irthhuses at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like a hoose of Don Cossacks; and the old ladies, startelled ute of hir sleep, wud listen for a brightom hent the weres had clattered by, and then roop, “O, there goes Brom Bones and his gang!” The neighbors looked on him with a mong of ey, fondness, and goodwill; and, when any madcap prat or upland sake befell in the neighwist, always shook hir heads, and thought Brom Bones to be at the bottom of it.
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.
 
This rakish heleth had for sum time chosen the blossoming Katrina for the markel of his uncooth knightliness, and thaugh his lovesum teasings were sumthing like the frithful strokes of a bear, it was yet whispered that she did not altogether withhold his hopes. Wiss it is, his flirtings were beacons for other wooers to swether, who had no wish to irse a lee in his love; insomuch, that when his horse was seen tied to Van Tassels stake, on a Sunday night, a wiss token that his master was wooing, or, as it is named, “sparking,” within, all other wooers went by in wanhope, and bore the wie into other lands.
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.
 
Such was the frightening foe with whom Ickabod Crane had to sake, and, all things in hand, a stronger man wud have shrunk from the fight, and a wiser man wud have yeaven up hope. He had, huever, a winful mong of bendsumness and singaleness in his eard; he was in body and goast as woodbine—yeelding, but tugh; thaugh he bent, he never broke; and thaugh he bued beneath the slightest thresting, yet, the eyeblink it was away—spring!—he was as upright, and held his head as high as ever.
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 iydore. 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.
 
To have nimmen the feeld openly ayenst his foe wud have been madness; for he was not a were to be hindered in his wooings, any more than that stormy lover, Ackilles, Ickabod, therefore, made his inroads in a slight and softly inkelling way. Under sheeld of his wicken of songmaster, he often neesed the irthhuse; not that he had anything to worry from the nosy hindering of kennends, which is so often a hurdel in the path of lovers. Balt Van Tassel was an eath yeavel sowl; he loved his daughter better even than his pipe, and, like a fair were and a great father, let her have her way in everything. His markworthy littel wife too, had enugh to do with her husekeeping and her fule; for, as she wisely saw, ducks and geese are witless things, and must be looked after, but maids can care for hemselves. Thus, while the bisy lady bustelled abute the huse, or worked her spinningwheel at one end of the portick, good old Balt wud sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, waching the deeds of a littel wooden dring, who, yared with a sword in each hand, was most dughtily fighting the wind on the steepel of the barn. In the meantime, Ickabod wud flirt on with the daughter by the side of the spring under the great elm, or walking along in the twilight, that tide so fair to the lovers words.
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 iydore 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.
 
I bode not to know hu hearts of wives are wooed and won. To me hy have always been things of riddel and fondness. Sum look to have but one woakness, or door of infare; while others have a thusand roads, and may be fanged in a thusand sundry ways. It is a great sie of craft to win the former, but a still greater seething of plot to keep hold of the latter, for man must fight for his keep at every door and eyedoor. He who wins a thusand everyday hearts is therefore berighted to sum lise; but he who keeps unkneated sway over the heart of a flirt is indeed a heleth. Wiss it is, this was not hu it was with the fearful Brom Bones; and from the brightom Ickabod Crane made his inroads, the cares of the former suttelly fell; his horse was no longer seen tied to the stakes on Sunday nights, and a deadly feith arose stepwise between him and the teacher of Sleepy Hollow.
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 wonse 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.
 
Brom, who had a bit of rugh hendness in him, wud fain have born things to open guthecraft and have settelled hir rights to the lady, by way of those most pithy and afold reckoners, the wandering knights of yore,—by fight of stand; but Ickabod was too wary of the greater might of his foe to infare into a fight ayenst him; he had overheard a beet of Bones, that he wud “bend the teacher in two, and lay him on a shelf of his own lorehuse;” and he was too wary to yeave him a bire. There was sumthing mighty irsing in the doggedly frithful setup; it left Brom no sidechur but to draw on the stock of upland slyness in his being, and to play off uncooth prats on his foe. Ickabod became the markel of playful ight to Bones and his gang of rughriders. Hy harried his hitherto frithful abodes; smoked ute his singing teachings by stopping up the flew; broke into the lorehuse at night, dreadful fastenings of withe and eyedoor stakes notwithstanding, and threw everything upside dune, so that the arm teacher began to think all the wiches in the land held hir meetings there. But what was still thornier, Brom num all bires to make him a laughingstock in the neighwist of his maid, and had a lorel dog whom he taught to whine in the most moonstruck way, and brought in as a witherwin of Ickabods, to teach her the salms.
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.
 
In this way things went on for sum time, withute bringing abute any trew wend on the bearings of the kneating weres. On a good harvest afternoon, Ickabod, in a thoughtful mood, sat high atop the lifty stool from whense he wached over all the things in his littel kingdom of books. In his hand he swayed a twig, that kinyard of might; the birch of rightwiseness rested on three nails behind the seld, an unyeelding brow to evildoers, while on the board before him might be seen sundry runnings and forbidden weapons, fund on the bodies of idel knaves, such as halfeaten appels, popguns, spillcocks, flypens, and whole wereds of wild littel bookfell gamecocks. It looked as if there had been sum eyful deed of rightwiseness lately done, for his conners were all bisily earnest in hir books, or slily whispering behind hem with one eye kept on the master; and a kind of droning stillness rixt thrughute the room. It was broken at onse by the lending of a black in hurden hackel and briches, a sinwelt groat of a hat, like the cap of Hermes, and stelled on the back of a worn dune, wild, halfbroken colt, which he stightelled with a rope by way of stopper. He came clattering up to the lorehuse door with a lathing to Ickabod to cum to a merrimake or “sowing simbel,” to be held that evening at her Van Tassels; and having betaught his errand with that whith of weight, and fand at good speech, which a black is pat to show on small errands of the kind, he rushed over the brook, and was seen bolting away up the hollow, full of the weight and hurry of his upnimming.
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.
 
All was nu bustel and upstir in the late still loreroom. The conners were hurried thrugh hir readings withute stopping at the small things; those who were nimbel hopt over half with freedom, and those who were latred had a smart hit nu and then in the arse, to cwicken hir speed or help hem over a tall word. Books were flung aside withute being put away on the shelves, bleckerns were overwalted, benches thrown dune, and the whole lorehuse was let ute a stund before the wonly time, bursting forth like a wered of yong imps, yelping and running abute the green winfast at hir early leesing.
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.
 
The knightly Ickabod nu spent at least another half a stund at his bathroom, sweeping and ednewing his best, and indeed only good utefit of rusty black, and dighting his locks by a bit of broken lookingglass that hanged in the lorehuse. That he might make his atewing before his maiden in the trew way of a knight, he borrowed a horse from the bure with whom he was hused, a wroth old Duchman by the name of Hans Van Ripper, and, thus boldly riding, sent forth like a wandering knight seeching rose. But it is meet I shud, in the trew eard of a lovetale, yeave sum rake of the looks and yare of my heleth and his steed. The deer he bestrode was a broken dune plughhorse, that had utelived almost everything but its reethness. He was thin and rugh, with a ewe neck, and a head like a hammer; his rusty mane and tail were knotted and twined with hedgehogs; one eye had lost its see, and was wan and goastly, but the other had the gleam of a soothfast devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettel in his day, if we may deem from the name he bore of Gundust. He had, in sooth, been a darling steed of his masters, the wroth Van Ripper, who was a reeth rider, and had steeped, most likely, sum of his own goast into the deer; for, old and broken dune as he looked, there was more of the hoving devil in him than in any yong foal in the land.
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.
 
Ickabod was a fitting rider for such a steed. He rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the knap of his saddel; his sharp elbows stuck ute like a grasshoppers; he bore his whip upright in his hand, like a kinyard, and as his horse ran on, the shrithing of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a set of fithers. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his geason belt of forehead might be named, and the tail of his black hackel fluttered ute almost to that of the horse. Such was the ansen of Ickabod and his steed as hy shambelled ute of Hans Van Rippers gate, and it was altogether such a dwimmer as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight.
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.
 
It was, as I have said, a good harvest day; the heavens were open and hoder, and kind wore that rich and golden cloth which we always theed with the thought of fulth. The wolds had put on hir stern brune and gold, while sum trees of the nesher kind had been bitten by the frosts into bright reds of blood, welk, and yellow. Streaming rows of wild ducks began to atew high in the lift; the bark of the oakwern might be heard from the groves of beech and hickery nuts, and the thoughtful whistel of the earshhen at betwixtfacks from the neighboring fallow feeld.
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 topt wiþ hunny and treehunny, by þe nesce littel hand of Katrina Van Tassel.
 
The small birds were having hir farewell simbels. In the fullness of hir merrimake, hy fluttered, chirping and playing from shrub to shrub, and tree to tree, whimsy only from the fulth and sundry abute hem. There was the good cock ruddock, the darling game of the yong hunter, with its lude cwavering pich; and the twittering blackbirds flying in cludes of bleck; and the golden fithered woodpecker with his bloodred cop, his broad black halse, and thromly feathers; and the chedderbird, with its redtipt fithers and yellowtipt tail and its littel hunting cap of feathers; and the hewnbird, that lude coxcomb, in his winful light hewn hackel and white underclothes, shreeing and chattering, nodding and bobbing and buing, and lichetting to be in good standing with every songster of the grove.
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.
 
As Ickabod went slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every token of foodfulth, flew with win over the sink of merry harvest. On all sides he beheld a great stock of appels; sum hanging in sweer wealth on the trees; sum gathered into leeps and biddens for cheapstow; others drawn up in rich heaps for the wring. Farther on he beheld great feelds of Indish corn, with its golden ears peeping from hir leafy shelter, and holding ute the dream of kiches and oatmeal; and the yellow peapons lying beneath hem, rearing hir fair sinwelt bellies to the sun, and yeaving heavy hopes of the richest of bakes; and anon he fared by the sweet buckwheat feelds breathing the smell of the beehive, and as he beheld hem, soft forethoughts stole over his mind of littel pankiches, well buttered, and topt with honey and treehoney, by the nesh littel hand of Katrina Van Tassel.
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.
 
Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and “sweetened weenings,” he fared along the sides of a row of hills which look ute on sum of the goodliest sights of the mighty Hudson. The sun stepwise wheeled his broad shive dune in the west. The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee lay still and glassy, but that here and there a soft shrithing waved and lengthened the farlen barrows hewn shadow. A few elksand cludes floated in the heavens, withute a breath of lift to blow hem. The liftline was a good golden hew, wending stepwise into a lutter appel green, and from that into the deep hewn of the midheaven. A sloping beam tarried on the woody ridges of the cliffs that overhanged sum deals of the ea, yeaving greater depth to the dark grey and welkred of hir stony sides. A sloop was tarrying far off, dropping slowly dune with the tide, her sail hanging bootlessly ayenst the mast; and as the glass of the heavens gleamed along the still water, it looked as if the ship was seemed in the lift.
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.
 
It was toward evening that Ickabod lended at the keep of Her Van Tassel, which he fund thronged with the pride and blossom of the neighboring land. Old bures, a lean stock of leathern anlet, in homespun hackels and briches, hewn stockings, wide shoes, and thromly hardtin dalks. Hir cwick, withered littel ladies, in nigh crimpt caps, longlapt short kirtels, homespun undergores, with shears and pinballs, and sundry bleefaw sacks hanging on the uteside. Buxom maids, almost as fernly clothed as hir mothers, but for where a straw hat, a good snood, or maybe a white weed, yave tokens of the borough. The sons, in short hardhemmed hackels, with rows of great brass knaps, and hir hair meanly lined up in the way of the times, hure if hy cud yet an eelhide for it, it being held high thrughute the land as a mighty carer and strengthener of the hair.
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.
 
Brom Bones, huever, was the heleth of the setting, having cum to the gathering on his darling steed Daredevil, a wight, like himself, full of dught and play, and which no man but himself cud stightel. He was, in sooth, marked for choosing reeth deer, yeaven to all kinds of prats which kept the rider in unending plee of his neck, for he held a yeelding, wellbroken horse as unworthy of a man of fire.
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!
 
Fain wud I stall to dwell on the world of spells that burst on the bewiched stare of my heleth, as he infared the hend foreroom of Van Tassels bold. Not those of the set of buxom maids, with hir wonderful showing of red and white; but the mighty spells of a trew Duch upland teabeed, in the smacksum time of harvest. Such heaped up shales of kiches of sundry and almost untellenly kinds, known only to fulfledged Duch husewives! There was the dughty doughnut, the nesh oly koek, and the brittel and crumbelling cruller; sweet kiches and short kiches, inver kiches and honey kiches, the whole maith of kiches. And then there were appel bakes, and persock bakes, and peapon bakes; besides sneads of ham and smoked rother; and moreover smackful dishes of akept plums, and persocks, and pears, and codappels; not to nemmen cooked shad and breeded chickens; together with bowls of milk and ream, and mingelled abute, pretty much as I have told hem, with the motherly teapot sending up its cludes of steam from the midst—Heaven bless the mark! I wish for breath and time to moot this simbel as it meeds, and am too keen to yet on with my tale. Winfully, Ickabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his teller, but did good by every smack.
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.”
 
He was a kind and thankful wight, whose heart widened in deal as his body was filled with good mirth, and whose goast rose with eating, as sum weres rise with drink. He cud not help too, wharving his great eyes umb him as he ate, and chuckeling with the mightlihood that he one day be lord of all this setting of almost unfathomenly throm and torghtness. Then, he thought, hu soon he wud wend his back on the old lorehuse; snap his fingers in the anlet of Hans Van Ripper, and every other gneed huser, and kick any wandering teacher ute of doors that shud dare to name him frend!
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.
 
Old Baltus Van Tassel shrothe abute amung his yests with an anlet widened with cweem and goodliness, sinwelt and winfast as the harvest moon. His frendly tokens were short, but telling, being held to a shake of the hand, a slap on the sholder, a lude laugh, and a thruching lathing to “fall to, and help hemselves.”
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 luf and ond, sat brooding by himself in won hirn.
 
And nu the lude of the soon from the meanroom, or hall, chied to the frike. The gleeman was an old greyheaded black, who had been the wandering lude of the neighborhood for more than fifty years. His tool was as old and worn as himself. The greater deal of the time he yat by on two or three strings, lasting every shrithing of the bow with a shrithing of the head, buing almost to the grund, and stamping his foot whenever a fresh twosum were to start.
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.
 
Ickabod prided himself on his frike as much as on his song. Not a limb, not a thew abute him was idel; and to have seen his freely hanged frame in full speed, and clattering abute the room, thu wudst have thought Holy Vitus himself, that blessed lord of the frike, was spelled before thee in the flesh. He was the ey of all the blacks, who, having gathered, of all elds and greats, from the irth and the neighborhood, stood bilding a heap of shining black anlets at every door and iydoor, staring with win at the sight, wharving hir white eyeballs, and showing grinning rows of elpsbone from ear to ear. Hu cud the beater of chits be otherwise than lively and winfast? The lady of his heart was his mone in the frike, and smirking eestily in answer to all his loveful eyeings; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten with love and ond, sat brooding by himself in one hirn.
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.
 
When the frike was at an end, Ickabod was drawn to a knot of the wiser folks, who, with Old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the portick, talking over former times, and drawing ute long tales abute the wie.
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.
 
This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was one of those highly held stows which are rife with tales and great men. The Brittish and Americkish line had run near it in the wie; it had, therefore, been the setting of reaving, and swarming with those unsettelled, those on horseback, and all kinds of edgeland manship. Right enugh time had gone by to mighten each teller to umbhang his tale with a littel becumming leasespell, and, in the unsuttelness of his min, to make himself the heleth of every deed.
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.
 
There was the tale of Doffue Martling, a great hewnbearded Duchman, who had nearly sunk a Brittish guthship with an old iron ninepunder from a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst at the sixth firing. And there was an old her who shall be nameless, being too rich a were to be lightly nemmened, who, in the hild of White Flats, being an orped master of ward, withset a flone with a small sword, insomuch that he trewly felt it fly umb the blade, and strike off at the hilt; in seething of which he was ready at any time to show the sword, with the hilt a littel bent. There were many more that had been evenly great in the feeld, not one of whom was swayed but that he had had a great hand in bringing the wie to a good end.
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.
 
But all these were nothing to the tales of goasts and dwimmers that followed after. The neighborhood is rich in taled sink of the kind. Goasttales and offgalths thee best in these sheltered, long settelled coves, but are trodden under foot by the shifting throng that makes up the leeds of most of ure upland steads. Besides, there is no filst for goasts in most of ure thorps, for hy have hardly had time to end hir first nap and wend hemselves in hir graves, before hir frends still living have fared away from the neighborhood; so that when hy cum ute at night to walk hir ways, hy have no frend left to chy on. This is maybe the inting why we so seldom hear of goasts but for in ure long settelled Duch tunes.
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.
 
The right inting, huever, for the rifeness of eldrich tales in these lands, was tweeless owing to the neighwist of Sleepy Hollow. There was a sickness in the lift itself that blew from that goastly shire; it breathed forth a whith of swevens and fathomings smitting all the land. Many of the Sleepy Hollow folk were there at Van Tassels, and, as was wont, were doling ute hir wild and wonderful tales. Many sorrowful were told abute beryels, and morning roops and reats heard and seen abute the great tree where the wreched Underheadman André was nimmen, and which stood in the neighborhood. Sum nemmening was made also of the wife in white, that dwelt in the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shree on winter nights before a storm, having swelted there in the snow. The main deal of the tales, huever, went to the darling goast of Sleepy Hollow, the Headless Horseman, who had been heard many times of late, wandering the shire; and, it was said, hiched his horse nightly among the graves in the churchyard.
Þiss tale was at wonse 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.
 
The withdrawn stow of this church felt always to have made it a darling abode of moodsick goasts. It stands on a knoll, beclipt by codtrees and lifty elms, from among which its good, whitewashed walls shine meethfully forth, like Cristen lutterness beaming thrugh the shades of swethering. A slight slope alights from it to a silver sheet of water, hemmed by high trees, between which, peeps may be fanged at the hewn hills of the Hudson. To look on its grassgrown yard, where the sunbeams look to sleep so stilly, man wud think that there at least the dead might rest in frith. On one side of the church streches a wide woody dell, along which winds a great brook among broken stones and stocks of fallen trees. Over a deep black deal 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 threw a gloom abute it, even in the daytime; but brought abute a fearful darkness at night. Such was one of the darling abodes of the Headless Horseman, and the stead where he was most often seen. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most dwildy unbeleever in goasts, hu he met the Horseman eftcumming from his inroad into Sleepy Hollow, and was bund to yet up behind him; hu hy rode over shrub and brake, over hill and slugh, hent hy raught the bridge; when the Horseman went swiftly into naught but bones, threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the treetops with a clap of thunder.
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.
 
This tale was at onse met by a thrise wonderful rose of Brom Bones, who made light of the Riding Hessman as a wandering reaser. He seethed that on eftcumming one night from the neighboring thorp of Sing Sing, he had been overrun by this midnight harman; that he had offered to rease with him for a bowl of monged drink, and shud have won it too, for Daredevil beat the puckish horse all hollow, but right as hy came to the church bridge; the Hessman bolted, and swinded in a leem of fire.
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.
 
All these tales, told in that drusy way with which weres talk in the dark, the ansens of the listeners only nu and then fanging a littel gleam from the leem of a pipe, sank deep in Ickabods mind. He foryeelded hem in kind with great cwids from his dear bookwright, Cotton Mather, and eked many wonderful things that had befallen in his home Rich of Conneticket, and fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly walks abute Sleepy Hollow.
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 abuf 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.
 
The merrimake nu slowly broke up. The old bures gathered together hir maiths in hir wains, and were heard for sum time rattelling along the hollow roads, and over the farlen hills. Sum of the maidens rode on settels behind hir chosen wooers, and hir lighthearted laughter, mingelling with the clatter of hooves, ashilled along the still woodlands, sweying softer and softer, hent hy stepwise swinded,—and the late setting of din and merrimake was all still and forsaken. Only Ickabod tarried behind, by the won of upland lovers, to have a head to head with the maiden of the huse; fully won over that he was nu on the high road to speed. What went on in this meeting I will not lichet to say, for in sooth I know not. Sumthing, huever, I fear me, must have gone wugh, for he wisly came forth, after no great betwixtfack, with an ansen rather lorn and unmoody. O, these wives! these wives! Cud that maid have been playing off any of her flirtful prats? Was her boldening of the arm teacher all a sham to sicker her winning his foe? Heaven only knows, not I! Let it be enugh to say, Ickabod stole forth with the whith of man who had been winning over a henroost, rather than a fair ladies heart. Withute looking to the right or left to mark the setting of upland wealth, on which he had so often crowed, he went streight to the horsern, and with many hearty blows and kicks woke his steed unhendly from the cweem stead in which he was sundly sleeping, swevening of barrows of corn and oats, and whole deens of clover and catstailgrass.
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 abuf 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.
 
It was the wiching time of night itself that Ickabod, heavihearted and lorn, followed his path homewards, along the sides of the high hills which rise above Tarry Tune, and which he had fared so merrily in the afternoon. The tide was as grim as his mood. Far beneath him the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and unsuttel weasten of waters, with here and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding softly at anker under the land. In the dead hush of midnight, he cud even hear the barking of the wachdog from the Hudsons wither shore; but it was so unsuttel and slight as only to yeave a ween of his farl from this trothful sither of man. Nu and then, too, the longdrawn crowing of a cock, unwittingly awoken, wud shill far, far off, from sum irthhuse away among the hills—but it was like a sweven to his ear. No tokens of life befell near him, but from time to time the yoomer chirp of a hillhoamer, or maybe the deep twang of a farfrog from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncweemly and starting swiftly in the bed.
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.
 
All the tales of goasts and pucks that he had heard in the afternoon nu came cruding in on his mind. The night grew darker and darker; the stars looked to sink deeper in the heavens, and driving cludes from time to time hid hem from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and lorn. He was, moreover, nearing the stead itself that had been the setting of many of those goasttales. In the middel of the road stood a great saddeltree, which kithed like an ettin above all the other trees of the neighborhood, and made a kind of landmark. Its bughs were gnarled and ferly, great enugh to be as stocks for everyday trees, twining dune almost to the earth, and rising ayen into the lift. It was lenched with the sorrowful tale of the wreched André, who had been hafted hard by; and was known by all by the name of Underheadman Andrés tree. The churlfolk held it with a mong of worth and offgalth, in deal ute of rewth for its unseely namesake, and in deal from the tales of ferly sights, and dreary woops, told abute it.
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 cistels, 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 cistels 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 Ickabod nighed this fearful tree, he began to whistel; he thought his whistel was answered; it was but a blast sweeping sharply thrugh the dry bughs. As he drew a littel nearer, he thought he saw sumthing white, hanging in the midst of the tree; he stalled and stopt whisteling but, on looking more narrowly, saw that it was a stead where the tree had been rined by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. All at onse he heard a groan—his teeth chattered, and his knees smote ayenst the saddel: it was but the gniding of one great bugh on another, as hy were swayed abute by the wind. He went by the tree in sickerhood, but new plights lay before him.
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 boþe 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.
 
Abute two hundred yards from the tree, a small brook flowed thwares the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly wooded glen, known by the name of Wileys Slugh. A few rugh timbers, laid side by side, made up the bridge over this stream. On that side of the road where the brook infared the wood, a cluster of oaks and chistels, matted thick with wild winetrees, threw a widegale gloom over it. To fare this bridge was the sternest work. It was at this stead itself that the wreched André was fanged, and under the shelter of those chistels and winetrees were the yomen hidden who seated hem. This has ever sinse been thought a gastly stream, and fearful are the moods of the knave who has to fare it alone after dark.
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. Wonse 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 wonse 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.
 
As he nighed the stream, his heart began to thump; he chied up, huever, all his will, yave his horse ten kicks in the ribs, and fanded to rush cwickly thwares the bridge; but instead of starting forward, the thwire old deer made a sideways swing, and ran broadside ayenst the edder. Ickabod, whose fears waxt with the fristing, firked the lines on the other side, and kickt lustily with the wither foot: it was all for nought; his steed started, it is trew, but it was only to dive to the wither side of the road into a thicket of brambels and aldershrubs. The teacher nu bestowed bo whip and heel on the starveling ribs of old Gundust, who rushed forward, sniffelling and snorting, but came to a stand right by the bridge, with a cwickness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head. Right at this brightom a plashy stamp by the side of the bridge fanged the keen ear of Ickabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the edge of the brook, he beheld sumthing ettinish, misshapen and kithing. It stirred not, but looked gathered up in the gloom, like sum great fivel ready to spring itself on the wayfarer.
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 slowed as well. 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 siþer 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.
 
The hair of the afrighted teacher rose on his head with brow. What was to be done? To wend and fly was nu too late; and besides, what likelihood was there of atwinding goast or puck, if such it was, which cud ride on the fithers of the wind? Cying up, therefore, a show of dught, he askt it a in a stammering tungfall, “who art thu?” He yat no answer. He eftledged his frain in a still more upset steven. Still there was no answer. Onse more he beat the sides of the unbendenly Gundust, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with unwillsum ellen into a salm. Right then the shadowy thing of fright put itself shrithing, and with a clatter and a leap stood at onse in the middel of the road. Thaugh the night was dark and lorn, the shape of the unknown might nu in sum way yet be kenned. He looked to be a horseman of great standing, and sat on a black horse of a mighty frame. He made no offer of grill or frendship, but kept cool on one side of the road, clopping along on the blind side of old Gundust, who had nu overcame his fright and waywardness.
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.
 
Ickabod, who had no list for this ferly midnight sither, and bethought himself of the rose of Brom Bones with the Riding Hessman, nu cwickened his steed in hopes of leaving him behind. The fremmedling, huever, cwickened his horse to an even step. Ickabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to slip behind,—the other slowed as well. His heart began to sink within him; he fanded to pick up his salm, but his thirsty tung clove to the roof of his muthe, and he cud not utter a word. There was sumthing in the moody and dogged stillness of this stithe sither that was runy and frightening. It was soon fearfully reched. On climbing a rising grund, which brought the ansen of his sither stark ayenst the heavens, ettinish in highth, and hushed in a loth, Ickabod was fearstricken on ayetting that he was headless!—but his brow was still highthened on ayetting that the head, which shud have rested on his sholders, was born before him on the knap of his saddel! His brow rose to wanhope; he rained a shure of kicks and blows on Gundust, hoping by a swift run to yeave his sither the slip; but the goast started full leap with him. Away, then, hy rushed thrugh thick and thin; stones flying and sparks leeming at every step. Ickabods thin clothing fluttered in the lift, as he straught his long lank body away over his horses head, in the keenness of his flight.
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.
 
Hy had nu raught the road which bends off to Sleepy Hollow; but Gundust, who looked to be indwelt by a puck, instead of keeping up it, made a wither wend, and dove headlong dunehill to the left. This road leads thrugh a sandy hollow shaded by trees for abute a forth of a mile, where it reaches the bridge mear in the goasttale; and right beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed church.
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.
 
As yet the fright of the steed had yeaven his uncrafty rider what looked to be a note in the rease, but right as he had yetten halfway thrugh the hollow, the belts of the saddel yave way, and he felt it slipping from under him. He fanged it by the knap, and fanded to hold it fast, but for nought; and had only time to near himself by clasping old Gundust umb the neck, when the saddel fell to the earth, and he heard it stamped under foot by his hunter. For a brightom the fear of Hans Van Rippers wrath went thrugh his mind,—for it was his Sunday saddel; but this was no time for small fears; the puck was hard on his back; and (uncrafty rider that he was!) he had much ado to keep hold of his settel; sumtimes slipping on one side, sumtimes on another, and sumtimes shook on the high ridge of his horses backbone, with a heast that he trewly feared wud cleave him asunder.
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 idelly 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 suttelly 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.
 
An opening in the trees nu chirked him with the hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering glass of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not misnimmen. He saw the walls of the church dimly gleaming under the trees beyond. He mimmered the stead where Brom Boneses goastly foe had swinded. “If I can but reach that bridge,” thought Ickabod, “I am sund.” Right then he heard the black steed orthing and blowing nigh behind him; he even fathomed that he felt his hot breath. Another fitful kick in the ribs, and old Gundust sprang onto the bridge; he thundered over the clattering thills; he raught the wither side; and nu Ickabod threw a look behind to see if his hunter shud swind, as was wont, in a leem of fire and brimstone. Right then he saw the puck rising in his stirrups, and in the deed itself of reeling his head at him. Ickabod fanded to ward off the eyful flone, but too late. It met his head with a great thud,—he was tumbelled headlong into the dust, and Gundust, the black steed, and the puck rider, went by like a thode.
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 ilk 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.
 
The next morning the old horse was fund withute his saddel, and with the bridel under his feet, coolly cropping the grass at his masters gate. Ickabod did not atew at breakfast; eveningtide came, but no Ickabod. The knaves gathered at the lorehuse, and walked idelly abute the banks of the brook; but no teacher. Hans Van Ripper nu began to feel sum uneath abute the orlay of arm Ickabod, and his saddel. A seeching was set abute on foot, and after an earnest stund hy came to his spores. In one deal of the road leading to the church was fund the saddel trodden into the earth; the loasts of horses hooves deeply thruched in the road, and suttelly at reeth speed, were followed to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad deal of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was fund the hat of the wreched Ickabod, and nigh beside it a broken peapon.
Þe runy befalling brawt muce weening at þe circe on þe following Sunday. Knots of wacers and bisiboddies 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.
 
The brook was seeched, but the body of the teacher was not to be fund. Hans Van Ripper as fulfiller of his things, smeyed the bundel which held all his worldaught. It was made up of two shirts and a half; two stocks for the neck; a set or two of worsted stockings; and old set of rugh smallclothes; a rusty shearsax; a book of salms full of dogears; and a broken pichpipe. As to the books and idish of the lorehuse, hy belonged to the tune, but for Cotton Mathers “Stear of Wichcraft,” a “New England Yearbook,” and a book of swevens and halsing; in which last was a leaf much written and smeared in many fands for naught to make a clove of ferses for the daughter of Van Tassel. These books of drycraft and the leeths were forthwith sent to the fire by Hans Van Ripper; who, from that time forward, chose to send his children no more to learn, saying that he never knew any good to cum of this ilk reading and writing. Whatever yeeld the teacher had, and he had fanged his forths yeeld but a day or two before, he must have had abute his body at the time of his swinding.
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 boþe tawt and conned ea at wonse; 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.
 
The runy befalling brought much weening at the church on the following Sunday. Knots of wachers and bisybodies were gathered in the churchyard, at the bridge, and at the stead where the hat and peapon had been fund. The tales of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole stock of others were chied to mind; and when hy had keenly looked over hem all, and likened hem with the marks of the befalling at hand, hy shook hir heads, and came to the end that Ickabod had been born off by the Riding Hessman. As he was unwed, and in nobodies shild, nobody worried hir head any more abute him; the lorehuse was shrithen to a sundry deal of the hollow, and another teacher rixt in his stead.
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.
 
It is trew, an old bure, who had been dune to New York many years after, and from whom this rake of the goastly rose was fanged, brought home the knowledge that Ickabod Crane was still alive; that he had left the neighborhood in deal thrugh fear of the puck and Hans Van Ripper, and in deal in shame at having been swiftly spurned by the maiden; that he had shifted his steadings to a farlen deal of the rich; had bo taught and conned ea at onse; had becum a ewwit; then a weelder; ran for wicken; written for the tidings; and at last had been made a deemer of the Ten Pund Doomern. Brom Bones, too, who, shortly after his foes swinding led the blossoming Katrina siefast to the alter, was seen to look mighty knowing whenever Ickabods tale was told, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the nemmening of the peapon; which led sum to inkel that he knew more abute the thing than he chose to tell.
 
The old upland wives, huever, who are the best deemers of these things, hold to this day that Ickabod was born off in an eldrich way; and it is a darling tale often told thrughute the neighborhood abute the winter evening fire. The bridge became more than ever a thing of fearful ey; and that may be the grunds on which the road has been shifted of late years, so as to nigh the church by the edge of the millpond. The lorehuse being forsaken soon fell to rot, and was said to be inearded by the goast of the wreched teacher and the plughknave, tarrying homeward on a still summer evening, has often fathomed his steven far off, singing a sorrowful salm among the hoder stillness of Sleepy Hollow.
<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">AFTERWERD.<br />FUND IN ÞE HANDWRITING OF HER KNICKERBOCKER.</big></div>
 
 
<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">AFTERWORD.<br />FUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF HER KNICKERBOCKER.</big></div>
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?
 
The foregoing tale is yeaven almost in the words hemselves in which I heard it told at a Bisiness meeting in the fern borough of Manhattoes, at which were there many of its wisest and mearest boroughers. The teller was a winsum, shabby, herly old fellow, in salt and pepper clothes, with a sadly playful anlet, and whom I strongly inkelled of being arm—he made such fands to be gripping. When his tale was ended, there was much laughter and loave, hure from two or three yomen aldermen, who had been asleep the greater deal of the time. There was, huever, one tall, dry looking old her, with beetelling eyebrues, who kept a sweer and rather stern anlet thrughute, nu and then folding his arms, nodding his head, and looking dune on the floor, as if wharving a twee over in his mind. He was one of the wary weres, who never laugh but on good grunds—when hy have rode and ea on hir side. When the mirth of the lave of the folk had gone by, and stillness was edstaddelled, he leant one arm on the elbow of his seld, and sticking the other akimbow, askt, with a slight, but overly wise nod of the head, and shortening of the brue, what was the reading of the tale, and what it went to asoothe?
“Þat þare is no þing in life but has its boots and cweems—yeafen we will but nim a prat as we find it:
 
The taleteller, who was right then putting a glass of wine to his lips, as a liss after his swink, stalled for a brightom, looked at his frainer with a whith of unbund yeelding, and, setting the glass slowly dune to the beed, said that the tale was meant most rodefully to asoothe—
“Þat þarefore, he þat runs reases wiþ puckisce harmen is likely to haf ruff riding of it.”
 
“That there is no thing in life but has its boots and cweems—yeaven we will but nim a prat as we find 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.”
 
“That therefore, he that runs reases with puckish harmen is likely to have rugh riding of it.”
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.
 
“Thus, for an upland teacher to be spurned the hand of a Duch maiden is a wiss step to rising high in the rich.”
“Troþ, her,” ancwoþe þe taleteller, “as to þat, ice belefen’t won half of it myself.”
 
The wary old her knit his brues tenfold faster after this reching, being sorely mased by the wording of the rode, while, methought, the man in salt and pepper eyed him with sumthing of a siefast leer. At length he ayetted that all this was full well, but still he thought the tale a littel on the wild side—there were one or two ords on which he had his twees.
 
“Troth, her,” acwothe the taleteller, “as to that, I beleeven’t one half of it myself.”
 
D. K.
 
 
 
 
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