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 unshakenly won 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.
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.