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The Tale of Sleepy Hollow: Difference between revisions

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I nemmen this frithful stow with all mightly loave, for it is in such swethered littel 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 wunder yet whether I shud not still find the ilk trees and the ilk maiths idelling in its sheltered bosom.
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 mighty lank, with narrow sholders, long arms and shanks, hands that swung a mile ute of his sleeves, feet that might have worked as shuvels, and his whole frame most woakly hangen together. His head was small, and flateven 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.
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.
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.
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 flatrugh 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.
This rakish heleth had for sum time chosen the blossoming Katrina for the markel of his uncooth knightliness, and thaugh his luvesum 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 luve; 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.
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.
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 FlatsWongs, 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 won over but that he had had a great hand in bringing the wie to a good end.
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.
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