September 3, 2025 • 38 mins
Dive into the eerie and enchanting world of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, a captivating short story by Washington Irving. Part of his collection, The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent., this tale was penned during his time in Birmingham, England, and first saw the light of day in 1820. Inspired by a German folktale, it immerses readers in the Dutch culture of Post-Revolutionary War New York State. Alongside Irvings renowned Rip Van Winkle, this story stands as one of the earliest and most beloved examples of American fiction that continues to resonate with readers today. (Summary by Wikipedia)
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving, Part two.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain read by Bobnefeld.
It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day.
The sky was clear and serene, and nature bore that
rich and golden livery which we always associate with the
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idea of abundance. The forests had put on their sober
brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer Hie
had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple,
and scarlet. Streaming piles of wild ducks began to make
their appearance. High in the air. The bark of the
squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and
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hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at
intervals from the neighboring stubble field. The small birds were
taking their farewell banquets in the fullness of their revelry.
They fluttered, chirping and frolicking from bush to bush, and
treated tree capricious. From the very profusion and variety around them.
There was the honest cock robin, the favorite game of
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strippling sportsmen, with its long querulous note, and the twittering
blackbirds flying in sable clouds, and the golden winged woodpecker
with his crimson crest, his broad black gorgets and splendid plumage,
and the cedar bird with its red tipped wings and
yellow tipped tail and its little montero cap of feathers,
and the blue jay that noisy cocks coat, in his
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gay light blue coat and white underclothes, screaming and chattering,
nodding and bobbing and bowing, and pretending to be on
good terms with every songster of the grove. As Ikubah
jogged slowly on his way, his eye ever open to
every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over the
treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast
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store of apples, some hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees,
some gathered into baskets and barrels for the market, others
heaped up in rich piles for the cider press. Farther
on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its
golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts and holding out
the promise of cakes and hasty pudding. And the yellow
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pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their fair round bellies
to the sun and giving ample prospects of the most
luxurious of pies and anon. He passed the fragrant buckwheat fields,
breathing the odor of the beehive, and as he beheld them,
soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well
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buttered and garnished with honey or treacle by the delicate,
little dimpled hand of Katrina van Tassel, thus feeding his
mind with many sweet thoughts and sugared suppositions. He journeyed
along the sides of a range of hills which look
out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson.
The sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down in the west,
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The wide bosom of the Tapanzee lay motionless and glassy,
excepting that here and there a gentle undulation waved and
prolonged the blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few
amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of
air to move them. The horizon was of a fine
golden tint, changing gradually into a pure apple green, and
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from that into the deep blue of the mid heaven.
A slanting ray lingered on the wooden crests of the
precipices that overhung some parts of the river, giving greater
depth to the dark gray and purple of their rocky sides.
A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down
with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the mast,
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and as the reflection of the sky gleamed along the
still water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended
in the air. It was toward evening that Ichabad arrived
at the castle of the hair fantassel, which he found
wronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country.
Old farmers, a spare, leathern faced race in homespun coats
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and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles,
their brisk wither little dames in close crimped caps, long
waisted short gowns, homespun petticoats with scissors and pincushions, and
gay calico pockets hanging on the outside box. Some glasses
almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting were a straw hat,
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a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock gave symptoms
of city innovation. The suns in short, square skirted coats
with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally
cued in the fashion of the times, especially if they
could procure an eel skin for the purpose, it being
esteemed throughout the country as a potent nourisher and strengthener
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of the hair. Brom Bones, however, was the hero of
the scene, having come to the gathering on his favorite steed, Daredevil,
a creature like himself, full of metal and mischief, and
which no one but himself could manage. He was, in
fact noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds
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of tricks, which kept the rider in constant risk of
his neck, for he held a tractable, well broken horse
as unworthy of a lad of spirit. Fain would I
pause to dwell upon the world of charms that burst
upon the enraptured gaze of my hero as he entered
the state parlor of van Tossel's mansion. Not those of
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the bevy of buxom lasses with their luxurious display of
red and white, but the ample charms of a genuine
Dutch country tea table in the sumptuous time of autumn.
Such heaped up platters of cakes of various and almost
indescribable kinds, not only to experience and Dutch housewives. There
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was the doughty doughnut, the tender oly cook and the
crisp and crumbling cruller, sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger
cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes.
And then there were the apple pies and beech pies
and pumpkin pies, besides slices of ham and smoked beef,
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and moreover delectable dishes of preserved plums and peaches and
pears and quinces, not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens,
together with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgleleypickledy,
pretty much as I have enumerated them, with a motherly
teapot sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst heaven,
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bless the mark. I want breath in time to discuss
this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to
get on with my story happily. Ikeabod Crane was not
in so great a hurry as his historian, but did
ample justice to every dainty. He was a kind and
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thankful creature, whose heart dilated in proportion as his skin
was filled with good cheer, and its spirits rose with eating,
as some men's do with drink. He could not help too,
rolling his large eyes round him as he ate and
chuckling with the possibility that he might one day be
lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and splendor.
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Then he thought, how soon he'd turned his back upon
the old schoolhouse, snap his fingers in the face of
Hans van Ripper and every other niggardly patron, and kick
any itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to
call him comrade. Old Baltus van Tassel moved about among
his guests with a face dilated with content and good humor,
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round and jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions
were brief but express, as if being confined to a
shake of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a
loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to fall to and
help themselves. And now the sound of the music from
the common room or hall summoned to the dance. The
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musician was an old gray headed negro, who had been
the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half
a century. His instrument was as old and battered as himself.
The greater part of the time he scraped on two
or three strings, accompanying every movement of the bow with
a motion of the head, bowing almost to the ground,
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and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were
to start. Ikumud prided himself upon his dancing as much
as upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a
fiber about him was idle, And to have seen his
loosely hung frame in full motion and clattering about the room,
you would have thought Saint Vitus himself, that blessed patron
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of the dance, was figuring before you in person. He
was the admiration of all the negroes, who, having gathered
of all ages and sizes from the farm in the neighborhood,
stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every
door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling
their white eyeballs and showing grinning rows of ivory from
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ear to ear. How could the flogger of urchins be
otherwise than animated and joyous. The lady of his heart
was his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in
reply to all his amorous oglings. While Brown Bones, sorely
smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in
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one corner. When the dance was at an end, Hiccubon
was attracted to a knot of the Sager folks, who,
with old Fantassel, sat smoking at one end of the piazza,
gossiping over former times and drawing out long stories about
the war. This neighborhood, at the time of which I
am speaking, was one of those highly favored places which
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abound with chronicle and great men. The British and American
line had run near it during the war. It had
therefore been the scene of marauding and infested with refugees, cowboys,
and all kinds of border chivalry. Just sufficient time had
elapsed to enable each story teller to dress up his
tear with a little becoming fiction, and in the indistinctness
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of his recollection, to make himself the hero of every exploit.
There was the story of Daufu Martling, the large blue
bearded Dutchman who had nearly taken a British frigate with
an old iron nine pounder from a mud breastwork, only
that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there
was the old gentleman, who shall be nameless, being too
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rich a mine here to be lightly mentioned, who, in
the Battle of White Plains, being an excellent master of defense,
parried a musket boar with a small sword, insomuch that
he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade and glance
off at the hilt, in proof of which he was
ready at any time to show the sword with the
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hilt a little bent. There were several more that had
been equally great in the field, not one of whom
but was persuaded that he had a considerable hand in
bringing the war to a happy termination. But all these
were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions that succeeded.
The neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of the kind.
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Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered, long
settled retreats, but are trampled under foot by the shifting
throng that forms the population of most of our country places. Besides,
there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages,
for they have scarcely had time to finish their first
nap and turn themselves in their graves before their surviving
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friends have traveled away from the neighborhood, so that when
they turn out at night to walk their rounds, they
have no acquaintance left to call upon. This is perhaps
the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts except
in our long established Dutch communities. The immediate cause, however,
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of the prevalence of supernatural stories in these parts, was
doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was
a contagion in the very air that blew from that
haunted region. It breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies,
infecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow feeling
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were present at von Tossel's, and, as usual, were doling
out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales were
told about funeral trains and morning cries and wailings heard
and seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major
Andre was taken and which stood in the neighborhood mansion.
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Was made also of the woman in white that haunted
the dark glen at Braven Rock, and was often heard
to shriek on winter nights before a storm, having perished
there in the snow. The chief part of the stories, however,
turned upon the favorite specter of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman,
who had been heard several times of late patrolling the country,
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and it was said, tethered his horse nightly among the
graves in the churchyard. The sequestered situation of this church
seems almost to have made it a favorite haunt of
troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust
trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent, whitewashed
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walls shine modestly forth, like Christian purity, beaming through the
shades of retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to
a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, between
which peeps may be caught at the blue hills of
the Hudson. To look upon on its grass grown yard,
where the sunbeams seemed to sleep so quietly, one would
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think that there at least the dead might rest in peace.
On one side of the church extends a wide wooded dell,
along which raves. A large brook among broken rocks and
trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of
the stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown
a wooden bridge. The road that led to it and
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the bridge itself were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which
cast a gloom about it even in the daytime, but
occasioned a fearful darkness at night. Such was one of
the favorite haunts of the Headless Horseman, and the place
where he was most frequently encountered. The tale was told
of Old Brewer, a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how
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he met the horsemen returning from his foray into sleepy Hollow,
and was obliged to get up behind him. How they
galloped over bush and break over the hill and swamp
until they reached the bridge, when the horsemen suddenly turned
into a skeleton, threw Old Brewer into the brook and
sprang away over the tree tops with a clap of thunder.
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The story was immediately matched by a thrice marvelous adventure
of brom Bones, who had made light of the galloping
Heschian as an errant jockey. He affirmed that on returning
one night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing. He
had been overtaken by this midnight trooper that he had
offered to race with him for a bowl of punch,
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and should have won it too, for Daredevil beat the
goblin horse all hollow, but just as they came to
the church bridge, the Hessian bolting and vanished in a
flash of fire. All these tales told in that drowsy
undertone with which men talk in the dark. The countenances
of the listeners only now and then, receiving a casual
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gleam from the glare of a pipe sank deep in
the mudd of Ikabad. He repaid them in kind with
large extracts from his invaluable offer, Cotton Mather, and added
many marvelous events that had taken place in his native
state of Connecticut, and fearful sights which he had seen
in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow. The revel now
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gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered together their families
in their wagons and were heard for some time rattling
along the hollow roads and over the distant hills. Some
of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their favorite swains,
and their light hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs,
echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter, until
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they gradually died away, and the late scene of noise
and frolic was all silent and deserted. Acabod only lingered behind,
according to the custom of country lovers, to have a
tete a tete with the heiress, fully convinced that he
was now on the high road success. What passed at
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this interview I will not pretend to say, for in
fact I do not know. Something. However, I fear me
must have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth after
no very great interval, with an air quite desolate and chapfallen.
Oh these women, these women. Could that girl have been
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playing off any of her coquettish tricks. Was her encouragement
of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure
her conquest of his rival? Heaven only knows not. I
let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the
air of one who had been sacking a hen roost
rather than a fair lady's heart, without looking to the
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right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth
on which he had so often gloated. He went straight
to the stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks,
roused his deed most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters on
which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn
and oats, and whole valleys of Timothy and clover. It
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was the very witching time of night that Hiccabod, heavy
hearted and crestfallen, pursued his travels homewards along the sides
of the lofty hills which rise above Tarrytown, and which
he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour
was as dismal as himself. Far below him, the tappan
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Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with
here and there the tall mast of a sloop riding
quietly at anchor under the land. In the dead hush
of midnight, he could even hear the barking of the
watchdog from the opposite shore of the Hudson, but it
was so vague and faint as only to give an
idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man.
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Now and then too, the long drawn crowing of a
cock accidentally awakened would sound far far off from some
farmhouse away among the hills, but it was like a
dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred
near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket,
or perhaps the gutter will twang of a bullfrog from
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a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably and turning suddenly
in his bed. All the stories of ghosts and goblins
that he had heard in the afternoon now came crowding
upon his recollection. The night grew darker and darker, The
stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving
clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never
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felt so lonely and dismal. He was moreover approaching the
very place where many of the scenes of the ghost
stories had been laid. In the center of the road
stood an enormous tulip tree, which towered like a giant
above all the other trees of the neighborhood and formed
a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic,
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large enough to form trunks to ordinary trees, twisting down
almost to the earth and rising again into the air.
It was connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate Andre,
who had been taken prisoner hard by, and was universally
known by the name of Major Andre's Tree. The common
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people regarded it with a mixture of respect and superstition,
partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill
starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights
and doleful emanations told concerning it. As Nikobad approached this
fearful tree, he began to whistle. He thought his whistle
was answered. It was but a blast, sweeping sharply through
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the dry branches. As he approached a little nearer, he
thought he saw something white hanging in the midst of
the tree. He paused and ceased whistling, but on looking
more nearly perceived that it was a place where the
tree had been scathed by lightning, and the white wood
laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan, his teeth chattered,
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and his knee smote against the saddle. It was but
the rubbing of one huge bough upon another as they
were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree
in safety, but new perils lay before him. About two
hundred yards from the tree, a small brook crossed the
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road and ran into a marshy and thickly wooded glen
known by the name of Wiley's Swamp. A few rough logs,
laid side by side served as a bridge over this stream.
On that side of the road where the brick entered
the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick
with wild grapevines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To
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pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was at
this identical spot that the unfortunate Andre was captured, and
under the covert of these chestnuts and vines were the
sturdy yeoman concealed who surprised him. This has ever since
been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings
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of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark.
As he approached the stream, his heart began to thump.
He summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse
half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted
to dash briskly across the bridge. But instead of starting forward,
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the perverse old animal made a lateral movement and ran
broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay,
jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily
with the contrary foot. It was all in vain his
steed started, it is true, but it was only to
pluge to the opposite side of the road into a
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thicket of brambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed
both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old gunpowder,
who dashed forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to stand
just by the bridge with a suddenness that nearly sent
his rider sprawling over his head. Just at this moment,
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a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught
the sensitive ear Ricabod. In the dark shadow of the
grove on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge,
misshapen and towering. It stirred not but seemed gathered up
in the gloom, like some gigantic monster, ready to spring
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upon the traveler. The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose
upon his head with terror. What was to be done
to turn and fly was now too late, And besides,
what chance was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if
such it was, which could ride upon the wings of
the wind. Summoning up therefore a show of courage, he demanded,
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in stammering accents, Oh who are you? He received no reply.
He repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice.
Still there was no answer. Once more, he cudgeled the
sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke
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forth with involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then
the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and
with a scramble and a bound stood at once in
the middle of the road. Though the night was dark
and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now
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in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a
horseman of large dimensions, and mount on a black horse
of powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability,
but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging
along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had
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now got over his fright and waywardness. Acabad, who had
no relish for this strange midnight companion, and bethought himself
of the adventure of brom Bones with the galloping Hessian
now quickened his steed in hopes of leaving him behind.
The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace.
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Acobad pulled up and fell into a walk, thinking to
lag behind the other did the same. His heart began
to sink within him. He endeavored to resume his psalmn tune,
but his parched tongue clothed to the roof of his mouth,
and he could not utter a stave. There was something
in the moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion
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that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for.
On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of
his fellow traveler in relief against the sky. Gigantic in
height and muffled in a cloak, Hiccabod was horror struck
on perceiving that he was headless. But his horror was
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still more increased on observing that the head, which should
have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on
the pommel of his saddle. His terror rose to desperation.
He rained a shower of kicks and blows upon gunpowder,
hoping for a sudden movement to give his companion the slip,
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but the specter started full jump with him away. Then
they dashed through thick and thin stones, flying and sparks
flashing at every bound. Hiccabod's flimsy garments fluttered in the
air as he stretched his long legs body away over
his horse's head in the eagerness of his flight. They
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had now reached the road which turns off Sleepy Hollow,
but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, instead of
keeping up it, made an opposite turn and plunged headlong
downhill to the left. This road leads through a sandy
hollow shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile,
where it crosses the bridge famous in Goblin story, and
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just beyond swells the green Knoll, on which stands the
white Washed Church. As yet, the panic of the steed
had given his unskillful rider an apparent advantage in the chase,
But just as he had got half way through the hollow,
the girths of the saddle gave way and he felt
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it slipping from under him. He seized it by the
pommel and endeavored to hold it firm but in vain,
and had just time to save himself by clasping old
gunp around the neck. When the saddle fell to the
earth and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer.
For a moment the terror of Hans van Ripper's wrath
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passed across his mind, for it was his Sunday saddle.
But this was no time for petty fears. The goblin
was hard on his haunches, and unskillful rider that he was,
he had much ado to maintain his seat, sometimes slipping
on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on
the high ridge of his horse's backbone with a violence
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that he verily feared would cleave him asunder. An opening
in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that
the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of
a silver star in the bosom of the brook told
him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls
of the church dimly glaring under the trees. Beyond, he
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recollected the place where brom Bone's ghostly competitor had disappeared.
I I can but reach that bridge, thought Ichabod. I
am safe. Just then he heard the black steed panting
and blowing close behind him. He even fancied that he
felt its hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the ribs,
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and old gunpower sprang upon the bridge. He thundered over
the resounding planks. He gained the opposite side, and now
Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer
should vanish according to rule, in a flash of fire
and brimstone. Just then he saw the Goblin rising in
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his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his
head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile,
but too late it encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash.
He was tumbled headlong into the dusts and gunpowder. The
black steed and the goblin rider passed by like a whirlwind.
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The next morning, the old horse was found without his
saddle and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping
the grass at his master's gate. Ichabad did not make
his appearance at breakfast. Dinner hour came, but no Ichabod.
The boys assembled at the schoolhouse and strolled idly about
the banks of the brook, but no Schoolmaster. Hans van
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Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate
of poor Ichabod and his saddle. An inquiry was set
on foot, and after diligent investigation they came upon his traces.
In one part of the road leading to the church,
was found the saddle trampled in the dirt, the tracks
of horses, hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently
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at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which,
on the bank of a broad part of the brook,
where the water ran deep and black, was found the
hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a
shattered pumpkin. The brook was searched, but the body of
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the schoolmaster was not to be discovered. Hans van Ripper,
as executor of his estates, examined the bundle which contained
all his worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts and
a half, two stocks for the neck, a pair or
two of worsted stockings, an old pair of corduroy small clothes,
a rusty raiser, a book of palm tunes full of
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dog's ears, and a broken pitch pipe. As to the
books and furniture of the schoolhouse, they belonged to the community.
Excepting Cotton Mather's history of witchcraft, a New England Almanac,
and a book of Dreams and fortune Telling, in which
last was a sheet of fool's cap much scribbled and
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blotted in several fruitless attempts to make a copy of
verses in honor of the heiress of von Tossel. These
magic books, in the poetic scrawl forthwith consigned to the
flames by Hans van Ripper, who from that time forward
determined to send his children no more to school, observing
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that he never knew any good come of this same
reading and writing. Whatever Monday the schoolmaster possessed, and he
had received his quarters pay but a day or two before,
he must have had about his person at the time
of his disappearance. The mysterious event caused much speculation at
the church. On the following Sunday, knots of gazers and
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gossips were collected in the churchyard at the bridge and
at the spot where the hat and pumpkin had been found.
The stories of Brewer of Bones and a whole budget
of others were called to mind, and when they had
diligently considered them all and compared them with the symptoms
of the present case, they shook their heads, and came
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to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried off by
the galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor and did
nobody's debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him.
The school was removed to a different quarter of the hollow,
and another pedagogue reigned in his stead. It is true
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an old farmer who had been down to New York
on a visit several years after, and from whom this
account of the ghostly adventure was received, brought home the
intelligence that Igobod Crane was still alive, that he had
left the neighborhood, partly through fear of the Goblin and
Hans van Ripper, and partly in mortification at having been
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suddenly dismissed by the Heiress. That he had changed his
quarters to a distant part of the country, had kept
school and studied law at the same time, had been
admitted to the bar, turned politician, electioneered written for the newspapers,
and finally had been made a justice of the ten
Pound Court. Bron Bones, too, who, shortly after his rifles
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did disappearance, conducted the Blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar,
was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of
Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh
at the mention of the pumpkin, which led some to
suspect that he knew more about the matter than he
chose to tell. The old country wives, however, who are
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the best judges of these matters, maintained to this day
that Ichabod was spirited away by supernatural means, and it
is a favorite story often told about the neighborhood round
the winter evening fire. The bridge became more than ever
an object of superstitious awe, and that may be the
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reason why the road has been altered of late years
so as to approach the church by the border of
the mill pond. That schoolhouse, being deserted, soon fell to decay,
and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of
the unfortunate he had agog And the plowboy, loitering homeward
of a still summer evening, has often fancied his voice
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at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune. Among the
tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow PostScript found in the handwriting
of mister Knickerbacker. The preceding tale is given almost in
the precise words in which I heard it related at
a corporation meeting at the ancient city of Manhato's, at
(35:29):
which were present many of its sagest and most illustrious burghers.
The narrator was a pleasant, shabby gentlemanly old fellow in
pepper and salt clothes, with a sadly humorous face, and
one whom I strongly suspected of being poor. He made
such efforts to be entertaining. When his story was concluded,
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there was much laughter and approbation, particularly from two or
three deputy aldermen who had been asleep the greater part
of the time. There was, however, one tall, dry looking
old gentleman with beetling eyebrows, who maintained a grave and
rather severe face throughout now and then, folding his arms
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inclining his head, and looking down upon the floor, as
if turning a doubt over in his mind. He was
one of your wary men, who never laughed, but upon
good grounds when they have reason and law on their side.
When the mirth of the rest of the company had
subsided and silence was restored, he leaned one arm on
(36:32):
the elbow of his chair and sticking the other. Akimbo demanded,
with a slight but exceedingly sage motion of the head
and contraction of the brow, what was the moral of
the story and what it went to prove? The story teller,
who was just putting a glass of wine to his
lips and the refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment,
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looked at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference,
and lowering the glass us slowly to the table, observed
that the story was intended most logically to prove that
there is no situation in life, but has its advantages
and pleasures provided we will but take a joke as
we find it that therefore, he that runs races with
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goblin troopers is likely to have rough riding of it.
Ergo for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand
of a Dutch heiress is a certain step to high
preferment in the state. The cautious old gentleman knit his
brows tenfold closer after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by
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the ratiocination of the syllogism. While he thought the one
in pepper and salt eyed him with something of a
triumphant leer. At length, he observed that all this was
very well, but still he thought the story a little
on the extravagant. There were one or two points on
which he had his doubts. Faith Sir, replied the story teller,
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as to that matter, I don't believe one half of
it myself. Decay and of the Legend of Sleepy Hollow
by Washington Irving, read by Bob Neufeld,
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving, Part two.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain read by Bobnefeld.
It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day.
The sky was clear and serene, and nature bore that
rich and golden livery which we always associate with the
(00:23):
idea of abundance. The forests had put on their sober
brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer Hie
had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple,
and scarlet. Streaming piles of wild ducks began to make
their appearance. High in the air. The bark of the
squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and
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hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at
intervals from the neighboring stubble field. The small birds were
taking their farewell banquets in the fullness of their revelry.
They fluttered, chirping and frolicking from bush to bush, and
treated tree capricious. From the very profusion and variety around them.
There was the honest cock robin, the favorite game of
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strippling sportsmen, with its long querulous note, and the twittering
blackbirds flying in sable clouds, and the golden winged woodpecker
with his crimson crest, his broad black gorgets and splendid plumage,
and the cedar bird with its red tipped wings and
yellow tipped tail and its little montero cap of feathers,
and the blue jay that noisy cocks coat, in his
(01:29):
gay light blue coat and white underclothes, screaming and chattering,
nodding and bobbing and bowing, and pretending to be on
good terms with every songster of the grove. As Ikubah
jogged slowly on his way, his eye ever open to
every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over the
treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast
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store of apples, some hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees,
some gathered into baskets and barrels for the market, others
heaped up in rich piles for the cider press. Farther
on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its
golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts and holding out
the promise of cakes and hasty pudding. And the yellow
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pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their fair round bellies
to the sun and giving ample prospects of the most
luxurious of pies and anon. He passed the fragrant buckwheat fields,
breathing the odor of the beehive, and as he beheld them,
soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well
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buttered and garnished with honey or treacle by the delicate,
little dimpled hand of Katrina van Tassel, thus feeding his
mind with many sweet thoughts and sugared suppositions. He journeyed
along the sides of a range of hills which look
out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson.
The sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down in the west,
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The wide bosom of the Tapanzee lay motionless and glassy,
excepting that here and there a gentle undulation waved and
prolonged the blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few
amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of
air to move them. The horizon was of a fine
golden tint, changing gradually into a pure apple green, and
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from that into the deep blue of the mid heaven.
A slanting ray lingered on the wooden crests of the
precipices that overhung some parts of the river, giving greater
depth to the dark gray and purple of their rocky sides.
A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down
with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the mast,
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and as the reflection of the sky gleamed along the
still water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended
in the air. It was toward evening that Ichabad arrived
at the castle of the hair fantassel, which he found
wronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country.
Old farmers, a spare, leathern faced race in homespun coats
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and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles,
their brisk wither little dames in close crimped caps, long
waisted short gowns, homespun petticoats with scissors and pincushions, and
gay calico pockets hanging on the outside box. Some glasses
almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting were a straw hat,
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a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock gave symptoms
of city innovation. The suns in short, square skirted coats
with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally
cued in the fashion of the times, especially if they
could procure an eel skin for the purpose, it being
esteemed throughout the country as a potent nourisher and strengthener
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of the hair. Brom Bones, however, was the hero of
the scene, having come to the gathering on his favorite steed, Daredevil,
a creature like himself, full of metal and mischief, and
which no one but himself could manage. He was, in
fact noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds
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of tricks, which kept the rider in constant risk of
his neck, for he held a tractable, well broken horse
as unworthy of a lad of spirit. Fain would I
pause to dwell upon the world of charms that burst
upon the enraptured gaze of my hero as he entered
the state parlor of van Tossel's mansion. Not those of
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the bevy of buxom lasses with their luxurious display of
red and white, but the ample charms of a genuine
Dutch country tea table in the sumptuous time of autumn.
Such heaped up platters of cakes of various and almost
indescribable kinds, not only to experience and Dutch housewives. There
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was the doughty doughnut, the tender oly cook and the
crisp and crumbling cruller, sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger
cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes.
And then there were the apple pies and beech pies
and pumpkin pies, besides slices of ham and smoked beef,
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and moreover delectable dishes of preserved plums and peaches and
pears and quinces, not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens,
together with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgleleypickledy,
pretty much as I have enumerated them, with a motherly
teapot sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst heaven,
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bless the mark. I want breath in time to discuss
this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to
get on with my story happily. Ikeabod Crane was not
in so great a hurry as his historian, but did
ample justice to every dainty. He was a kind and
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thankful creature, whose heart dilated in proportion as his skin
was filled with good cheer, and its spirits rose with eating,
as some men's do with drink. He could not help too,
rolling his large eyes round him as he ate and
chuckling with the possibility that he might one day be
lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and splendor.
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Then he thought, how soon he'd turned his back upon
the old schoolhouse, snap his fingers in the face of
Hans van Ripper and every other niggardly patron, and kick
any itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to
call him comrade. Old Baltus van Tassel moved about among
his guests with a face dilated with content and good humor,
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round and jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions
were brief but express, as if being confined to a
shake of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a
loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to fall to and
help themselves. And now the sound of the music from
the common room or hall summoned to the dance. The
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musician was an old gray headed negro, who had been
the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half
a century. His instrument was as old and battered as himself.
The greater part of the time he scraped on two
or three strings, accompanying every movement of the bow with
a motion of the head, bowing almost to the ground,
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and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were
to start. Ikumud prided himself upon his dancing as much
as upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a
fiber about him was idle, And to have seen his
loosely hung frame in full motion and clattering about the room,
you would have thought Saint Vitus himself, that blessed patron
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of the dance, was figuring before you in person. He
was the admiration of all the negroes, who, having gathered
of all ages and sizes from the farm in the neighborhood,
stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every
door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling
their white eyeballs and showing grinning rows of ivory from
(09:21):
ear to ear. How could the flogger of urchins be
otherwise than animated and joyous. The lady of his heart
was his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in
reply to all his amorous oglings. While Brown Bones, sorely
smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in
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one corner. When the dance was at an end, Hiccubon
was attracted to a knot of the Sager folks, who,
with old Fantassel, sat smoking at one end of the piazza,
gossiping over former times and drawing out long stories about
the war. This neighborhood, at the time of which I
am speaking, was one of those highly favored places which
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abound with chronicle and great men. The British and American
line had run near it during the war. It had
therefore been the scene of marauding and infested with refugees, cowboys,
and all kinds of border chivalry. Just sufficient time had
elapsed to enable each story teller to dress up his
tear with a little becoming fiction, and in the indistinctness
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of his recollection, to make himself the hero of every exploit.
There was the story of Daufu Martling, the large blue
bearded Dutchman who had nearly taken a British frigate with
an old iron nine pounder from a mud breastwork, only
that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there
was the old gentleman, who shall be nameless, being too
(10:50):
rich a mine here to be lightly mentioned, who, in
the Battle of White Plains, being an excellent master of defense,
parried a musket boar with a small sword, insomuch that
he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade and glance
off at the hilt, in proof of which he was
ready at any time to show the sword with the
(11:10):
hilt a little bent. There were several more that had
been equally great in the field, not one of whom
but was persuaded that he had a considerable hand in
bringing the war to a happy termination. But all these
were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions that succeeded.
The neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of the kind.
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Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered, long
settled retreats, but are trampled under foot by the shifting
throng that forms the population of most of our country places. Besides,
there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages,
for they have scarcely had time to finish their first
nap and turn themselves in their graves before their surviving
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friends have traveled away from the neighborhood, so that when
they turn out at night to walk their rounds, they
have no acquaintance left to call upon. This is perhaps
the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts except
in our long established Dutch communities. The immediate cause, however,
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of the prevalence of supernatural stories in these parts, was
doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was
a contagion in the very air that blew from that
haunted region. It breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies,
infecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow feeling
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were present at von Tossel's, and, as usual, were doling
out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales were
told about funeral trains and morning cries and wailings heard
and seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major
Andre was taken and which stood in the neighborhood mansion.
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Was made also of the woman in white that haunted
the dark glen at Braven Rock, and was often heard
to shriek on winter nights before a storm, having perished
there in the snow. The chief part of the stories, however,
turned upon the favorite specter of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman,
who had been heard several times of late patrolling the country,
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and it was said, tethered his horse nightly among the
graves in the churchyard. The sequestered situation of this church
seems almost to have made it a favorite haunt of
troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust
trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent, whitewashed
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walls shine modestly forth, like Christian purity, beaming through the
shades of retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to
a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, between
which peeps may be caught at the blue hills of
the Hudson. To look upon on its grass grown yard,
where the sunbeams seemed to sleep so quietly, one would
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think that there at least the dead might rest in peace.
On one side of the church extends a wide wooded dell,
along which raves. A large brook among broken rocks and
trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of
the stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown
a wooden bridge. The road that led to it and
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the bridge itself were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which
cast a gloom about it even in the daytime, but
occasioned a fearful darkness at night. Such was one of
the favorite haunts of the Headless Horseman, and the place
where he was most frequently encountered. The tale was told
of Old Brewer, a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how
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he met the horsemen returning from his foray into sleepy Hollow,
and was obliged to get up behind him. How they
galloped over bush and break over the hill and swamp
until they reached the bridge, when the horsemen suddenly turned
into a skeleton, threw Old Brewer into the brook and
sprang away over the tree tops with a clap of thunder.
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The story was immediately matched by a thrice marvelous adventure
of brom Bones, who had made light of the galloping
Heschian as an errant jockey. He affirmed that on returning
one night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing. He
had been overtaken by this midnight trooper that he had
offered to race with him for a bowl of punch,
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and should have won it too, for Daredevil beat the
goblin horse all hollow, but just as they came to
the church bridge, the Hessian bolting and vanished in a
flash of fire. All these tales told in that drowsy
undertone with which men talk in the dark. The countenances
of the listeners only now and then, receiving a casual
(15:56):
gleam from the glare of a pipe sank deep in
the mudd of Ikabad. He repaid them in kind with
large extracts from his invaluable offer, Cotton Mather, and added
many marvelous events that had taken place in his native
state of Connecticut, and fearful sights which he had seen
in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow. The revel now
(16:19):
gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered together their families
in their wagons and were heard for some time rattling
along the hollow roads and over the distant hills. Some
of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their favorite swains,
and their light hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs,
echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter, until
(16:41):
they gradually died away, and the late scene of noise
and frolic was all silent and deserted. Acabod only lingered behind,
according to the custom of country lovers, to have a
tete a tete with the heiress, fully convinced that he
was now on the high road success. What passed at
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this interview I will not pretend to say, for in
fact I do not know. Something. However, I fear me
must have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth after
no very great interval, with an air quite desolate and chapfallen.
Oh these women, these women. Could that girl have been
(17:25):
playing off any of her coquettish tricks. Was her encouragement
of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure
her conquest of his rival? Heaven only knows not. I
let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the
air of one who had been sacking a hen roost
rather than a fair lady's heart, without looking to the
(17:49):
right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth
on which he had so often gloated. He went straight
to the stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks,
roused his deed most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters on
which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn
and oats, and whole valleys of Timothy and clover. It
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was the very witching time of night that Hiccabod, heavy
hearted and crestfallen, pursued his travels homewards along the sides
of the lofty hills which rise above Tarrytown, and which
he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour
was as dismal as himself. Far below him, the tappan
(18:31):
Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with
here and there the tall mast of a sloop riding
quietly at anchor under the land. In the dead hush
of midnight, he could even hear the barking of the
watchdog from the opposite shore of the Hudson, but it
was so vague and faint as only to give an
idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man.
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Now and then too, the long drawn crowing of a
cock accidentally awakened would sound far far off from some
farmhouse away among the hills, but it was like a
dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred
near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket,
or perhaps the gutter will twang of a bullfrog from
(19:18):
a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably and turning suddenly
in his bed. All the stories of ghosts and goblins
that he had heard in the afternoon now came crowding
upon his recollection. The night grew darker and darker, The
stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving
clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never
(19:42):
felt so lonely and dismal. He was moreover approaching the
very place where many of the scenes of the ghost
stories had been laid. In the center of the road
stood an enormous tulip tree, which towered like a giant
above all the other trees of the neighborhood and formed
a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic,
(20:04):
large enough to form trunks to ordinary trees, twisting down
almost to the earth and rising again into the air.
It was connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate Andre,
who had been taken prisoner hard by, and was universally
known by the name of Major Andre's Tree. The common
(20:25):
people regarded it with a mixture of respect and superstition,
partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill
starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights
and doleful emanations told concerning it. As Nikobad approached this
fearful tree, he began to whistle. He thought his whistle
was answered. It was but a blast, sweeping sharply through
(20:48):
the dry branches. As he approached a little nearer, he
thought he saw something white hanging in the midst of
the tree. He paused and ceased whistling, but on looking
more nearly perceived that it was a place where the
tree had been scathed by lightning, and the white wood
laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan, his teeth chattered,
(21:11):
and his knee smote against the saddle. It was but
the rubbing of one huge bough upon another as they
were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree
in safety, but new perils lay before him. About two
hundred yards from the tree, a small brook crossed the
(21:32):
road and ran into a marshy and thickly wooded glen
known by the name of Wiley's Swamp. A few rough logs,
laid side by side served as a bridge over this stream.
On that side of the road where the brick entered
the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick
with wild grapevines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To
(21:55):
pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was at
this identical spot that the unfortunate Andre was captured, and
under the covert of these chestnuts and vines were the
sturdy yeoman concealed who surprised him. This has ever since
been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings
(22:17):
of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark.
As he approached the stream, his heart began to thump.
He summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse
half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted
to dash briskly across the bridge. But instead of starting forward,
(22:38):
the perverse old animal made a lateral movement and ran
broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay,
jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily
with the contrary foot. It was all in vain his
steed started, it is true, but it was only to
pluge to the opposite side of the road into a
(22:59):
thicket of brambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed
both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old gunpowder,
who dashed forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to stand
just by the bridge with a suddenness that nearly sent
his rider sprawling over his head. Just at this moment,
(23:21):
a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught
the sensitive ear Ricabod. In the dark shadow of the
grove on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge,
misshapen and towering. It stirred not but seemed gathered up
in the gloom, like some gigantic monster, ready to spring
(23:44):
upon the traveler. The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose
upon his head with terror. What was to be done
to turn and fly was now too late, And besides,
what chance was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if
such it was, which could ride upon the wings of
the wind. Summoning up therefore a show of courage, he demanded,
(24:09):
in stammering accents, Oh who are you? He received no reply.
He repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice.
Still there was no answer. Once more, he cudgeled the
sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke
(24:31):
forth with involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then
the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and
with a scramble and a bound stood at once in
the middle of the road. Though the night was dark
and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now
(24:53):
in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a
horseman of large dimensions, and mount on a black horse
of powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability,
but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging
along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had
(25:13):
now got over his fright and waywardness. Acabad, who had
no relish for this strange midnight companion, and bethought himself
of the adventure of brom Bones with the galloping Hessian
now quickened his steed in hopes of leaving him behind.
The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace.
(25:34):
Acobad pulled up and fell into a walk, thinking to
lag behind the other did the same. His heart began
to sink within him. He endeavored to resume his psalmn tune,
but his parched tongue clothed to the roof of his mouth,
and he could not utter a stave. There was something
in the moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion
(25:58):
that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for.
On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of
his fellow traveler in relief against the sky. Gigantic in
height and muffled in a cloak, Hiccabod was horror struck
on perceiving that he was headless. But his horror was
(26:23):
still more increased on observing that the head, which should
have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on
the pommel of his saddle. His terror rose to desperation.
He rained a shower of kicks and blows upon gunpowder,
hoping for a sudden movement to give his companion the slip,
(26:44):
but the specter started full jump with him away. Then
they dashed through thick and thin stones, flying and sparks
flashing at every bound. Hiccabod's flimsy garments fluttered in the
air as he stretched his long legs body away over
his horse's head in the eagerness of his flight. They
(27:06):
had now reached the road which turns off Sleepy Hollow,
but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, instead of
keeping up it, made an opposite turn and plunged headlong
downhill to the left. This road leads through a sandy
hollow shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile,
where it crosses the bridge famous in Goblin story, and
(27:29):
just beyond swells the green Knoll, on which stands the
white Washed Church. As yet, the panic of the steed
had given his unskillful rider an apparent advantage in the chase,
But just as he had got half way through the hollow,
the girths of the saddle gave way and he felt
(27:49):
it slipping from under him. He seized it by the
pommel and endeavored to hold it firm but in vain,
and had just time to save himself by clasping old
gunp around the neck. When the saddle fell to the
earth and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer.
For a moment the terror of Hans van Ripper's wrath
(28:11):
passed across his mind, for it was his Sunday saddle.
But this was no time for petty fears. The goblin
was hard on his haunches, and unskillful rider that he was,
he had much ado to maintain his seat, sometimes slipping
on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on
the high ridge of his horse's backbone with a violence
(28:34):
that he verily feared would cleave him asunder. An opening
in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that
the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of
a silver star in the bosom of the brook told
him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls
of the church dimly glaring under the trees. Beyond, he
(28:55):
recollected the place where brom Bone's ghostly competitor had disappeared.
I I can but reach that bridge, thought Ichabod. I
am safe. Just then he heard the black steed panting
and blowing close behind him. He even fancied that he
felt its hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the ribs,
(29:17):
and old gunpower sprang upon the bridge. He thundered over
the resounding planks. He gained the opposite side, and now
Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer
should vanish according to rule, in a flash of fire
and brimstone. Just then he saw the Goblin rising in
(29:37):
his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his
head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile,
but too late it encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash.
He was tumbled headlong into the dusts and gunpowder. The
black steed and the goblin rider passed by like a whirlwind.
(30:01):
The next morning, the old horse was found without his
saddle and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping
the grass at his master's gate. Ichabad did not make
his appearance at breakfast. Dinner hour came, but no Ichabod.
The boys assembled at the schoolhouse and strolled idly about
the banks of the brook, but no Schoolmaster. Hans van
(30:23):
Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate
of poor Ichabod and his saddle. An inquiry was set
on foot, and after diligent investigation they came upon his traces.
In one part of the road leading to the church,
was found the saddle trampled in the dirt, the tracks
of horses, hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently
(30:46):
at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which,
on the bank of a broad part of the brook,
where the water ran deep and black, was found the
hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a
shattered pumpkin. The brook was searched, but the body of
(31:06):
the schoolmaster was not to be discovered. Hans van Ripper,
as executor of his estates, examined the bundle which contained
all his worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts and
a half, two stocks for the neck, a pair or
two of worsted stockings, an old pair of corduroy small clothes,
a rusty raiser, a book of palm tunes full of
(31:29):
dog's ears, and a broken pitch pipe. As to the
books and furniture of the schoolhouse, they belonged to the community.
Excepting Cotton Mather's history of witchcraft, a New England Almanac,
and a book of Dreams and fortune Telling, in which
last was a sheet of fool's cap much scribbled and
(31:49):
blotted in several fruitless attempts to make a copy of
verses in honor of the heiress of von Tossel. These
magic books, in the poetic scrawl forthwith consigned to the
flames by Hans van Ripper, who from that time forward
determined to send his children no more to school, observing
(32:10):
that he never knew any good come of this same
reading and writing. Whatever Monday the schoolmaster possessed, and he
had received his quarters pay but a day or two before,
he must have had about his person at the time
of his disappearance. The mysterious event caused much speculation at
the church. On the following Sunday, knots of gazers and
(32:33):
gossips were collected in the churchyard at the bridge and
at the spot where the hat and pumpkin had been found.
The stories of Brewer of Bones and a whole budget
of others were called to mind, and when they had
diligently considered them all and compared them with the symptoms
of the present case, they shook their heads, and came
(32:54):
to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried off by
the galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor and did
nobody's debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him.
The school was removed to a different quarter of the hollow,
and another pedagogue reigned in his stead. It is true
(33:15):
an old farmer who had been down to New York
on a visit several years after, and from whom this
account of the ghostly adventure was received, brought home the
intelligence that Igobod Crane was still alive, that he had
left the neighborhood, partly through fear of the Goblin and
Hans van Ripper, and partly in mortification at having been
(33:35):
suddenly dismissed by the Heiress. That he had changed his
quarters to a distant part of the country, had kept
school and studied law at the same time, had been
admitted to the bar, turned politician, electioneered written for the newspapers,
and finally had been made a justice of the ten
Pound Court. Bron Bones, too, who, shortly after his rifles
(33:59):
did disappearance, conducted the Blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar,
was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of
Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh
at the mention of the pumpkin, which led some to
suspect that he knew more about the matter than he
chose to tell. The old country wives, however, who are
(34:23):
the best judges of these matters, maintained to this day
that Ichabod was spirited away by supernatural means, and it
is a favorite story often told about the neighborhood round
the winter evening fire. The bridge became more than ever
an object of superstitious awe, and that may be the
(34:44):
reason why the road has been altered of late years
so as to approach the church by the border of
the mill pond. That schoolhouse, being deserted, soon fell to decay,
and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of
the unfortunate he had agog And the plowboy, loitering homeward
of a still summer evening, has often fancied his voice
(35:07):
at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune. Among the
tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow PostScript found in the handwriting
of mister Knickerbacker. The preceding tale is given almost in
the precise words in which I heard it related at
a corporation meeting at the ancient city of Manhato's, at
(35:29):
which were present many of its sagest and most illustrious burghers.
The narrator was a pleasant, shabby gentlemanly old fellow in
pepper and salt clothes, with a sadly humorous face, and
one whom I strongly suspected of being poor. He made
such efforts to be entertaining. When his story was concluded,
(35:49):
there was much laughter and approbation, particularly from two or
three deputy aldermen who had been asleep the greater part
of the time. There was, however, one tall, dry looking
old gentleman with beetling eyebrows, who maintained a grave and
rather severe face throughout now and then, folding his arms
(36:10):
inclining his head, and looking down upon the floor, as
if turning a doubt over in his mind. He was
one of your wary men, who never laughed, but upon
good grounds when they have reason and law on their side.
When the mirth of the rest of the company had
subsided and silence was restored, he leaned one arm on
(36:32):
the elbow of his chair and sticking the other. Akimbo demanded,
with a slight but exceedingly sage motion of the head
and contraction of the brow, what was the moral of
the story and what it went to prove? The story teller,
who was just putting a glass of wine to his
lips and the refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment,
(36:55):
looked at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference,
and lowering the glass us slowly to the table, observed
that the story was intended most logically to prove that
there is no situation in life, but has its advantages
and pleasures provided we will but take a joke as
we find it that therefore, he that runs races with
(37:16):
goblin troopers is likely to have rough riding of it.
Ergo for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand
of a Dutch heiress is a certain step to high
preferment in the state. The cautious old gentleman knit his
brows tenfold closer after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by
(37:37):
the ratiocination of the syllogism. While he thought the one
in pepper and salt eyed him with something of a
triumphant leer. At length, he observed that all this was
very well, but still he thought the story a little
on the extravagant. There were one or two points on
which he had his doubts. Faith Sir, replied the story teller,
(38:00):
as to that matter, I don't believe one half of
it myself. Decay and of the Legend of Sleepy Hollow
by Washington Irving, read by Bob Neufeld,
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