THE STORY OF SLEEPY HOLLOW

BY

WASHINGTON IRVING

Sleepy Hollow: The Story

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE

DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER

It was a nice place to fall asleep.

Of dreams that flit before the half-closed eye, and of

happy castles in the passing clouds,

Always blooming around a summer sky.

Castle of Laziness.

In the middle of one of the large coves that cut into the
eastern side of the Hudson River, at the wide part of the
river that the Dutch called the Tappan Zed and where they
always shortened their sails and asked St. Nicholas to
protect them, is a small market town or rural port that
some people call Greensburgh but is more commonly and
correctly called Tarry Town. We've been told that this

1
name was given by the good women of the nearby country
because their husbands would always hang out at the
village bar on market days. Even so, I can't say for sure
that it's true. I'm just pointing out the fact to be clear and
honest. It's one of the nicest places in the world, and it's
not too far from this village—maybe two miles. It's a
small valley, or rather a spit of land between high hills. A
small brook flows through it with just enough of a hum to
put one to sleep, and the odd whistle of a bird or tap of a
woodpecker is almost the only sound that breaks the
constant quiet.

I remember that when I was young, I shot my first squirrel

in a grove of tall walnut trees on one side of the valley. I
had walked into it at noon, when nature is especially quiet,
and was shocked by the roar of my own gun, which broke
the Sabbath silence and was repeated and amplified by the
angry echoes. If I ever needed a place to get away from
the world and its distractions and dream away the last bits
of a hard life, this little valley would be the best place I
could think of.

This secluded glen has been called "Sleepy Hollow" for a

long time because of how quiet it is and how strange the
people who live there, who are the descendants of the first
Dutch settlers, are. The boys who live there are called
"Sleepy Hollow Boys" by everyone in the surrounding
area. There seems to be a haze of sleepiness and
daydreams over the land and in the air. Some people say

2
that the place was cursed by a high German doctor in the
early days of the settlement, while others say that an old
Indian chief who was the prophet or wizard of his tribe
held his powwows there before Master Hendrick Hudson
found the country. It's true that the place is still controlled
by some kind of witchcraft, which puts a spell on the
minds of the good people and makes them walk around in
a dreamy state. They believe all sorts of strange things, go
into trances and have dreams, and often see strange things
and hear music and voices in the air. The whole
neighbourhood is full of local stories, spooky places, and
dusk myths. Stars and meteors shoot across the valley
more often than anywhere else in the country, and the
nightmare, with her whole nine fold, seems to choose it as
her favourite place to play.

The most powerful ghost in this magical area, though, is

an image of a person on a horse without a head. It seems
to be in charge of all the air powers. Some people say it's
the ghost of a Hessian soldier whose head was taken off
by a cannonball in an unnamed battle during the
Revolutionary War. The ghost is often seen by people in
the countryside moving quickly through the dark at night,
as if on the wind. His favourite places to hang out are not
just in the valley, but also on the nearby roads and
especially near a church that is not far away. In fact, some
of the most reliable historians in that area, who have
carefully gathered and sorted the rumours about this ghost,
say that the trooper's body was buried in the churchyard,

3
so the ghost rides out at night to the scene of the battle in
search of his head, and that the rushing speed with which
he sometimes passes through the Hollow, like a midnight
blast, is because he is late and in a hurry to get back to the
church.

This is the general idea behind the tale of the Headless

Horseman of Sleepy Hollow, which has given rise to many
wild stories in that area of shadows. The ghost is known as
the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow at all country
fires.

It's interesting that the tendency to have visions isn't just a

trait of the valley's natives, but is something that everyone
who lives there for a while picks up unknowingly. No
matter how awake they were before they went to that
sleepy area, they will soon breathe in the witching impact
of the air and start to become more creative, dream, and
see ghosts.

I talk about this quiet place with all the praise I can
muster, because it is in such small, secluded Dutch
valleys, found here and there in the big state of New York,
that population, manners, and customs stay the same,
while the great stream of migration and improvement,
which is constantly changing other parts of this restless
country, goes by them without being noticed. They're like
those little pools of still water next to a fast-moving
stream, where straws and bubbles can float quietly at

4
anchor or slowly spin in their fake harbour without being
bothered by the fast-moving stream. Even though it's been
a long time since I last walked through Sleepy Hollow, I
wonder if I won't still find the same trees and the same
families living in its safe centre.

In the distant past of American history, about thirty years

ago, a good spirit named Ichabod Crane lived here. He
stayed, or "tarried," in Sleepy Hollow to teach the children
in the area. He was born in Connecticut, a state that gives
the Union both intellectual and physical pioneers and
sends out thousands of backwoods woodsmen and country
schoolteachers every year. Crane was not an odd name for
him. He was tall but very skinny, with narrow shoulders,
long arms and legs, hands that hung a mile from his
sleeves, feet that could have been used as shovels, and a
body that didn't fit together well at all. His head was small
and flat on top. It had big ears, big green glassy eyes, and
a long snipe nose, which made it look like a weather-cock
sitting on his skinny neck to tell which way the wind was
blowing. On a windy day, if you saw him walking along
the side of a hill while his clothes flapped and bagged
around him, you might have thought he was the god of
famine or a scarecrow that got away from a cornfield.

His school was a low building with one big room. It was
made of rough logs, and the windows were partly covered
and partly fixed with old copy-book pages. It was kept
safe when it wasn't being used by twisting a wire in the

5
door handle and putting stakes in the window shutters.
This way, a thief could easily get in, but it would be hard
for him to get out. The architect, Yost Van Houten,
probably got this idea from the mystery of an eel-pot. The
schoolhouse was in a nice but lonely place at the bottom
of a wooded hill. There was a brook nearby, and a big
birch tree grew at one end of it. From there, on a lazy
summer day, you could hear the low hum of his students'
voices as they went over their lessons, like the buzzing of
a beehive. Every once in a while, the hum would be
broken by the master's authoritative voice in a tone of
threat or command, or by the horrifying sound of the birch
as he pushed some slow learner along the flowery path of
knowledge. He was a good man, and he always
remembered the golden rule, "Spare the rod and spoil the
child." Ichabod Crane's students were not spoiled, though.

I wouldn't want you to think, though, that he was one of

those cruel school potentates who enjoy making their
subjects suffer. On the contrary, he gave justice with
fairness instead of harshness, taking the burden off the
weak and putting it on the strong. Your small, weak child
who cried out at the slightest touch of the rod was given a
break, but a little Dutch boy with a broad skirt and a bad
head was given twice as much. He sulked, grew bigger,
and became more stubborn and grumpy under the birch.
All of this was what he called "doing his job for their
parents," and he never hit a child without telling the

6
hurting one that "he would remember it and thank him for
it the longest day he had to live."

When school was over, he would play with and hang out
with the older boys. On holiday afternoons, he would take
some of the younger boys home, especially if they had
pretty sisters or moms who were known for being good
cooks. In fact, it was in his best interest to stay on good
terms with his students. The money he made from his
school was small and wouldn't have been enough to feed
him every day. He was a big eater and, even though he
was skinny, he could eat like an anaconda. However, as
was the custom in those parts of the country, he was
boarded and lodged at the homes of the farmers whose
children he taught. He stayed in each of these for a week
at a time, moving around the neighbourhood with all of his
belongings tied in a cotton towel.

So that all of this wouldn't be too hard on the wallets of his

rural clients, who tend to see the cost of schooling as a
terrible load and schoolmasters as nothing but drones, he
found ways to be both useful and pleasant. He sometimes
helped the farmers with the smaller jobs on their farms. He
helped make hay, fix fences, take the horses to water, get
the cows off the field, and cut wood for the winter fire. He
also gave up the sense of superiority and total power he
had in his little kingdom, the school, and became very
kind and easy to get along with. He was liked by the
women because he pet the children, especially the younger

7
ones. He would sit with a child on one knee and rock a
cradle with his foot for hours on end, just like the lion was
brave when the lamb held it.

He had other jobs, but he was also the singing master of

the neighbourhood. He taught the young people how to
sing psalms and made a lot of money from it. On Sundays,
he was very proud to stand in front of the church gallery
with a group of his favourite singers, where, in his mind,
he totally stole the palm from the priest. Sure enough, his
voice was louder than everyone else's in the church. On a
quiet Sunday morning, you can still hear strange tremors
in that church, and some say they come from Ichabod
Crane's nose. So, the good teacher got by in a way that is
often called "by hook or by crook." He made a lot of little
changes to make things work, and people who didn't know
about the hard work of thinking thought he had a great
life.

In a rural area, the schoolmaster is usually a man of some

importance to the women. He is seen as a kind of lazy
gentleman, with much better taste and talents than the
rough country swains, and he knows less than everyone
but the priest. So, when he walks into a farmhouse, it's
likely that there will be a bit of a stir at the tea table and
that an extra dish of cakes or sweets will be brought out,
or maybe even a silver tea pot. So, our man of books was
especially happy to see all the country damsels smiling.
How he would stand out among them in the churchyard on

8
Sundays between services! Gathering grapes for them
from the wild vines that grew on the nearby trees, reading
the epitaphs on the tombstones for their amusement, or
strolling with a group of them along the banks of the
nearby millpond, while the more shy country bumpkins
hung back, envious of his superior elegance and address.

Because he moved around a lot, he was also like a

wandering newspaper, bringing all the latest stories from
house to house. When he showed up, people were always
happy to see him. The women also thought he was very
smart because he had read several books all the way
through and knew everything about Cotton Mather's
history of New England witchcraft, which he strongly
believed in.

In fact, he was a strange mix of small cleverness and

simple trust. Both his hunger for the amazing and his
ability to understand it were out of this world, and both
had grown since he moved to this magical place. No story
was too gross or scary for his big mouth to handle. When
he got out of school in the afternoon, he liked to stretch
out on the rich bed of clover next to the little brook that
ran by his schoolhouse and talk about old Mather's scary
stories until the setting sun turned the printed page into a
blur in front of his eyes. Then, as he wended his way, by
swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farmhouse
where he happened to be quartered, every sound of nature,
at that witching hour, fluttered his excited imagination: the

9
moan of the whip-poor-will1 from the hillside; the boding
cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger of storm; the dreary
hooting of the screech-owl, or the sudden rustling in the
thicket of birds frightened from their roost. Even the
fireflies, which shone brightest in the darkest places,
would sometimes startle him when a particularly bright
one would fly across his path. If, by chance, a huge
blockhead of a beetle came flying at him in a clumsy way,
the poor varlet was ready to die because he thought he had
been hit with a witch's token. When this happened, the
only thing he could do to stop thinking or get rid of evil
spirits was to sing psalm tunes. The good people of Sleepy
Hollow would often be scared when they heard his nasal
melody, "in linked sweetness long drawn out," coming
from a hill far away or along a dark road.

Another scary thing he liked to do was spend long winter

evenings with the old Dutch wives as they spun by the
fire, with a row of apples roasting and sputtering along the
hearth, and listen to their amazing stories about ghosts and
goblins, haunted fields, haunted brooks, haunted bridges,
haunted houses, and especially the headless horseman, or
"galloping Hessian of the Hollow," as they sometimes
called him. He would tell them stories about witchcraft,
bad omens, and strange sounds and sights in the air that
were common in the early days of Connecticut. He would
also scare them horribly with his theories about comets
and shooting stars, and by telling them that the world

10
really did turn around and that they were often upside
down.

But if all of this was fun while he was snuggled up in the

chimney corner of a room that was lit up by a red glow
from the crackling wood fire and where, of course, no
ghost would show its face, it was more than paid for by
the terrifying walk back home. In the dim, scary light of a
cold night, what scary shapes and shadows were in his
way? What a longing look was on his face as he watched
every shaky ray of light streaming across the waste fields
from a window far away. How many times was he scared
by a bush covered in snow that stood in his way like a
ghost? How often did he cringe in fear when he heard the
sound of his own footsteps on the frozen ground? He was
afraid to look over his shoulder in case he saw someone
rude walking close behind him. — and how often he was
completely shocked when he heard a strong wind roaring
through the woods and thought it was the Galloping
Hessian on one of his midnight patrols!

All of these, though, were just fears of the night, phantoms

of the mind that walked in the dark; and though he had
seen many ghosts in his time and been chased by Satan in
different forms on his lonely walks, daylight put an end to
all of these bad things, and he would have had a good life
in spite of the devil and all of his schemes, if his path

11
hadn't been crossed by a being that makes people more
confused than ghosts, goblins,

Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a

wealthy Dutch farmer, was one of the singing followers
who met with him once a week to learn how to sing
psalms. She was a beautiful young woman of eighteen, as
plump as a partridge and as ripe and rosy-cheeked as one
of her father's peaches. She was known all over the world,
not just for her beauty, but also for her high standards. She
was still a bit of a courtesan, which could be seen in her
dress, which was a mix of old and new styles. This was the
best way to show off her beauty. She wore the pure yellow
gold jewellery that her great-great-grandmother had
brought from Saardam. She also wore the tempting
stomacher from the old days and a provocatively short
skirt that showed off the prettiest foot and ankle in the
whole country.

Ichabod Crane was weak and stupid when it came to sex,

so it's not surprising that he fell for such a tempting treat
so quickly, especially after he went to see her at her
father's house. Old Baltus Van Tassel was the best
example of a successful, happy, and kind farmer. He didn't
often look or think about things outside of his own farm,
but inside those limits, everything was safe, happy, and in
good shape. He was happy with how much money he had,

12
but he wasn't proud of it. He was more interested in how
much food he had than how well he lived. His base was on
the banks of the Hudson River, in one of those green,
protected, and rich spots where Dutch farmers love to
nestle. A big elm tree with wide branches grew over it. At
the base of the tree, a spring of the softest, sweetest water
bubbled up in a little barrel-shaped well. The water
sparkled as it ran through the grass and into a nearby
brook that ran through alders and dwarf willows. Close to
the farm house was a huge barn that could have been a
church. Every window and crack seemed to be full of the
farm's goods; the flail was busy ringing inside from
morning to night; swallows and martins skimmed
twittering around the eaves; and rows of pigeons, some
with one eye turned up as if watching the weather, some
with their heads under their wings or in their chests, and
others swelling, cooing, and bowing. Slim, ungainly pigs
were grunting in the peace and plenty of their pens. From
these pens, groups of sucking pigs would run out as if to
snuff out the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese was
riding in an adjacent pond, escorted by whole fleets of
ducks. Regiments of turkeys were gobbling through the
farm yard, and guinea fowls were fussing about it with
their peevish, discontented cries, like bad-tempered
women. Before the barn door, the brave cock strutted like
a husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his
polished wings and crowing with pride and happiness in
his heart. Sometimes, he tore up the ground with his feet

13
and then invited his hungry family of wives and children
to eat the tasty treat he had found.

When the teacher saw this sumptuous promise of delicious

winter food, his mouth watered. In his hungry mind, he
saw every roast pig running around with a pudding in its
stomach and an apple in its mouth. The pigeons were
snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie and tucked in with a
coverlet of crust. The geese were swimming in their own
gravy, and the ducks were sitting together in dishes like a
married couple, with a decent competency of onion sauce.
In the pigs, he saw where the bacon and ham would be cut.
He didn't see a turkey that wasn't wrapped up delicately
with its gizzard under its wing, and maybe a necklace of
tasty sausages. Bright Chanticleer himself was lying on his
back in a side dish with his claws up, as if he wanted the
quarter that his noble spirit wouldn't let him ask for when
he was alive.

As Ichabod thought about all of this, and as he rolled his

big green eyes over the fat meadowlands, the rich fields of
wheat, rye, buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the orchards
loaded with red fruit, which surrounded the warm
tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned for the damsel
who was to inherit these domains, and his mind grew with
the idea of how they could be easily turned into cash and
the money invested in No, his busy mind had already
made his hopes come true. He saw a beautiful Katrina
with a whole family of children riding on top of a waggon

14
full of household goods, with pots and kettles dangling
below. He also saw himself riding a pacing mare with a
colt at her heels, heading to Kentucky, Tennessee, or who
knows where.

When he walked into the house, his heart was completely

won. It was a large farmhouse with a low-sloping roof and
a high ridge. It was built in the style of the first Dutch
residents, and the low overhanging eaves made a piazza in
front that could be closed off when it rained. Under this
were hung flails, chains, different tools for farming, and
fishing nets for the river nearby. Along the sides, benches
were built for use in the summer. A big spinning wheel at
one end and a churn at the other showed that this
important porch could be used for many different things.
From this square, Ichabod walked into the hall, which was
the heart of the house and where people usually lived.
Here, rows of beautiful silver on a long table caught his
attention. In one corner, there was a big bag of wool ready
to be spun, and in another, there was a lot of linsey-
woolsey that had just come off the loom. Ears of Indian
corn and strings of dried apples and peaches hung in
festoons along the walls, mixing with the gaud of red
peppers. A door that was left open let him see into the best
parlour, where the claw-footed chairs and dark mahogany
tables

Ichabod's mind was no longer at peace as soon as he saw

these beautiful places. All he could think about was how

15
to win the heart of the beautiful daughter of Van Tassel. In
this venture, however, he faced more real problems than a
knight-errant of old, who usually only had to deal with
giants, sorcerers, fire-breathing dragons, and other easy-
to-beat foes. He had to get through gates of iron and brass
and walls of adamant to get to the castle keep, where the
woman of his heart was locked up. He did all of this as
easily as a man would carve his way to the centre of a
Christmas Ichabod, on the other hand, had to win the heart
of a country coquette who was full of whims and caprices
that kept throwing up new problems and roadblocks. He
also had to deal with a lot of scary real-life opponents in
the form of her many rustic admirers, who stood guard at
every doorway to her heart, keeping an angry eye on each
other but ready to work together against any new rival.

The most dangerous of these was a big, roaring, roostering

blade named Abraham, or, in Dutch, Brom Van Brunt,
who was known as the hero of the country for his acts of
strength and bravery. He had broad shoulders and two sets
of joints. He had short, curly black hair and a bluff, but not
ugly, face that had a mix of swagger and fun. His
nickname, BROM BONES, came from the fact that he had
the size and strength of Hercules and could move very
quickly. He was known for having a lot of horse-riding
knowledge and skill. He was as skilled on a horse as a
Tartar. He was first in all races and cockfights, and his
physical strength gave him the upper hand in all
arguments. He put his hat on one side and gave his choices

16
with an air and tone that left no room for argument or
appeal. He was always up for a fight or a good time.
However, he was more mischievous than mean, and
despite his rough exterior, he had a strong dose of waggish
good humour at his core. He had three or four lucky
friends who looked up to him. At their head, he travelled
the country, going to every fight or party for miles around.
In the winter, he wore a fur cap with a fox's tail on top,
which made him stand out. When people at a country
meeting saw this well-known crest flying around with a
group of hard riders, they always waited for a storm.
Sometimes his gang could be heard running past the
farmhouses at midnight, whooping and hollering like a
group of Don Cossacks. This would wake up the old
ladies, who would listen for a moment until Brom Bones
and his gang were out of sight before shouting, "Ay, there
goes Brom Bones and his gang!"His neighbours looked at
him with a mix of fear, respect, and goodwill. Whenever a
crazy joke or a fight broke out in the area, they always
shook their heads and said they were sure Brom Bones
was behind it.

This rantipole hero had been trying to get Katrina's

attention for a while. His advances were like a bear's
loving touches and kisses, but it was said that she didn't
completely dash his dreams. It's true that his advances
made other men back off, since they didn't want to go
against a lion in his love affairs. In fact, when his horse
was seen tied to Van Tassel's paling on a Sunday night,

17
which was a sure sign that his master was courting, or
"sparking," inside, all other suitors gave up and took the
war somewhere else.

This was the kind of tough opponent Ichabod Crane had to

face, and a stronger man than he would have run away
from him.

13

A smarter man would have given up on the race. He was,

however, a good mix of flexibility and determination. He
was both soft and strong, like a supple-jack. Even though
he bent, he never broke, and even though he bowed under
the smallest amount of pressure, as soon as it was gone,
jerk! He stood straight and held his head up as high as
ever.

It would have been crazy for him to fight his enemy in the
open, because he was not a person who could be stopped
in his love, just like Achilles. So, Ichabod made his moves
in a way that was quiet and softly suggestive. He often
went to the farms under the guise of being a singing
teacher, but he didn't worry about the parents getting in the
way, which is a common problem for lovers. Balt Van
Tassel was a kind, easygoing man. He loved his daughter
more than he loved his pipe, and as a sensible man and a

18
good father, he always let her have her way. His famous
little wife also had to take care of her house and her
chickens. She was wise enough to realise that ducks and
geese are stupid and need to be cared for, but girls can
take care of themselves. So, while the busy lady ran
around the house or spun on her spinning wheel at one end
of the piazza, honest Balt would sit and smoke his evening
pipe at the other end, watching a little wooden warrior
fight the wind on top of the barn with a sword in each
hand. In the meantime, Ichabod would argue with the
daughter by the spring, under the big elm tree, or while
strolling in the evening, which was a good time for lovers
to talk.

I say I don't know how guys win the hearts of women.

They have always been a mystery and a source of wonder
to me. Some seem to have only one weak spot, or door,
while others seem to have a thousand ways in and out,
which means they could be taken in a thousand different
ways. It takes a lot of skill to get the first one, but it takes
even more skill to keep the second one, because the person
has to fight for his fortress at every door and window. So,
someone who wins a thousand ordinary hearts deserves
some fame, but someone who wins and keeps the heart of
a coquette is a true hero. This was not the case with the
brave Brom Bones, though, and as soon as Ichabod Crane
showed interest, it was clear that Brom Bones's interest in
him dropped. His horse was no longer seen tied to the

19
palings on Sunday nights, and he and the preceptor of
Sleepy Hollow slowly became enemies.

Brom, who had a bit of rough chivalry in him, would have

liked to go to war and settle their claims to the lady the
way the knights-errant of old did: by single combat. But
Ichabod was too aware of his opponent's superior strength
to fight him. He had heard Bones boast that he would
"double up the schoolmaster and lay him on a shelf of his
own." There was something very annoying about this
stubbornly peaceful system. Brom had no choice but to
draw on his stock of country craziness and play pranks on
his foe that were rude and mean. Bones and his group of
rough riders started to pick on Ichabod for no reason. They
made trouble in his previously quiet lands. They stopped
the smoke from coming out of his singing school by
blocking the chimney. They broke into the schoolhouse at
night, despite the strong locks on the doors and windows,
and turned everything upside down. This made the poor
schoolmaster think that all the witches in the country met
there. But what was even more annoying was that Brom
used any chance he got to make fun of him in front of his
mistress. He also had a rogue dog that he taught to whine
in the most ridiculous way, and he used that dog as
Ichabod's rival to teach his mistress how to sing psalms.

In this way, things went on for a while without changing

the relative positions of the two sides in any important
way. On a beautiful fall afternoon, Ichabod sat in deep

20
thought on the high stool from which he generally
watched everything going on in his little literary world.

In his hand, he held a ferrule, which was a symbol of

absolute power. Behind the throne, the birch of justice
rested on three nails and was a constant fear for bad
people. On the desk in front of him were various illegal
items and weapons found on the bodies of idle children,
such as half-eaten apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly cages,
and a whole army of wild little paper gamecocks. There
must have been a terrible act of justice recently, because
all of his students were busy working on their books or
talking to each other behind his back while keeping one
eye on him. There was a kind of noisy silence in the
classroom. It was suddenly stopped by a black man
wearing a tow-cloth jacket and trowsers and a hat with a
round crown that looked like Mercury's cap. He was riding
a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he held with a rope
as a lead. He came clattering up to the school door to
invite Ichabod to a party or "quilting frolic" that would be
held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's. After
delivering his message, he dashed over the brook and was
seen scampering up the hollow, full of the importance and
hurry of his mission.

The once quiet school room was now full of noise and
activity. The students were rushed through their lessons,
and they weren't allowed to stop for small things. Those
who were quick could skip over half without getting in

21
trouble, and those who were slow had a clever trick every
now and then to help them catch up or get over a hard
word. Books were thrown on the floor instead of being put
back on the shelves, inkstands were turned over, and
chairs were thrown down. The whole school was let out an
hour early, and the kids ran around the green like a group
of young imps, yelping and making noise as they
celebrated their early freedom.

The brave Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour in

his bathroom, cleaning and furbishing up his best and only
rusty black suit and arranging his appearance with a piece
of broken looking glass that hung in the schoolhouse. So
he could look like a warrior in front of his lady, he took a
horse from the farmer with whom he lived, a choleric old
Dutchman named Hans Van Ripper. He then mounted the
horse and rode off like a knight-errant looking for
adventures. But, in the spirit of a love story, I should
describe how my hero and his horse look and what they
have. The animal he rode was a broken-down plough
horse that had outlived almost everything but his
meanness. He was thin and ragged, with a neck like a
sheep's and a head like a hammer. His rusty mane and tail
were twisted and knotted with burrs. One eye had lost its
pupil and was glaring and ghostly, but the other had the
look of a real devil in it. Still, his name, Gunpowder, tells
us that he must have had fire and guts in his day. He had,
in fact, been his master, the choleric Van Ripper's
favourite horse. Van Ripper was an angry rider, and it's

22
likely that he put some of his own spirit into the horse.
Even though he looked old and broken down, he had more
of the devil hiding in him than any young filly in the
country.

Ichabod was a good match for such a horse. He rode with

short stirrups that brought his knees almost up to the
pommel of the saddle. His sharp elbows stuck out like
grasshoppers', and he held his whip like a sceptre in a
perpendicular position in his hand. As his horse ran, the
movement of his arms reminded me of a pair of wings
flapping. His thin strip of forehead could be called a nose,
and a small wool hat sat on top of it. The skirts of his
black coat fluttered almost to the horse's tail. Ichabod and
his horse looked like this as they stumbled out of Hans
Van Ripper's gate, and it was a rare sight to see something
like that in the middle of the day.

As I've already said, it was a beautiful fall day. The sky

was clear and calm, and nature had that rich, golden look
that we always connect with plenty. The woods were a
sombre brown and yellow, and the frosts had turned some
of the more delicate trees into bright orange, purple, and
red. Wild ducks began to appear in large groups in the sky.
The bark of the squirrel could be heard from the beech and
hickory nut trees, and the quail's thoughtful whistle could
be heard from the nearby grass field.

23
The little birds were having their last meals. In the middle
of their fun, they flew from bush to bush and tree to tree,
singing and playing as they went. They were erratic
because there were so many different things around them.
There was the honest cock-robin, which was the favourite
game of young sportsmen because of its loud, angry call.
There were also the twittering blackbirds flying in sable
clouds, the golden-winged woodpecker with his crimson
crest, broad black gorget, and beautiful plumage, the cedar
bird with its red-tipped wings and yellow-tipped tail, and
its little monteiro cap of feathers. There was also the blue
jay, that noisy cox

As Ichabod jogged slowly along, his eye, which was

always on the lookout for signs of food excess, swept with
joy over the treasures of happy fall. On all sides, he saw
huge amounts of apples. Some were hanging from the
trees, others were in boxes and barrels for the market, and
still others were piled high for the cider press. Farther on,
he saw vast fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears
peeking out from behind its leaves and promising cakes
and hasty pudding; and yellow pumpkins lying beneath
them, with their round bellies facing the sun and
promising the richest of pies; and then he came to the
fragrant buckwheat fields, where he could smell the scent
of the beehive, and as he saw them, he had soft thoughts of
slapjaks.

24
So, he filled his mind with many sweet thoughts and
"sugared suppositions" as he walked along the sides of a
range of hills that look out on some of the best views of
the great Hudson. The sun slowly moved his wide disc
towards the west. The wide part of the Tappan Zed was
still and smooth, but every once in a while, a small wave
moved and stretched the blue shade of a rock in the
distance. There were a few yellow clouds in the sky, but
there wasn't a breeze to move them. The horizon was a
light golden colour that turned into a bright apple green
and then into the deep blue of the middle of the sky. A ray
of light remained on the tree tops of the cliffs that hung
over some parts of the river. This gave the dark grey and
purple rocky sides of the cliffs more depth. A sailboat was
hanging out in the distance, slowly going down with the
tide. Its sail was hanging uselessly from the mast, and
because the water was still, it looked like the boat was
floating in the air.

When Ichabod got to Herr Van Tassel's castle in the

evening, it was full of the best and brightest people from
the neighbouring country. Old farmers, a hardy race with
leathery faces, wore hand-woven coats and pants, blue
socks, big shoes, and beautiful silver buckles. Their
young, thin little ladies wore close-fitting caps, short
dresses with long waists, homespun petticoats, scissors
and pincushions in their pockets, and colourful cloth

25
pockets on the outside. Buxom girls who looked almost as
old as their moms, except when they wore a straw hat, a
fine ribbon, or maybe a white dress. The sons wore short,
square-skirted coats with rows of huge brass buttons, and
their hair was usually done in the style of the time,
especially if they could get their hands on an eel skin,
which was known all over the country as a great way to
feed and improve hair.

Brom Bones, on the other hand, was the star of the scene.
He rode his favourite horse, Daredevil, to the meeting.
Like Brom, Daredevil was tough and mischievous, and no
one but Brom could control it. In fact, he was known for
liking wild animals that did all kinds of tricks and put the
rider's neck in danger. He thought that a well-trained horse
wasn't good enough for a boy with spirit.

I wouldn't stop for long to think about the world of charms

that exploded before my hero's eyes when he walked into
Van Tassel's state parlour. Not those of a group of curvy
young women with their expensive red and white dresses,
but the many charms of a real Dutch country tea table in
the rich season of fall. So many different kinds of cakes,
some of which are so hard to describe that only
experienced Dutch women would know what they were.
There was the doughy doughnut, the soft oly koek, and the
crunchy, crumbly cruller. There were also sweet cakes,
short cakes, ginger cakes, honey cakes, and every other
kind of cake you could think of. Then there were apple

26
pies, peach pies, and pumpkin pies. There were also slices
of ham and smoked beef, as well as delicious dishes of
preserved plums, peaches, pears, and quinces. There were
also broiled shad and roasted chickens, as well as bowls of
milk and cream. They were all mixed together, pretty
much as I've described, with the motherly tea pot sending
up clouds of steam in the middle. God bless the mark! I
need air and

I don't have time to talk about this dinner as much as it

deserves because I'm eager to move on with my story.
Ichabod Crane wasn't in as much of a hurry as his
researcher, so he was able to give each delicate enough
attention.

He was a kind, grateful person whose heart grew bigger

when he was happy, and his mood went up when he ate,
like it does for some men when they drink. He also
couldn't help but roll his big eyes around him as he ate and
laugh at the thought that one day he might be in charge of
all this wealth and splendour. Then he thought about how
soon he would turn his back on the old schoolhouse, snap
his fingers in Hans Van Ripper's and everyone else's faces,
and kick any travelling teacher out of the door who dared
to call him friend.

27
Old Baltus Van Tassel moved around among his guests
with a face as round and happy as the harvest moon, full
of happiness and happiness. The only things he did to
show hospitality were shake hands, slap people on the
shoulder, laugh loudly and tell them to 'fall down and help
themselves'.

And now the music from the hall or common room called
people to the dance. The drummer was an old black man
with grey hair who had been playing in the neighbourhood
for more than 50 years. His instrument was old and worn,
just like him. Most of the time, he scraped on two or three
strings, moving his head along with every movement of
the bow, bending almost to the ground and striking his
foot when a new pair was about to start.

Ichabod was just as proud of his dancing as he was of his

singing. Not a single part of him was still. If you had seen
his loosely hung body moving and clattering around the
room, you would have thought Saint Vitus, the saint who
protects dancers, was standing right in front of you. All the
black people in the area were impressed by him. They
came from the farm and the surrounding area and stood in
a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and
window, looking at the scene with joy, rolling their white
eyeballs, and grinning from ear to ear. How could the
beating of urchins be anything but lively and happy? The
lady of his heart was his dance partner, and she smiled
politely whenever he looked at her. Meanwhile, Brom

28
Bones, who was deeply in love and jealous, sat alone in a
corner and stewed.

When the dance was over, Ichabod was drawn to a group

of sager people who, along with old Van Tassel, were
smoking and talking about the past while telling long
stories about the war.

At the time I'm talking about, this neighbourhood was one

of those well-known places that are full of history and
great people. During the war, the British and American
lines ran close to it. Because of this, it was a place where
raiders, refugees, cowboys, and other types of border
heroes would hang out. Just enough time had passed for
each storyteller to add a little bit of fantasy to his story
and, because his memory wasn't very clear, make himself
the hero of every adventure.

There was a story about a big Dutchman with a blue beard

named Doffue Martling. He almost took a British ship
with an old iron nine-pounder gun from a mud breastwork,
but the gun broke after the sixth shot. And there was an
old man, whose name won't be mentioned because he was
too wealthy to be mentioned lightly, who was a great
defender and deflected a musket ball with a small sword at
the Battle of White Plains. He felt the ball go around the
blade and hit the hilt, and he was always ready to show the
sword with the hilt a little bent as proof. There were a few
more who were just as good on the battlefield, and not a

29
single one of them didn't think he had a big part in ending
the war in a good way.

But none of these stories were as scary as the ones about

ghosts and apparitions. This kind of mythical gems
abound in the area.

Local stories and beliefs do best in these quiet places

where people have lived for a long time, but most of our
country places are filled with people who move around a
lot. Also, ghosts don't have much support in most of our
villages because they have barely had time to wake up
from their first nap and go to their graves before their
friends who are still alive have moved away. This means
that when ghosts go out at night to do their rounds, they
have no one to talk to. This is probably why we don't hear
much about ghosts anywhere but in Dutch towns that have
been around for a long time.

But the closeness of Sleepy Hollow was almost certainly

the main reason why there were so many spooky stories in
this area. There was a disease in the air that came from
that haunted area. It breathed out a dreamy atmosphere
that spread all over the land. A lot of the people from
Sleepy Hollow were at Van Tassel's, and as usual, they
were telling their strange and wonderful stories. Many sad
stories were told about funeral trains and the big tree in the
neighbourhood where Major Andre was taken and where
grief cries and wailing could be heard and seen. Some

30
people also talked about the woman in white who lived in
the dark glen at Raven Rock. She died there in the snow
and was often heard screaming before a storm on winter
nights. Most of the stories, though, were about Sleepy
Hollow's most famous ghost, the headless horseman, who
had been heard roaming the countryside recently and,
according to legend, tied his horse at night to the graves in
the churchyard.

This church seems to have always been a favourite place

for unhappy spirits to hang out because of how isolated it
is. It sits on a hill and is surrounded by locust trees and tall
elms. Its painted walls shine humbly from among the
trees, like the purity of Christianity shining through the
shadows of retirement. It has a smooth drop down to a
silver sheet of water, which is surrounded by tall trees
through which you can see the blue hills of the Hudson. If
you look at its grassy garden, where the sunbeams seem to
be sleeping quietly, you might think that the dead could at
least rest there in peace. On one side of the church, there is
a wide wooded valley with a big brook running through it.
The valley is full of broken rocks and tree stumps. Not far
from the church, there used to be a wooden bridge over a
deep, dark part of the stream. Both the road leading to the
bridge and the bridge itself were heavily covered by trees,
which made it dark even during the day and scary at night.
This was one of the places where the headless horseman
liked to hang out and where he was most often seen. Old
Brouwer was a very heretical person who didn't believe in

31
ghosts. There was a story about how he met the horseman
coming back from Sleepy Hollow and had to follow him.
They galloped over bush and brake, hill and swamp, until
they reached the bridge, where the horseman suddenly
turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook,
and ran away over the treetops with a clap of thunder.

This story was quickly topped by Brom Bones's three-

times-as-great adventure, in which he made fun of the
sprinting Hessian by calling him a crazy jockey.

He said that on his way home one night from the nearby
village of Sing Sing, he had been caught by this midnight
trooper. He had offered to race with him for a bowl of
punch and should have won it because Daredevil beat the
goblin horse all hollow, but just as they got to the church
bridge, the Hessian ran away and disappeared in a flash of
fire.

Ichabod thought about all of these stories for a long time.

They were told in that sleepy way men talk in the dark,
with the listeners' faces occasionally lit up by the glow of
a pipe. He gave them long excerpts from his best book,
which was written by Cotton Mather. He also told them
about many amazing things that had happened in his home
state of Connecticut and scary things he had seen on his
nightly walks around Sleepy Hollow.

32
The party started to wind down. The old farmers got their
families together in their waggons, which could be heard
rolling for a while along the hollow roads and over the
hills in the distance. Some of the damsels rode on pillions
behind their favourite swains. Their lighthearted laughter
mixed with the sound of the horses' hooves and echoed
through the quiet woods, getting softer and softer until
they finally stopped, leaving the late scene of noise and
fun empty and quiet. Ichabod only stayed behind because
that's what country fans do. He wanted to talk to the
princess one-on-one and was sure that he was now on the
way to success. I won't pretend to know what happened at
this interview, because I don't. I'm afraid, though, that
something must have gone wrong, because he came back
out after not too long with a very sad and glum look on his
face. — These ladies! these girls! Could that girl have
used one of her flirty moves on him? Was all of her
support for the poor teacher just a ruse to get rid of his
rival? — Heaven knows, I don't! It's enough to say that
Ichabod snuck out like he had been robbing a henhouse
instead of a pretty girl's heart. He went straight to the
stable and rudely woke up his horse, who was soundly
sleeping and dreaming of mountains of corn and oats and
whole valleys of timothy and clover. He didn't look to the
right or left, where he had often bragged about the wealth
of the countryside, but instead went straight to the stable.

At the witching hour of the night, Ichabod went home with

a sad heart and a broken spirit. He walked along the sides

33
of the high hills that rise above Tarry Town, which he had
walked so happily through in the afternoon. The hour was
just as sad as he was. Far below him, the Tappan Zed was
a dark, undefined mass of water with the occasional tall
mast of a sailboat at rest under the land. In the dead quiet
of midnight, he could even hear the watch dog barking
from the other side of the Hudson. However, the sound
was so faint that it only gave him an idea of how far he
was from this faithful man's friend. Sometimes, the long,
drawn-out crowing of a cock that had been accidentally
woken up would come from a farm house way out in the
hills, but it sounded like he was dreaming to him. There
were no signs of life near him, but sometimes he could
hear the sad chirp of a cricket or the gruff sound of a
bullfrog coming from a nearby swamp, as if he were
sleeping badly and turning quickly in his bed.

All the ghost and goblin stories he had heard in the

afternoon came back to him all at once. As the night went
on, it got darker and darker. The stars seemed to get lower
in the sky, and sometimes moving clouds blocked his view
of them. He had never felt so sad and alone before. He was
also getting close to the place where many of the ghost
stories had been set. A huge tulip tree stood in the middle
of the road. It was taller than all the other trees in the
neighbourhood and served as a kind of sign. Its arms were
twisted and weird. They were big enough to be the stems
of normal trees, and they went almost to the ground and
back up into the air. It had something to do with the sad

34
story of Andre, who was taken prisoner close by, and was
called "Major Andre's tree" by everyone. People treated it
with a mix of respect and superstition, partly because they
felt sorry for its namesake's bad luck and partly because
they had heard stories of strange things happening there
and sad songs about it.

As Ichabod got closer to the scary tree, he started to

whistle. He thought he heard a reply, but it was just a
sharp wind blowing through the dry branches. As he got
closer, he thought he saw something white hanging in the
middle of the tree. He stopped whistling and looked
closer. When he saw that it was a place where lightning
had hit the tree and left the white wood exposed, he
stopped whistling. Suddenly, he heard a groan. His teeth
chattered and his knees hit the saddle. It was just two large
branches rubbing against each other as they moved in the
wind. He got past the tree without getting hurt, but he was
about to face more danger.

About 200 yards from the tree, a small brook crossed the
road and went into Wiley's swamp, which was a swampy
area with a lot of trees. A few rough logs put next to each
other made a bridge across this stream. On the side of the
road where the brook went into the woods, a group of trees
and chestnuts covered in wild grapevines cast a dark
shadow over the area. The hardest test was to get across
this bridge. At this same spot, Andre was taken prisoner,
and the strong yeomen who surprised him were hiding in

35
the shelter of the chestnuts and vines. Since then, this
stream has been thought of as haunted, and a youngster
who has to cross it alone at night feels scared.

As he got closer to the stream, his heart started to pound.

He gathered up all his courage, gave his horse a half-
dozen kicks in the ribs, and tried to run quickly across the
bridge. Instead of going forward, the stupid old horse
moved to the side and ran straight into the fence. Ichabod's
fears grew as he waited. He pulled the reins on the other
side and kicked hard with the other foot, but it didn't help.
His horse did move, but only to run off the road and into a
clump of brambles and alder bushes on the other side.
Now, the schoolmaster used both the whip and the heel on
old Gunpowder's starving ribs. The horse ran forward,
snorting and snuffling, but stopped just before the bridge,
which almost threw his owner over his head. Right at this
moment, a splashing tramp by the bridge caught Ichabod's
attention. In the dark shade of the woods, near the brook,
he saw something tall, black, crooked, and huge. It didn't
move, but it seemed to be huddled up in the darkness like
a huge monster ready to jump out and attack the visitor.

The teacher's hair stood up on his head because he was

scared. What should they do? It was too late to turn and
fly, and if it was a ghost or goblin, which could fly on the
wind, what chance did it have of getting away? So, to
show that he was brave, he asked in stuttering accents,
"Who are you?" No one answered him. He said his request

36
again in an even more angry tone. Still, no one answered.
Again, he hit the sides of the stiff Gunpowder with a stick,
and when he closed his eyes, he couldn't help but start
singing a prayer. Just then, the scary dark thing moved and
jumped into the middle of the road. Even though it was a
dark and sad night, it was now possible to get a better idea
of what the unknown looked like. He looked like a big
man on horseback who was riding a strong-looking black
horse. He didn't offer to touch her or talk to her. Instead,
he stayed on one side of the road and ran next to old
Gunpowder, who had gotten over being scared and lost.

Ichabod didn't like this strange midnight company and

thought of Brom Bones's journey with the Galloping
Hessian, so he sped up his horse to get away from him.
The stranger, though, sped up his horse to keep up.
Ichabod stopped and started to walk, thinking he was
falling behind. The other person did the same thing. His
heart started to sink. He tried to start singing again, but his
tongue was so dry that it stuck to the roof of his mouth and
he couldn't say a word. Something about this persistent
friend's moody and stubborn quiet was strange and
horrifying. It was quickly found and feared. Ichabod was
horrified when he got to the top of a hill and saw that his
travelling companion was naked. — but his fear grew even
worse when he saw that Gunpowder's head, which should
have been on his shoulders, was being carried in front of
him on the saddle's pommel. His fear turned to
desperation, and he kicked and hit Gunpowder hard,

37
hoping that a sudden move would make his companion
run away, but the ghost jumped up with him. They ran
away, through thick and thin, with rocks flying and sparks
flying at every turn. Ichabod's thin clothes flapped in the
air as he stretched his long, thin body over the head of his
horse in a hurry to get away.

Now they were at the road that leads to Sleepy Hollow.

Gunpowder, who seemed to be possessed by a devil, didn't
keep going up the road. Instead, he turned around and ran
downhill to the left. This road goes through a sandy dip
that is covered by trees for about a quarter mile. It crosses
a famous bridge from a monster story, and just beyond
that is a green hill where a whitewashed church sits.

So far, the horse's fear seemed to give its inexperienced

rider an edge in the chase, but just as he got halfway
through the dip, the saddle's girths gave way, and he felt it
slide out from under him. He grabbed it by the pommel
and tried to hold on to it, but he couldn't. He barely had
time to save himself by grabbing old Gunpowder by the
neck before the saddle fell to the ground and his pursuer
stepped on it. Hans Van Ripper's anger crossed his mind
for a moment because it was his Sunday saddle, but this
was no time for small worries. The goblin was hard on his
haunches, and he had to work hard to keep his seat,
sometimes falling to one side, sometimes to the other, and
sometimes getting hit so hard on the high ridge of his

38
horse's backbone that he thought it would break him in
two.

He was happy to see a break in the woods, which gave

him hope that the church bridge was close. The silver
star's flickering image in the water of the brook told him
he wasn't wrong. He could just barely make out the walls
of the church behind the trees. He remembered where the
spirit rival of Brom Bones had gone. Ichabod thought, "I'll
be safe if I can just get to that bridge." Just then, he heard
the black horse panting and blowing close behind him, and
he even thought he could feel the horse's hot breath. Old
Gunpowder got another hard kick in the ribs and jumped
onto the bridge. He ran over the squeaking boards and
made it to the other side. Ichabod turned around to see if
his pursuer would disappear in a flash of fire and
brimstone as usual. Right at that moment, he saw the
goblin rise up in his stirrups and throw his head at him.
Ichabod tried to avoid the terrible projectile, but it was too
late. It hit his head with a huge crash, sending him flying
into the dust. Gunpowder, the black horse, and the goblin
rider went by like a tornado.

The next morning, the old horse was found at his master's
gate without his saddle and with the leash under his feet.
He was quietly cutting the grass.

Ichabod didn't show up for breakfast. When it was time for

dinner, there was still no sign of Ichabod. The boys

39
gathered at the schoolhouse and walked around aimlessly
by the brook, but there was no teacher there. Hans Van
Ripper started to worry about what would happen to poor
Ichabod and his saddle. Someone looked into it, and after
a lot of hard work, they found his footprints. On the way
to the church, the saddle was found trampled in the dirt,
and the tracks of horses' hooves, which were clearly going
very fast, led to the bridge. On the other side of the bridge,
on the bank of a wide part of the brook where the water
was deep and dark, Ichabod's hat and a broken pumpkin
were found.

The brook was looked through, but the body of the teacher
could not be found. As the person in charge of his estate,
Hans Van Ripper looked through the bag that held all of
Jack the Ripper's belongings. They were made up of two
shirts and a half, two stocks for the neck, one or two pairs
of worsted socks, an old pair of corduroy shorts, a rusty
razor, a book of psalm tunes with dog ears, and a broken
pitchpipe. As for the books and furniture in the
schoolhouse, they belonged to the community, except for
Cotton Mather's History of Witchcraft, a New England
Almanack, and a book of dreams and fortune-telling. This
last book had a sheet of foolscap that had been written on
and erased many times in unsuccessful attempts to make a
copy of verses in honour of the heiress of Van Tassel.
Hans Van Ripper burned these magic books and the poetry
scrawl right away. From then on, he decided not to send
his children to school again, saying that he had never seen

40
anything good come from reading and writing. The
schoolmaster must have had all the money he had on him
when he went missing, since he had just gotten his pay for
the quarter a few days before.

The strange thing that happened led to a lot of talk at

church the next Sunday. There were a lot of people
looking and talking in the churchyard, on the bridge, and
where the hat and pumpkin had been found. The stories of
Brouwer, Bones, and a whole bunch of others came to
mind. After carefully thinking about all of them and
comparing them to the symptoms of the current case, they
shook their heads and decided that Ichabod had been taken
by the galloping Hessian. Since he was single and didn't
owe anyone money, nobody gave him any more problems.
The school was moved to another part of the hollow, and a
different teacher took over.

It's true that an old farmer who went to New York a few
years later and told this story told everyone back home
that Ichabod Crane was still alive, that he had left the area
because he was afraid of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper
and was embarrassed that the heiress had fired him so
quickly, that he had moved to a different part of the
country, kept school, and was still teaching. Brom Bones,
who led Katrina to the altar in triumph after his rival
disappeared, was seen to look very wise whenever the
story of Ichabod was told, and he always laughed out loud
when the pumpkin was mentioned. This made some

41
people think that he knew more about the situation than he
was willing to say.

But the old country wives, who know these things best,
still say that Ichabod was taken away by magical means.
This is a favourite story in the neighbourhood, and it is
often told around the winter evening fire. More than ever,
the bridge became a place of religious fear. This may be
why the road has changed in recent years so that it leads to
the church along the edge of the millpond. The
schoolhouse was left empty and soon fell into disrepair. It
was said that the unfortunate teacher's ghost haunted the
building, and the ploughboy has often thought he heard his
voice in the distance singing a sad psalm tune in the quiet
solitudes of Sleepy Hollow.

42