The Legend Of Sleepy Hollow
contributor: Eric Lease Morgan (Infomotions, Inc.)
creator: Irving, Washington
date: 0000-00-00
extent: 68222
format: text/plain
language: en
publisher: Eris Etext Project
rights: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/GPL/2.0/
source: 22
subject: ichabod
subject: country
subject: van
subject: time
subject: air
subject: bridge
subject: sketch
subject: book
subject: legend
subject: sleepy
subject: hollow
subject: found
subject: papers
subject: late
subject: diedrich
subject: knickerbocker
subject: washington
subject: irving
subject: pleasing
subject: land
subject: drowsy
subject: head
subject: american
subject: literature
type: text
local mirror: irving-legend-588.txt
concordance: http://infomotions.com/alex/cgi-bin/concordance.pl
plain html: irving-legend-588.htm
sort title: Legend Of Sleepy Hollow, The
full text: 1819-20 THE SKETCH BOOK THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER by Washington Irving A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, For ever flushing round a summer sky. Castle of Indolence. IN THE bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail, and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market-town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail, or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity. I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noon time, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around, and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat, whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life,…