The Legend Of Sleepy Hollow
contributor: Eric Lease Morgan (Infomotions, Inc.)
creator: Irving, Washington
date: 0000-00-00
extent: 69567
format: text/plain
language: en
publisher: Wiretap Electronic Text Archive
rights: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/GPL/2.0/
source: sleepy.txt
subject: ichabod
subject: country
subject: time
subject: van
subject: air
subject: legend
subject: sleepy
subject: hollow
subject: washington
subject: irving
subject: etext
subject: created
subject: ilana
subject: american
subject: literature
type: text
local mirror: irving-legend-68.txt
concordance: http://infomotions.com/alex/cgi-bin/concordance.pl
plain html: irving-legend-68.htm
sort title: Legend Of Sleepy Hollow, The
full text: [pg/etext92/sleep10.txt] The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. by Washington Irving This etext was created by Ilana M. (Kingsley) Newby, a reference librarian at the Urbana Free Library, Urbana, Illinois, and Greg Newby, a professor in the Graduate School of Library Science, at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. The equipment: a Mac IIci and Apple One Flatbed Scanner donated by Apple with a copy of OmniPage donated by Caere. THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW by Washington Irving Found among the papers of the late Diedrech Knickerbocker. 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, Forever 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-tree…