The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, Pt 2

And we reach the conclusion of Washington Irving's classic tale of terror, as we come face to face with the headless horseman himself.

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Transcript

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Hi friends. And welcome once again to another episode of forward into the past. I'm J C Rede. your host and narrator. And today we're continuing where we left off last time in the classic American ghost story of 1820, the legend of sleepy hollow by Washington Irving. As I mentioned in the last episode, the jack-o-lantern, which of course will feature prominently in the upcoming story. I was brought over to America by Irish and Scottish immigrants in the 18 hundreds. But that's not the only custom they brought over with them. Halloween was celebrated at that time by the Irish and Scottish communities. Not by going door to door and asking for sweets, but rather pulling pranks. In the middle to late 18 hundreds, it was not uncommon for Halloween pranks, like stealing barn, doors, placing farmers, wagons, or livestock on barn roofs, or even leaving gates open for animals to wander freely to happen. In the late 18 hundreds, most of these pranks were relegated to rural areas, but they began creeping into cities just before the turn of the 20th century. And when they did, they became much more destructive and at times, More violent. Kids began to deflate tires, erect, fake detour signs, or set up wires to trip pedestrians. Now once fires began to be set in public places. Halloween was in danger of being banned altogether. Luckily for us civic leaders in the late 1930s began to hit upon an idea. Buying off the kids from their pranking. The earliest versions of Halloween haunted houses were born at this time to keep kids busy and away from causing mischief. They were usually set up in several houses in a neighborhood, usually in basements or sellers and kids would go from house to house, getting spooked by the sounds of ghosts or cats. And bowls of peeled eggs or spaghetti would be used to frighten kids into believing that they just touched a brain or a disemboweled body. They also borrowed the idea of going from house to house and asking for money or treats to pray for one's dearly, departed, and turned it into allowing the kids to give the homeowners an option. Give us a treat or you'll get a trick. This idea was further bolstered by the war effort in the 1940s. Rations, of course we're in full swing. And if kids wanted to get something with sugar, they had to behave just like the fighting men would want with safe, clean, fun. After the war, the baby boom arrived and all those war heroes who grew up with the earliest versions of the now Americanized Halloween moved those celebrations a step further. And included celebrating in school costume parties or at home with celebrations galore. And speaking of celebrations, we're about to join a celebration of our own in the conclusion of the classic haunted tale of the legend of sleepy hollow. Enjoy folks. Brom bones who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature would fain to have carried matters to open warfare and has settled their pretentions to the lady. According to the mode of those most concise and simple. Reasoners the Knights errant of yore, by single combat. But Ichabod was too conscious of the superior might of his adversary to enter the list against him. He had overheard a boast of bones that he would double the school master up and lay him on a shelf of his own schoolhouse. And he was too weary to give him an opportunity. There was something extremely provoking in this obstinately Pacific system. It left Brahm, no alternative, but to draw upon the funds of rustic waggary in his disposition and to play off boorish, practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the object of whimsical, persecution to bones and his gang of rough riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful domains. Smoked out his singing school by stopping up the chimney broke into the school house at night in spite of its formidable. Fastenings of withe and window stakes. And turned everything topsy turvy so that the poor school master began to think all the witches in the country held their meetings there. But what was still more annoying? Brahm took all opportunities of turning him into ridicule in presence of his mistress. And had a scoundrel dog whom he had taught to wine in the most ludicrous manner and introduced as a rival of Ichabod's to instruct her in Psalmody. In this way, matters, went on for some time without producing any material effect on the relative situations of the contending powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod in pensive mode, sat enthroned on the lofty stool from whence. He usually watched all the concerns of his little literary realm. In his hand, he swayed a ferule, that Sceptre of despotic power, the Birch of justice reposed on three nails behind the throne, a constant terror to evildoers while on the desk before him might be seen sundry contraband articles. And prohibited weapons detected upon the persons of idle urchins, such as half munched, apples, pop guns, Worley, gigs, fly cages, and whole legions of rampant, little paper Gamecocks. Apparently there had been some appalling act of justice recently inflicted for his scholars were all busily intent upon their books or slyly whispering behind them with one eye kept upon the master and a kind of buzzing stillness rained throughout the schoolroom. It was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a child in a tow cloth, jacket and trousers. A round crown fragment of a hat, like the cap of mercury and mounted on the back of a ragged wild half broken Colt, which he managed with a rope by way of halter. He came clattering up to the school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merrymaking or quilting frolic to be held that evening at mr van tassels and having delivered his message with that air of importance and effort at fine language. He dashed over the Brook and was seen scampering away up the hollow full of the importance and hurry of his mission. All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school room. The scholars were hurried through their lessons without stopping at trifles. Those who were nimble, skipped over half with impunity, and those were tardy had a smart application now, and then in the rear to Quicken their speed or to help them over a tall word. Books were flung aside without being put away on the shelves. Ink stands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual time bursting forth like a Legion of young imps, yelping and racketing about the green in joy at their early emancipation. The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at his toilet brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed only suit of rusty black and arranging his locks by a bit of broken looking glass that hung up in the schoolhouse. That he might make his appearance before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman by the name of Hans van ripper and thus gallantly mounted issued forth like a Knight errant in quest of adventures. But it is meet, I should. In the true spirit of a romantic story gives some account of the looks and equipments of my hero and his Steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken down plow horse that had outlived almost everything, but its viciousness, he was gaunt and shagged with a ewe neck and a head like a hammer. His rusty mane and tail were tangled and nodded with burrs one, I had lost its pupil and was glaring and spectral, but the other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still. He must've had fire and metal in his day. If we may judge from the name he bore gunpowder. He had in fact been a favorite Steed of his master, the choleric van ripper, who was a furious writer and had infused very, probably some of his own spirit into the animal for old and broken down. As he looked there was more of the lurking devil in him then in any young Philly in the country. Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a Steed. He rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle. His sharp elbow stuck out like a grasshoppers. He carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a Sceptre and as his horse jogged on the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool had rested on the top of his nose, for, so his scanty strip of forehead might be called. And the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the horse's tail, such was the appearance of Ichabod and his Steed as they shambled out of the gate of Hans van ripper. And it was altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met in with broad daylight. It was, as I have said, Uh, fine. autumnal day. The sky was clear and serene and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on there, sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind, had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange purple and Scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air. The bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beach and Hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring Stubblefield. The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the fullness of their revelry, they fluttered chirping and frolicking from Bush to Bush and tree to tree capricious from the very profusion and variety about them. There was the honest cock Robin, the favorite game of Stripling sportsman with its loud querulous note, and the Twittering blackbirds flying in Sable clouds and the golden winged woodpecker with his Crimson crest, his broad black gorget. And his 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 Cox comb in his 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 Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye ever opened to every symptom of culinary abundance ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides, he be held vast stores of apples, some hanging in a press of 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 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 be held them soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slapped jacks, well buttered and garnished with honey or treacle by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina, then 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 its broad disc down into the west. The wide bosom of the Tappan, Zee lay motionless and glassy excepting that Here and there a gentle undulation waived 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 pure apple green. And from that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting Ray lingered on the Woody 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 their tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the mast. And as the reflection of the sky gleamed along the Stillwater, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in the air. It was toward evening that Ichabod Arrived at the castle of the here vantassle, which he found thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers, a spare leathern face race in homespun coats. and breeches. Blue stockings, huge shoes and magnificent pewter buckles. Their brisk withered, little Dames in close crimped caps, long waisted, short gowns, homespun petticoats with scissors and pin cushions and gay Calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses almost as antiquated as their mothers, Excepting where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock Gave symptoms of city innovation. The sons in short square skirted coats with rows of stupendous, brass buttons and their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times. Especially if they could procure an eel skin for their purpose It being esteemed throughout the country as a potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair. Brom bones. However, was the hero of the scene. Having come to the gathering on his favorite steed, dare devil, 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 of tricks, which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck. For he held a tractable well broken horse as unworthy of a lat of spirit. Fain I would 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 tassels mansion. Not those of 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 and various almost indescribable kinds known only to experienced Dutch Housewives. There was the doughty donut. The tender oily cake and the crisp and crumbling cruller. Sweet cakes and shortcakes ginger cakes and honey cakes and the whole family of cakes. And there were apple pies and peach pies and pumpkin pies, besides slices of ham and smoked beef 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. Higgledy piggledy pretty much as I have enumerated them with the motherly teapot, sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst. Heaven blessed the mark. I want breath and time to discuss this banquet as it deserves and am too eager to get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod. crane was not in so great. A hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty. He was a kind and thankful creature whose heart dilated in proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer and whose spirits rose with eating as some men's do with drink. He could not help to rolling his large eyes, round him as he ate and chuckling with the possibility that he might one day be Lord of all of this scene of almost. Unimaginable luxury and splendor. Then he thought how soon he'd turned his back upon the old school house, snap, his fingers in the face of Hans Von ripper and every other unworthy patron. And kick any itinerant pedagog out of doors that should dare to call him comrade. Old Baltis vantassle moved about among his guests with a face dilated with content and good humor round and jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief, but expressive 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 music from the common room or hall summoned to the dance. The musician was an old gray headed servant 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 and stamping with his foot, whenever a fresh couple, were to start. Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing has 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've thought Saint Vitus himself that bless and patron of the dance was figuring before you in person. He was the admiration of all the servants who having gathered of all ages and sizes from the farm and the neighborhood stood forming a pyramid of shining faces at every door and window gazing with delight at the scene, rolling their eyeballs and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. The lady of his heart was his partner in the dance and smiling, graciously in reply to all his amorous oglings. While Brom bones, sorely smitten with love and jealousy. Sat brooding by himself in one corner. When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a knot of the Sager folks who with old vantassle set 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 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 storyteller to dress up his tail with a little becoming fiction and the indistinctness of his recollection to make himself the hero of every exploit. There was the story of Doffue Martling a large blue bearded Dutchman who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old iron nine pounder from a mud breast work only that has gotten burst at the sixth discharge. And there was an old gentlemen who shall be nameless being too rich, a Minear to be lightly mentioned who in the battle of white Plains being an excellent master of defense. parried a musket ball with a small sword in so much that he absolutely felt it whizz 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 hilt, a little bent. There were several more that had been equally great in the field, not one of whom, what was persuaded, that he had a considerable hand in bringing the war to a happy termination. But all of these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions that succeeded. This neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of the kind. Local tails and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered long settled retreats, but are trampled under foot by the shifting throngs that form the population of most of the 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 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 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 people were present at van tassels and as usual we're 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. Some mention was also made of the woman in white that haunted the dark Glen at Raven 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. And it was said tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the church yard. The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a Knoll, surrounded by locus trees and lofty Elms, from among which it's descent. Whitewashed 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 it's grass grown yard, where the sun beam seemed to sleep. So quietly one would think that they're at least the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church extends a wide Woody, Dell along which raves a large Brooke 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 the bridge itself were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a gloom about it. Even in the daytime. But occasioned to 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 Brower, uh, most heretical disbeliever in ghost. How he met the horseman returning from his foray into sleepy hollow and was obliged to get up behind him. How they galloped over Bush and break over a hill and swamp until they reached the bridge. When the horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brower into the Brook. And sprang away over the tree tops with a clap of thunder. This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvelous adventure of Brom bones who made light of the galloping hessian as an errand 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 him for a bowl of punch. And should he have won it, to for dare devil beat the goblin horse, all hollow. But just as they came to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted and vanished in a flash of fire. All these tales told in that drowsy undertone, which men talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only now, and then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe sank deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with large extracts from his invaluable author, cotton, Mather, and added many marvelous events that had taken place in his native state of Connecticut. And fearful sites, which he had seen in his nightly walks about sleepy hollow. The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered together, their families in their wagons. And we're heard from some time rattling along the hollow roads and over the distant Hills. Some of the damsels mounted on billions behind their favorite Swains and they're lighthearted laughter mingling with the clatter of hooves echoed along the silent Woodlands. Sounding fainter and fainter until they gradually died away. And the late scene of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod 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 to success. What passed at 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 chat fallen. Oh, these women These women! Could that girl have been playing off any of her coquettish tricks? Was her encouragement of the poor, pedagog all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his rival? Heaven only knows not high. Let it suffice to say Ichabod stole forth with the air of one who had been sacking a hen roost rather than a fair ladies, heart. Without looking to the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth on which he had often. So gloated, he went straight to the stable and with several Hardy cuffs and kicks roused, his Steed most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and oats and whole valleys of Timothy and Clover. It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, Heavy hearted and crestfallen pursued his travels Homeward along the sides of the lofty Hills, which rise above Tarrytown. And which he had traversed. So cheerly in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far below him, the Tappan 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. 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 guttural twig of a bull frog from 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 seem to sink deeper in the sky and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely in dismal. He was more over 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 the kind of landmark. It's limbs were gnarled and fantastic. Large enough to form trunks for ordinary trades, 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 it was universally known by the name of major Andres tree. The common 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 tales of strange sights and doleful Lamentations told concerning it. As Ichabod Approached this fearful tree. He began to whistle. He thought his whistle was answered. It was, but a blast sweeping sharply through 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 narrowly. Perceived that it was a place where the tree had been scathed by lightening and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan, his teeth chattered and his knees mode against the saddle. It was, but the rubbing of one huge bow upon another, as they swayed about the breeze. He passed the tree in safety. But new perils lay before him. About 200 yards from the tree, a small Brook crossed the 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 for a bridge over the stream. On that side of the road where the Brook entered the wood. A group of Oaks and chestnuts matted thick with wild grape vines threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate Andre was captured and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines, where the sturdy yeoman, concealed, who surprised him. This has ever since been considered a haunted stream and fearful are the feelings of the school boy, 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, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod whose fears increased with the delay, jerk the rains 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 plunged to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles and Alder bushes. The school master now bestowed, both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old gunpowder who dashed forward snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge with a suddenness that had nearly sent his writer sprawling over his head. Just at this moment, a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear, of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the Grove on the margin of the Brook, he beheld something huge misshapen and towering. It's stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveler. The hair of the, a frighted pedagog rows 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 in stammering accents. 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 cuddled the sides of the inflexible, gunpowder and shutting his eyes broke 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 in some degree, be ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept a loof on one side of the road, jogging along the blind side of old gunpowder who. Had now got over his fright and waywardness. Ichabod who had no relish for this strange midnight companion and be thought 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. Ichabod 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 psalm tune, but his parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. And he could not utter a stave. There was something in the moody and dogged silence of this Pertenacious companion 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 and height and muffled and cloak. Ichabod was horror struck on perceiving that he was headless. But his horror was 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 by a sudden movement to give his companion the slip, but the specter started full jump with him! Away then they dashed through thick and thin stones flying and sparks flashing at every bound! Ichabod's flimsy garments, fluttered in the air. As he stretched his long Lank body away over his horses, head in the eagerness of his flight. They had now reached the road, which turns off to sleepy hollow, but gunpowder who seemed possessed with a demon instead of keeping up, it made an opposite turn and plunged headlong downhill into the left. This road leads through a Sandy hollow shaded by trees for over a quarter of a mile where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story. And just beyond swells, the green Knoll on which stands the white washed church. As yet the panic of the Steed had given his unskillful writer an apparent advantage in the chase, but just as he had got halfway through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping 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 gunpowder 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 Von rippers wrath passed across his mind, for it was his Sunday saddle, but this was no time for petty fears. The goblin was hard at 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 horses backbone with a violence 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 recollected the place where Brom bones, ghostly, competitor had disappeared. If 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 his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the ribs and old gunpowder sprang upon the bridge. He thundered over the resounding planks. He gained the opposite side, and now Ichabod cast a look behind him to see if his pursuer should vanish according to rule in the flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups and in the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to Dodge, the horrible missle, but too late, it encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash. He tumbled headlong into the dust and gunpowder, the black Steed and goblin writer passed by like a whirlwind. 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. Ichabod 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 Von 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, hooves. Deeply dented in the road. And evidently 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 the school master was not to be discovered. Hans Von ripper as executor of his estate. Examine 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 razor. A book of Psalm tunes, full of dogs, ears. And a broken pitch pipe. As to the books and furniture of the schoolhouse. They belonged to the community. Accepting cotton may there'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 blotted in several fruitless attempts to make a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of vantassle. These magic books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith, consigned to the flames by Hans von ripper. Who from that time forward determined to send his children no more to school, observing that he never knew any good come of this same reading and writing. Whatever money, the school master 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 gossips were collected in the church yard, at the bridge, and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin had been found. The stories of Brower, of bones, and a whole budget of others we're called to mind. And when they had diligently considered them all and compared them with the symptoms of the present case. They all shook their heads. And came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried off by the galloping hessian. As he was a bachelor and in nobody's debt Nobody troubled his head any more about him. The school was removed to a different quarter of the hollow. And another pedagog rained in its stead. It is true, 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 Ichabod crane was still alive. That he had left the neighborhood partly through fear of the goblin and Hans Von ripper, and partly in mortification of having been 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 10 pound court. Brom bones too, who shortly after his rivals disappearance, conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the alter 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, then he chose to tell. The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of these matters maintain 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 reason why the road has been altered of late years. So as to approach the church by the border of the mill pond. The schoolhouse being deserted soon, fell to decay and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagog. And the plow boy, loitering Homeward of a still summer evening. Has often fancied his voice at a distance chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of sleepy hollow. Well, there it is folks. Another spooky story in the books. No pun intended. Thanks for sticking with me through this immense tongue twisted tale of suspense. Oh, my goodness. So many words that I had to look up to pronounce correctly. And I'm sure I fudged several of them. So apologies to any Victorian words specialists out there that I may have a fronted. I'd like to thank my listeners who suggested these tales of suspense for me to share with you all Especially my wife, Caroline, who not only suggested this long word plagued story of terror, but surprisingly continues to support and encourage me week after week, providing you with these trifles of entertainment. Honey. Thank you for always believing in me, despite the best efforts of me getting in the way of myself. Well, as usual, I feel as if I've rambled long enough. Oh, once again, folks, let me remind you that if you liked this or indeed, any of the stories that I've shared with you over the past several months, It would be very nice to hear from you. You can leave a voicemail on the website, just click on the button with a microphone in the lower right-hand corner of the Or if you listen to the show on apple podcasts, Spotify, or good pods, you can leave a review on the show itself, or each individual episode complete with a star rating. You can also do that on the website, but if you use any of these other options, it will automatically transfer to the website anyway. So use your best judgment. Okay. Time for me to go. As always folks from the bottom of my heart. Thank you so much for listening. Please keep sharing these stories and be a good human. Okay, take care and bye for now.