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-trees
             that shades
                   one side
                 of the valley.

    I had
          wandered into it at noontime,
           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,
         I know of none more
              promising than this little valley.

    From the listless repose
           of the place,
         and the peculiar character
               of its inhabitants,
         who are descendants
               from the original Dutch settlers,
           this sequestered glen
            has long
                been known
                       by the name
                           of SLEEPY HOLLOW,
         and its rustic lads
            are called
                   the Sleepy Hollow Boys
                 throughout all the neighboring country.

    A drowsy,
           dreamy influence
            seems to hang
                   over the land,
          and to pervade
               the very atmosphere.

    Some say
         that the place
            was bewitched
                   by a High German doctor,
           during the early days
               of the settlement;
        others,
           that an old Indian chief,
         the prophet
              or wizard of his tribe,
           held his powwows there
             before the country
                was discovered
                       by Master Hendrick Hudson.

    Certain it is,
           the place still
            continues under the sway of
                   some witching power,
         that holds a spell
               over the minds
                   of the good people,
           causing them
              to walk
                   in a continual reverie.

    They are
          given to
               all kinds of marvelous beliefs;
        are subject
               to trances and visions,
           and frequently see strange sights,
         and hear music and voices
               in the air.

    The whole neighborhood
        abounds with local tales,
           haunted spots,
         and twilight superstitions;
        stars shoot
               and meteors glare oftener
             across the valley
               than in
                   any other part
                       of the country,
            and the nightmare,
         with her whole ninefold,
           seems to make it
               the favorite scene
             of her gambols.

    The dominant spirit,
           however,
         that haunts this enchanted region,
           and seems
              to be commander-in-chief of
                   all the powers
                       of the air,
         is the apparition
               of a figure
             on horseback,