THE REINDEER

When evening shades are fallingO’er ocean’s sunny sleep,To pilgrims’ hearts recallingTheir home beyond the deep;When rest, o’er all descending,The shores with gladness smile,And lutes, their echoes blending,Are heard from isle to isle:Then, Mary, Star of the Sea,We pray, we pray, to thee.The noonday tempest overNow ocean toils no more,And wings of halcyons hover,Where all was strife before;Oh, thus may life, in closingIts short tempestuous day,Beneath heaven’s smile reposing,Shine all its storms away:Thus, Mary, Star of the Sea,We pray, we pray, to thee.—Thomas Moore.

When evening shades are falling

O’er ocean’s sunny sleep,

To pilgrims’ hearts recalling

Their home beyond the deep;

When rest, o’er all descending,

The shores with gladness smile,

And lutes, their echoes blending,

Are heard from isle to isle:

Then, Mary, Star of the Sea,

We pray, we pray, to thee.

The noonday tempest overNow ocean toils no more,And wings of halcyons hover,Where all was strife before;Oh, thus may life, in closingIts short tempestuous day,Beneath heaven’s smile reposing,Shine all its storms away:Thus, Mary, Star of the Sea,We pray, we pray, to thee.

The noonday tempest over

Now ocean toils no more,

And wings of halcyons hover,

Where all was strife before;

Oh, thus may life, in closing

Its short tempestuous day,

Beneath heaven’s smile reposing,

Shine all its storms away:

Thus, Mary, Star of the Sea,

We pray, we pray, to thee.

—Thomas Moore.

Adapted from “The Red Book of Animal Stories.” Copyright, 1899, by Longmans, Green, & Company. Used by permission.

A reindeer. Illustrator credit: GLEESON.

There is perhaps no other animal in the world so useful as the reindeer, at least none that can be put to so many uses. The flesh of a sheep is eaten, and its wool is woven into cloth; but then we should never think of harnessing a sheep even to a baby carriage.A camel serves, in the desert, the purpose of a van and of a riding horse in one, and his hair makes warm garments; but he would give us a very ill-tasting dinner, and the same may be said of some other useful creatures. A reindeer, however, is good to eat, and makes an excellent steed; its milk is nourishing; the softer parts of its horns, when properly prepared, are considered a delicacy; the bones are turned to account as tools; the sinews are twisted into thread, and, all the long winter, the skin and hair keep the dwellers in the far North snug and warm. Take away the reindeer, and the inhabitants of every country north of latitude 60° would feel as helpless as we should in England if there were no more sheep or cows!

Reindeer live, by choice, on the slopes of mountains, and require no better food than the moss, or little alpine plants, which they find growing in the crevices of the rock. Sometimes, in very cold places, or when the winter is particularly severe, they take shelter in the forest; but when spring is in the air once more, out they come in great herds, thin and sore from the bites of newly awakened insects, and wander away in search of fresher pasture. In August and September, when the sun has grown too strong for them, they seek the shade of the woods again.

In their wild state reindeer are great travelers, and as they are very strong, and excellent swimmers, they go immense distances, especially the reindeer of North America, who will cross the ice to Greenland in the early part of the year, and stay there till the end of October, when they come back to their old quarters. They are most sociable creatures, and are never happy unless they have three or four hundred companions, while herds of a thousand have sometimes been counted. The females and calves are always placed in front, and the big bucks bring up the rear, to see that nobody falls out of the ranks from weakness.

Like many animals that live in the North, the color of the reindeer is different in winter from what it is in summer. Twice a year he changes his coat, and the immense thick covering which has been so comfortable all through the fierce cold, begins to fall in early spring and a short hair to take its place, so that by the time summer comes, he is nice and cool, and looks quite another creature from what he did in the winter. As the days shorten and grow frosty, the coat becomes longer and closer, and by the time the first snow falls the deer is quite prepared to meet it.

Though reindeer prefer mountain sides when they can get them, their broad and wide-cleft hoofs are welladapted for the lowlands of the North of Europe and of America, which are a morass in summer and a snow-field in winter. Here are to be seen whole herds of them, either walking with a regular rapid step, or else going at a quick trot; but in either case always making a peculiar crackling noise with their feet.

They have an acute sense of smell, and will detect a man at a distance of five or six hundred paces, and as their eyes are as good as their ears, the huntsman has much ado to get up to them. They are dainty in their food, choosing out only the most delicate of the alpine plants, and their skins cannot be as tough as they look, for they are very sensitive to the bites of mosquitoes, gnats, and particularly of midges.

Reindeer are very cautious, as many hunters have found to their cost; but they are ready to be friendly with any cows or horses they may come across, and this must make the task of taming them a great deal easier. They have their regular hours for meals, too, and early in the mornings and late in the evenings may be seen going out for their breakfasts and suppers, which, in summer, consist, in the highlands, of the leaves and flowers of the snow ranunculus, reindeer sorrel, a favorite kind of grass, and, better than all, the young shoots of the dwarf birch. Inthe afternoons they lie down and rest, and choose for their place of repose a patch of snow, or a glacier if one is at hand.

In Norway and Lapland great herds of reindeer may be seen, during the summer, wandering along the banks of rivers, or making for the mountains, returning with the approach of winter to their old quarters. With the first snow fall they are safe under shelter, for this is the time when wolves are most to be feared. In the spring they are let loose again, and are driven carefully to some spot which is freer from midges than the rest. And so life goes on from year to year.

Reindeer herding is by no means so easy as it looks, and it would be quite impossible, even to a Lapp, if it were not for the help of dogs, who are part of the family. They are small creatures, hardly as big as a Spitz, and very thin, with close compact hair all over their bodies. These dogs are very obedient, and understand every movement of their master’s eyelid. They will not only keep the herd together on land, but follow them into a river, or across an arm of the sea. It is they who rescue the weaklings in danger of drowning, after their winter’s fast, and in the autumn, when the reindeer have grown strong from good living, drive the herd back again through the bay.

A herd of reindeer on the march is a beautiful sight to see. They go quickly along, faster than any other domestic animal, and are kept together by the herdsman and his dogs, who are untiring in their efforts to bring up stragglers.

When a good stretch of pasture is found, the Lapps build a fold, into which the reindeer are driven every evening, so that the work of the milkers may be lightened. These folds are made of the stems of birches placed close together and strengthened with cross-pieces and strong props. They are about seven feet high, and have two wide doors. At milking time, which the dogs know as well as the men, the animals are driven inside by their faithful guardians, and milking begins busily. The young ones are generally left outside under the watchful eyes of the dogs, who see that they do not wander too far away.

Inside the fold the noise is really deafening. The reindeer run to and fro, giving loud cries and throwing their heads about; which, as their horns are very big, is not pleasant for the milkers. Any one walking that way would be struck, first, with the sound of the commotion in the inclosure, and this would most likely be followed by a crackling noise, as if a hundred electric batteries were at work at once.

In the middle of the fold are thick tree trunks to which the reindeer which have to be milked are fastened, for without these they would not stand still one single instant.

The milkers have a thong which is thrown round the neck of the animal, and drawn closer till it is tied by a slip noose over the creature’s mouth, so as to prevent it from biting. Then the ends are made secure to the milking block, and the milking begins—the animal all the while struggling hard to get free. But the Lapps know how to manage them, and only draw the cord tighter over the nose, so that the creatures are bound in self-defense to remain quiet.

The milk flows into a sort of large bowl with handles, but the Lapps are both careless and dirty in their ways, and not only waste a great deal of the milk, but leave so many hairs in it that it is necessary to strain it through a cloth before it can be drunk. However, the milk itself is very good. The milking once over, the doors are opened, and the animals scamper out joyously.

All together, the life of the owner of a herd of reindeer cannot be said to be an idle one. Yet he is in general well satisfied with his lot, and thinks himself the most fortunate man in the world.

—A. Lang.

There was a great smith in Ulster of the name of Culain, who made a feast for Conchubar and his people. When Conchubar was setting out to the feast, he passed by the lawn where the boy troop were at their games, and he watched them awhile, and saw how young Setanta, his sister’s son, was winning the goal from them all.

“That little lad will serve Ulster yet,” said Conchubar; “and call him to me now,” he said, “and let him come with me to the smith’s feast.”

“I cannot go with you now,” said Setanta, when they had called to him, “for these boys have not had enough of play yet.”

“It would be too long for me to wait for you,” said the king.

“There is no need for you to wait; I will follow the track of the chariots,” said Setanta.

So Conchubar went on to the smith’s house, and there was a welcome before him, and the feast was brought in, and they began to be merry. And then Culainsaid to the king, “Will there be any one else of your people coming after you to-night?”

“There will not,” said Conchubar, for he forgot that he had told the little lad to follow him. “But why do you ask me that?” he said.

“I have a fierce hound,” said the smith, “and when I take the chain off him, he lets no one come into the district with himself, and he will obey no one but myself, and he has in him the strength of a hundred.”

“Loose him out,” said Conchubar, “and let him keep a watch on the place.”

So Culain loosed him out, and the dog made a course round the whole district, and then he came back to the place where he was used to watch the house.

Now, as to the boys at Emain, when they were done playing, every one went to his father’s house, or to whoever was in charge of him. But Setanta set out on the track of the chariots, shortening the way for himself with his hurling stick and his ball.

When he came to the lawn before the smith’s house, the hound heard him coming, and began such a fierce yelling that he might have been heard through all Ulster, and he sprang at him as if he had a mind not to stop and tear him up at all, but to swallow him at the one mouthful. The little fellow had no weaponbut his stick and his ball, but when he saw the hound coming at him, he struck the ball with such force that it went down his throat, and through his body. Then he seized him by the hind legs and dashed him against a rock until there was no life left in him.

When the men feasting within heard the outcry of the hound, Conchubar started up and said, “It is no good luck brought us on this journey, for that is surely my sister’s son that was coming after me, and that has got his death by the hound.”

On that all the men rushed out, not waiting to go through the door, but over walls and barriers as they could. But Fergus was the first to get to where the boy was, and he took him up and lifted him on his shoulder, and brought him in safe and sound to Conchubar, and there was great joy in them all.

But Culain the smith went out with them, and when he saw his great hound lying dead and broken, there was great grief in his heart, and he came in and said to Setanta, “There is no good welcome for you here.”

“What have you against the little lad?” said Conchubar.

“It was no good luck that brought him here, or that made me prepare this feast for yourself,” said the smith, “for now, my hound being gone, my substance will bewasted, and my way of living will be gone astray. And, little boy,” he said, “that was a good member of my family you took from me, for he was the protector of my flocks and of all that I have.”

“Do not be vexed on account of that,” said the boy, “and I myself will makeup to you for what I have done.”

“How will you do that?” said Conchubar.

“This is how I will do it: if there is a whelp of the same breed to be had in Ireland, I will rear him and train him until he is as good a hound as the one killed; and until that time, Culain,” he said, “I myself will be your watchdog, to guard your goods and your cattle and your house.”

“You have made a fair offer,” said Conchubar.

“I could have given no better award myself,” said Cathbad the Druid. “And from this out,” he said, “your name will be Cuchulain, the Hound of Culain.”

“I am better pleased with my own name of Setanta,” said the boy.

“Do not say that,” said Cathbad, “for all the men in the whole world will some day have the name of Cuchulain in their mouths.”

“If that is so, I am content to keep it,” said the boy. And this is how he came by the name Cuchulain.

—Lady Gregory.

There are a great many interesting stories about the first settlement of San Gabriel, and the habits and customs of the Indians there. They were a very polite people to each other, and used to train their children in some respects very carefully.

If a child were sent to bring water to an older person, and he tasted it on the way, he was made to throw the water out and go and bring fresh water; when two grown-up persons were talking together, if a child ran between them, he was told that he had done an uncivil thing. These are only specimens of their rules for polite behavior. They seem to me as good as ours.

These Indians were very fond of flowers, of which the whole country is full. They used to make long garlands and wreaths, not only to wear on their heads, but to reach way down to their feet. These they wore at festivals and celebrations; and sometimes at these festivals they used to have what they called “song contests.”

Two of the best singers, or poets, would be matched together to see which could sing the better, or make the better verses. That seems to me a more interesting kind of match than the spelling matches we have in our villages.

But there is nothing of this sort to be seen in San Gabriel now, or indeed anywhere in California. The Indians have been driven away by the white people who wanted their lands; year by year more and more white people have come, and the Indians have been robbed of more and more of their lands, and have died off by hundreds, until there are not many left.

Mr. Connor was much interested in collecting all he could of the curious stone bowls and pestles they used to make, and of their baskets and lace work. He spent much of his time riding about the country; and whenever he came to an Indian hut he would stop and ask if they had any stone bowls they would like to sell.

The bowls especially were a great curiosity. Nobody knew how long ago they had been made. When the missionaries first came to the country they found the Indians using them; they had them of all sizes, from those so large that they are almost more than a man can lift down to the tiny ones no bigger than a tea-cup. But big and little, they were all made in thesame way out of solid stone, scooped out in the middle, by rubbing another stone round and round on them.

Even yet people who are searching for such curiosities sometimes find big grave mounds in which dozens of them are buried—buried side by side with the people who used to eat out of them. There is nothing left of the people but their skulls and a few bones; but the bowls will last as long as the world stands.

—Helen Hunt Jackson.

Let the life of the Blessed Mary be ever present to you.…

She was humble of heart, serious in her conversation, fonder of reading than of speaking.

She placed her confidence rather in the prayer of the poor than in the uncertain riches of the world.

She was ever intent on her occupations, and accustomed to make God rather than man the witness of her thoughts.

She injured no one, wished well to all, reverenced age, yielded not to envy, avoided all boasting, followed the dictates of reason, and loved virtue.

—St. Ambrose.

(Switzerland had been conquered by Austria, and Gesler, a cruel tyrant, was her governor. William Tell had refused to bow before Gesler’s hat, which had been elevated on a pole; he was therefore arrested and taken before the governor. His son Albert was also taken, and both were threatened with death.)

(William Tell,Albert, his son, andGeslerwith officers.Tellin chains.)Gesler.What is thy name?Tell.My name?It matters not to keep it from thee now—My name is Tell.Ges.Tell!—William Tell?Tell.The same.Ges.What! he so famed ’bove all his countrymenFor guiding o’er the stormy lake the boat?And such a master of his bow, ’tis saidHis arrows never miss! Indeed, I’ll takeExquisite vengeance! Mark! I’ll spare thy life—Thy boy’s, too!—both of you are free—on oneCondition.Tell.Name it.Ges.I would see you makeA trial of your skill with that same bowYou shoot so well with.Tell.Name the trial youWould have me make.Ges.You look upon your boyAs though instinctively you guessed it.Tell.Look upon my boy! What mean you?Look uponMy boy as though I guessed it! Guessed the trialYou’d have me make! Guessed itInstinctively! you do not mean—no—no—You would not have me make a trial ofMy skill upon my child! Impossible!I do not guess your meaning.Ges.I would seeThee hit an apple at the distance ofA hundred paces.Tell.Is my boy to hold it?Ges.No.Tell.No! I’ll send the arrow through the core.Ges.It is to rest upon his head.Tell.Great Heaven, you hear him!Ges.Thou dost hear the choice I give—Such trial of the skill thou art master of,Or death to both of you; not otherwiseTo be escaped.Tell.O monster!Ges.Wilt thou do it?Albert.He will! he will!Tell.Ferocious monster! MakeA father murder his own child—Ges.Take offHis chains, if he consent.Tell.With his own hand!Ges.Does he consent?Alb.He does.(Geslersigns to his officers, who proceed to take offTell’schains.Tellall the time unconscious what they do.)Tell.With his own hand!Murder his child with his own hand—this hand!The hand I’ve led him, when an infant, by!’Tis beyond horror—’tis most horrible.Amazement! (His chains fall off.) What’s that you’ve done to me?Villains! put on my chains again. My handsAre free from blood, and have no gust for it,That they should drink my child’s! Here! here! I’ll notMurder my boy for Gesler.Alb.Father—father!You will not hit me, father!Tell.Hit thee! SendThe arrow through thy brain; or, missing that,Shoot out an eye; or, if thine eye escape,Mangle the cheek I’ve seen thy mother’s lipsCover with kisses. Hit thee—hit a hairOf thee, and cleave thy mother’s heart.Ges.Dost thou consent?Tell.Give me my bow and quiver.Ges.For what?Tell.To shoot my boy!Alb.No, father—no!To save me! You’ll be sure to hit the apple—Will you not save me, father?Tell.Lead me forth;I’ll make the trial.Alb.Thank you!Tell.Thank me! DoYou know for what? I will not make the trial,To take him to his mother in my armsAnd lay him down a corpse before her!Ges.Then he dies this moment—and you certainlyDo murder him whose life you have a chanceTo save, and will not use it.Tell.Well, I’ll do it. I’ll make the trial.Alb.Father—Tell.Speak not to me;Let me not hear thy voice. Thou must be dumb;And so should all things be. Earth should be dumb,And heaven—unless its thunders muttered atThe deed, and sent a bolt to stop it. Give meMy bow and quiver!Ges.When all’s ready.Tell.Well, lead on!Scene IIEnter, slowly, people in evident distress. Officers,Sarnem,Gesler,Tell,Albert, and soldiers, one bearingTell’sbow and quiver, another with a basket of apples.Ges.That is your ground. Now shall they measure thenceA hundred paces. Take the distance.Tell.Is the line a true one?Ges.True or not, what is’t to thee?Tell.What is’t to me? A little thing,A very little thing—a yard or twoIs nothing here or there—were it a wolfI shot at. Never mind.Ges.Be thankful, slave,Our grace accords thee life on any terms.Tell.I will be thankful, Gesler. Villain, stop!You measure to the sun!Ges.And what of that?What matter whether to or from the sun?Tell.I’d have it at my back—the sun should shineUpon the mark, and not on him that shoots.I cannot see to shoot against the sun;I will not shoot against the sun!Ges.Give him his way. Thou hast cause to bless my mercy.Tell.I shall remember it. I’d like to seeThe apple I’m to shoot at.Ges.Stay! show me the basket—there—Tell.You’ve picked the smallest one.Ges.I know I have.Tell.Oh! do you? But you seeThe color on’t is dark.—I’d have it light,To see it better.Ges.Take it as it is;Thy skill will be the greater if thou hit’st it.Tell.True—true! I did not think of that—I wonderI did not think of that. Give me some chanceTo save my boy! (Throws away the apple.)I will not murder him,If I can help it—for the honor ofThe form thou wearest, if all the heart is gone.Ges.Well, choose thyself.Tell.Have I a friend among the lookers-on?Verner.(Rushing forward.) Here, Tell!Tell.I thank thee, Verner!He is a friend runs out into a stormTo shake a hand with us. I must be brief:When once the bow is bent, we cannot takeThe shot too soon. Verner, whatever beThe issue of this hour, the common causeMust not stand still. Let not to-morrow’s sunSet on the tyrant’s banner! Verner! Verner!The boy! the boy! Thinkest thou he hath the courageTo stand it?Ver.Yes.Tell.How looks he?Ver.Clear and smilingly;If you doubt it, look yourself.Tell.No—no—my friend;To hear it is enough.Ver.He bears himself so much above his years.Tell.I know! I know!Ver.With constancy so modest—Tell.I was sure he would.Ver.And looks with such relying loveAnd reverence upon you.Tell.Man! man! man!No more. Already I’m too much the fatherTo act the man. Verner, no more, my friend.I would be flint—flint—flint. Don’t make me feelI’m not. Do not mind me. Take the boyAnd set him, Verner, with his back to me.Set him upon his knees—and place this appleUpon his head, so that the stem may front me,—Thus, Verner; charge him to keep steady—tell himI’ll hit the apple. Verner, do all thisMore briefly than I tell it thee.Ver.Come, Albert. (Leading him out.)Alb.May I not speak with him before I go?Ver.You must not.Alb.I must! I cannot go from him without.Ver.It is his will you should.Alb.His will, is it?I am content, then—come.Tell.My boy! (Holding out his arms to him.)Alb.My father! (Rushing intoTell’sarms.)Tell.If thou canst bear it, should not I? Go, now,My son—and keep in mind that I can shoot—Go, boy—be thou but steady, I will hitThe apple. Go! God bless thee—go. My bow!— (The bow is handed to him.)Thou wilt not fail thy master, wilt thou? ThouHast never failed him yet, old servant. No,I’m sure of thee. I know thy honesty.Thou art stanch—stanch. Let me see my quiver.Ges.Give him a single arrow.Tell.Do you shoot?Sol.I do.Tell.Is it so you pick an arrow, friend?The point, you see, is bent; the feather jagged.(Breaks it.) That’s all the use ’tis fit for.Ges.Let him have another.Tell.Why, ’tis better than the first,But yet not good enough for such an aimAs I’m to take—’tis heavy in the shaft;I’ll not shoot with it! (Throws it away.) Let me see my quiver.Bring it! ’Tis not one arrow in a dozenI’d take to shoot with at a dove, much lessA dove like that.Ges.It matters not.Show him the quiver.Tell.See if the boy is ready. (Tellhere hides an arrow under his vest.)Ver.He is.Tell.I’m ready, too! Keep silent forHeaven’s sake and do not stir—and let me haveYour prayers—your prayers—and be my witnessesThat if his life’s in peril from my hand,’Tis only for the chance of saving it. (To the people.)Ges.Go on.Tell.I will.O friends, for mercy’s sake, keep motionlessAnd silent.(Tellshoots; a shout of exultation bursts from the crowd.Tell’shead drops on his bosom; he with difficulty supports himself upon his bow.)Ver.(Rushing in withAlbert.) Thy boy is safe, nohair of him is touched.Alb.Father, I’m safe! Your Albert’s safe, dear father,—Speak to me! Speak to me!Ver.He cannot, boy.Alb.You grant him life?Ges.I do.Alb.And we are free?Ges.You are. (Crossing angrily behind.)Ver.Open his vestAnd give him air.(Albertopens his father’s vest, and the arrow drops.Tellstarts, fixes his eye uponAlbert, and clasps him to his breast.)Tell.My boy! my boy!Ges.For whatHid you that arrow in your breast? Speak, slave!Tell.To kill thee, tyrant, had I slain my boy!—Sheridan Knowles.

(William Tell,Albert, his son, andGeslerwith officers.Tellin chains.)

Gesler.What is thy name?

Tell.My name?It matters not to keep it from thee now—My name is Tell.

Tell.My name?

It matters not to keep it from thee now—

My name is Tell.

Ges.Tell!—William Tell?

Tell.The same.

Ges.What! he so famed ’bove all his countrymenFor guiding o’er the stormy lake the boat?And such a master of his bow, ’tis saidHis arrows never miss! Indeed, I’ll takeExquisite vengeance! Mark! I’ll spare thy life—Thy boy’s, too!—both of you are free—on oneCondition.

Ges.What! he so famed ’bove all his countrymen

For guiding o’er the stormy lake the boat?

And such a master of his bow, ’tis said

His arrows never miss! Indeed, I’ll take

Exquisite vengeance! Mark! I’ll spare thy life—

Thy boy’s, too!—both of you are free—on one

Condition.

Tell.Name it.

Ges.I would see you makeA trial of your skill with that same bowYou shoot so well with.

Ges.I would see you make

A trial of your skill with that same bow

You shoot so well with.

Tell.Name the trial youWould have me make.

Tell.Name the trial you

Would have me make.

Ges.You look upon your boyAs though instinctively you guessed it.

Ges.You look upon your boy

As though instinctively you guessed it.

Tell.Look upon my boy! What mean you?Look uponMy boy as though I guessed it! Guessed the trialYou’d have me make! Guessed itInstinctively! you do not mean—no—no—You would not have me make a trial ofMy skill upon my child! Impossible!I do not guess your meaning.

Tell.Look upon my boy! What mean you?

Look upon

My boy as though I guessed it! Guessed the trial

You’d have me make! Guessed it

Instinctively! you do not mean—no—no—

You would not have me make a trial of

My skill upon my child! Impossible!

I do not guess your meaning.

Ges.I would seeThee hit an apple at the distance ofA hundred paces.

Ges.I would see

Thee hit an apple at the distance of

A hundred paces.

Tell.Is my boy to hold it?

Ges.No.

Tell.No! I’ll send the arrow through the core.

Ges.It is to rest upon his head.

Tell.Great Heaven, you hear him!

Ges.Thou dost hear the choice I give—Such trial of the skill thou art master of,Or death to both of you; not otherwiseTo be escaped.

Ges.Thou dost hear the choice I give—

Such trial of the skill thou art master of,

Or death to both of you; not otherwise

To be escaped.

Tell.O monster!

Ges.Wilt thou do it?

Albert.He will! he will!

Tell.Ferocious monster! MakeA father murder his own child—

Tell.Ferocious monster! Make

A father murder his own child—

Ges.Take offHis chains, if he consent.

Ges.Take off

His chains, if he consent.

Tell.With his own hand!

Ges.Does he consent?

Alb.He does.

(Geslersigns to his officers, who proceed to take offTell’schains.Tellall the time unconscious what they do.)

Tell.With his own hand!Murder his child with his own hand—this hand!The hand I’ve led him, when an infant, by!’Tis beyond horror—’tis most horrible.Amazement! (His chains fall off.) What’s that you’ve done to me?Villains! put on my chains again. My handsAre free from blood, and have no gust for it,That they should drink my child’s! Here! here! I’ll notMurder my boy for Gesler.

Tell.With his own hand!

Murder his child with his own hand—this hand!

The hand I’ve led him, when an infant, by!

’Tis beyond horror—’tis most horrible.

Amazement! (His chains fall off.) What’s that you’ve done to me?

Villains! put on my chains again. My hands

Are free from blood, and have no gust for it,

That they should drink my child’s! Here! here! I’ll not

Murder my boy for Gesler.

Alb.Father—father!You will not hit me, father!

Alb.Father—father!

You will not hit me, father!

Tell.Hit thee! SendThe arrow through thy brain; or, missing that,Shoot out an eye; or, if thine eye escape,Mangle the cheek I’ve seen thy mother’s lipsCover with kisses. Hit thee—hit a hairOf thee, and cleave thy mother’s heart.

Tell.Hit thee! Send

The arrow through thy brain; or, missing that,

Shoot out an eye; or, if thine eye escape,

Mangle the cheek I’ve seen thy mother’s lips

Cover with kisses. Hit thee—hit a hair

Of thee, and cleave thy mother’s heart.

Ges.Dost thou consent?

Tell.Give me my bow and quiver.

Ges.For what?

Tell.To shoot my boy!

Alb.No, father—no!To save me! You’ll be sure to hit the apple—Will you not save me, father?

Alb.No, father—no!

To save me! You’ll be sure to hit the apple—

Will you not save me, father?

Tell.Lead me forth;I’ll make the trial.

Tell.Lead me forth;

I’ll make the trial.

Alb.Thank you!

Tell.Thank me! DoYou know for what? I will not make the trial,To take him to his mother in my armsAnd lay him down a corpse before her!

Tell.Thank me! Do

You know for what? I will not make the trial,

To take him to his mother in my arms

And lay him down a corpse before her!

Ges.Then he dies this moment—and you certainlyDo murder him whose life you have a chanceTo save, and will not use it.

Ges.Then he dies this moment—and you certainly

Do murder him whose life you have a chance

To save, and will not use it.

Tell.Well, I’ll do it. I’ll make the trial.

Alb.Father—

Tell.Speak not to me;Let me not hear thy voice. Thou must be dumb;And so should all things be. Earth should be dumb,And heaven—unless its thunders muttered atThe deed, and sent a bolt to stop it. Give meMy bow and quiver!

Tell.Speak not to me;

Let me not hear thy voice. Thou must be dumb;

And so should all things be. Earth should be dumb,

And heaven—unless its thunders muttered at

The deed, and sent a bolt to stop it. Give me

My bow and quiver!

Ges.When all’s ready.

Tell.Well, lead on!

Enter, slowly, people in evident distress. Officers,Sarnem,Gesler,Tell,Albert, and soldiers, one bearingTell’sbow and quiver, another with a basket of apples.

Ges.That is your ground. Now shall they measure thenceA hundred paces. Take the distance.

Ges.That is your ground. Now shall they measure thence

A hundred paces. Take the distance.

Tell.Is the line a true one?

Ges.True or not, what is’t to thee?

Tell.What is’t to me? A little thing,A very little thing—a yard or twoIs nothing here or there—were it a wolfI shot at. Never mind.

Tell.What is’t to me? A little thing,

A very little thing—a yard or two

Is nothing here or there—were it a wolf

I shot at. Never mind.

Ges.Be thankful, slave,Our grace accords thee life on any terms.

Ges.Be thankful, slave,

Our grace accords thee life on any terms.

Tell.I will be thankful, Gesler. Villain, stop!You measure to the sun!

Tell.I will be thankful, Gesler. Villain, stop!

You measure to the sun!

Ges.And what of that?What matter whether to or from the sun?

Ges.And what of that?

What matter whether to or from the sun?

Tell.I’d have it at my back—the sun should shineUpon the mark, and not on him that shoots.I cannot see to shoot against the sun;I will not shoot against the sun!

Tell.I’d have it at my back—the sun should shine

Upon the mark, and not on him that shoots.

I cannot see to shoot against the sun;

I will not shoot against the sun!

Ges.Give him his way. Thou hast cause to bless my mercy.

Tell.I shall remember it. I’d like to seeThe apple I’m to shoot at.

Tell.I shall remember it. I’d like to see

The apple I’m to shoot at.

Ges.Stay! show me the basket—there—

Tell.You’ve picked the smallest one.

Ges.I know I have.

Tell.Oh! do you? But you seeThe color on’t is dark.—I’d have it light,To see it better.

Tell.Oh! do you? But you see

The color on’t is dark.—I’d have it light,

To see it better.

Ges.Take it as it is;Thy skill will be the greater if thou hit’st it.

Ges.Take it as it is;

Thy skill will be the greater if thou hit’st it.

Tell.True—true! I did not think of that—I wonderI did not think of that. Give me some chanceTo save my boy! (Throws away the apple.)I will not murder him,If I can help it—for the honor ofThe form thou wearest, if all the heart is gone.

Tell.True—true! I did not think of that—I wonder

I did not think of that. Give me some chance

To save my boy! (Throws away the apple.)

I will not murder him,

If I can help it—for the honor of

The form thou wearest, if all the heart is gone.

Ges.Well, choose thyself.

Tell.Have I a friend among the lookers-on?

Verner.(Rushing forward.) Here, Tell!

Tell.I thank thee, Verner!He is a friend runs out into a stormTo shake a hand with us. I must be brief:When once the bow is bent, we cannot takeThe shot too soon. Verner, whatever beThe issue of this hour, the common causeMust not stand still. Let not to-morrow’s sunSet on the tyrant’s banner! Verner! Verner!The boy! the boy! Thinkest thou he hath the courageTo stand it?

Tell.I thank thee, Verner!

He is a friend runs out into a storm

To shake a hand with us. I must be brief:

When once the bow is bent, we cannot take

The shot too soon. Verner, whatever be

The issue of this hour, the common cause

Must not stand still. Let not to-morrow’s sun

Set on the tyrant’s banner! Verner! Verner!

The boy! the boy! Thinkest thou he hath the courage

To stand it?

Ver.Yes.

Tell.How looks he?

Ver.Clear and smilingly;If you doubt it, look yourself.

Ver.Clear and smilingly;

If you doubt it, look yourself.

Tell.No—no—my friend;To hear it is enough.

Tell.No—no—my friend;

To hear it is enough.

Ver.He bears himself so much above his years.

Tell.I know! I know!

Ver.With constancy so modest—

Tell.I was sure he would.

Ver.And looks with such relying loveAnd reverence upon you.

Ver.And looks with such relying love

And reverence upon you.

Tell.Man! man! man!No more. Already I’m too much the fatherTo act the man. Verner, no more, my friend.I would be flint—flint—flint. Don’t make me feelI’m not. Do not mind me. Take the boyAnd set him, Verner, with his back to me.Set him upon his knees—and place this appleUpon his head, so that the stem may front me,—Thus, Verner; charge him to keep steady—tell himI’ll hit the apple. Verner, do all thisMore briefly than I tell it thee.

Tell.Man! man! man!

No more. Already I’m too much the father

To act the man. Verner, no more, my friend.

I would be flint—flint—flint. Don’t make me feel

I’m not. Do not mind me. Take the boy

And set him, Verner, with his back to me.

Set him upon his knees—and place this apple

Upon his head, so that the stem may front me,—

Thus, Verner; charge him to keep steady—tell him

I’ll hit the apple. Verner, do all this

More briefly than I tell it thee.

Ver.Come, Albert. (Leading him out.)

Alb.May I not speak with him before I go?

Ver.You must not.

Alb.I must! I cannot go from him without.

Ver.It is his will you should.

Alb.His will, is it?I am content, then—come.

Alb.His will, is it?

I am content, then—come.

Tell.My boy! (Holding out his arms to him.)

Alb.My father! (Rushing intoTell’sarms.)

Tell.If thou canst bear it, should not I? Go, now,My son—and keep in mind that I can shoot—Go, boy—be thou but steady, I will hitThe apple. Go! God bless thee—go. My bow!— (The bow is handed to him.)Thou wilt not fail thy master, wilt thou? ThouHast never failed him yet, old servant. No,I’m sure of thee. I know thy honesty.Thou art stanch—stanch. Let me see my quiver.

Tell.If thou canst bear it, should not I? Go, now,

My son—and keep in mind that I can shoot—

Go, boy—be thou but steady, I will hit

The apple. Go! God bless thee—go. My bow!— (The bow is handed to him.)

Thou wilt not fail thy master, wilt thou? Thou

Hast never failed him yet, old servant. No,

I’m sure of thee. I know thy honesty.

Thou art stanch—stanch. Let me see my quiver.

Ges.Give him a single arrow.

Tell.Do you shoot?

Sol.I do.

Tell.Is it so you pick an arrow, friend?The point, you see, is bent; the feather jagged.(Breaks it.) That’s all the use ’tis fit for.

Tell.Is it so you pick an arrow, friend?

The point, you see, is bent; the feather jagged.

(Breaks it.) That’s all the use ’tis fit for.

Ges.Let him have another.

Tell.Why, ’tis better than the first,But yet not good enough for such an aimAs I’m to take—’tis heavy in the shaft;I’ll not shoot with it! (Throws it away.) Let me see my quiver.Bring it! ’Tis not one arrow in a dozenI’d take to shoot with at a dove, much lessA dove like that.

Tell.Why, ’tis better than the first,

But yet not good enough for such an aim

As I’m to take—’tis heavy in the shaft;

I’ll not shoot with it! (Throws it away.) Let me see my quiver.

Bring it! ’Tis not one arrow in a dozen

I’d take to shoot with at a dove, much less

A dove like that.

Ges.It matters not.Show him the quiver.

Ges.It matters not.

Show him the quiver.

Tell.See if the boy is ready. (Tellhere hides an arrow under his vest.)

Ver.He is.

Tell.I’m ready, too! Keep silent forHeaven’s sake and do not stir—and let me haveYour prayers—your prayers—and be my witnessesThat if his life’s in peril from my hand,’Tis only for the chance of saving it. (To the people.)

Tell.I’m ready, too! Keep silent for

Heaven’s sake and do not stir—and let me have

Your prayers—your prayers—and be my witnesses

That if his life’s in peril from my hand,

’Tis only for the chance of saving it. (To the people.)

Ges.Go on.

Tell.I will.O friends, for mercy’s sake, keep motionlessAnd silent.

Tell.I will.

O friends, for mercy’s sake, keep motionless

And silent.

(Tellshoots; a shout of exultation bursts from the crowd.Tell’shead drops on his bosom; he with difficulty supports himself upon his bow.)

Ver.(Rushing in withAlbert.) Thy boy is safe, nohair of him is touched.

Ver.(Rushing in withAlbert.) Thy boy is safe, no

hair of him is touched.

Alb.Father, I’m safe! Your Albert’s safe, dear father,—Speak to me! Speak to me!

Alb.Father, I’m safe! Your Albert’s safe, dear father,—

Speak to me! Speak to me!

Ver.He cannot, boy.

Alb.You grant him life?

Ges.I do.

Alb.And we are free?

Ges.You are. (Crossing angrily behind.)

Ver.Open his vestAnd give him air.

Ver.Open his vest

And give him air.

(Albertopens his father’s vest, and the arrow drops.Tellstarts, fixes his eye uponAlbert, and clasps him to his breast.)

Tell.My boy! my boy!

Ges.For whatHid you that arrow in your breast? Speak, slave!

Ges.For what

Hid you that arrow in your breast? Speak, slave!

Tell.To kill thee, tyrant, had I slain my boy!

—Sheridan Knowles.

In a remote period of American history there lived in Sleepy Hollow a worthy man whose name was Ichabod Crane. He sojourned, or, as he expressed it, “tarried” in that quiet little valley for the purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity.

He was tall, but very lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, and feet that might have served as shovels. His head was small, with huge ears, large glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose. To see him striding along the crest of a hill on a windy day, with his ill-fitting clothes fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for some scarecrow escaped from a cornfield.

His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, rudely built of logs. It stood in a rather lonely but pleasant place, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a birch tree growing near one end of it. From this place of learning the low murmur of children’s voices, conning over their lessons,might be heard on a drowsy summer day like the hum of a beehive. Now and then this was interrupted by the stern voice of the master, or perhaps by the appalling sound of a birch twig, as some loiterer was urged along the flowery path of knowledge.

When school hours were over, the teacher forgot that he was the master, and was even the companion and playmate of the older boys; and on holiday afternoons he liked to go home with some of the smaller ones who happened to have pretty sisters, or mothers noted for their skill in cooking.

Indeed, it was a wise thing for him to keep on good terms with his pupils. He earned so little by teaching school that he could scarcely have had enough to eat had he not, according to country custom, boarded at the houses of the children whom he instructed. With these he lived, by turns, a week at a time, thus going the rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly goods tied up in a cotton handkerchief.

He had many ways of making himself both useful and agreeable. He helped the farmers in the lighter labors of their farms, raked the hay at harvest time, mended the fences, took the horses to water, drove the cows from pasture, and cut wood for the winter fire. He found favor in the eyes of the mothers bypetting the children, particularly the youngest; and he would often sit with a child on one knee and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together.

He was looked upon as a kind of idle, gentlemanlike personage of finer tastes and better manners than the rough young men who had been brought up in the country. He was always welcome at the tea table of a farmhouse; and his presence was almost sure to bring out an extra dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or the parade of a silver teapot. He would walk with the young ladies in the churchyard between services on Sundays, gathering grapes for them from the wild vines that overran the surrounding trees, or sauntering with a whole bevy of them along the banks of the adjacent mill pond; while the bashful country youngsters hung sheepishly back and hated him for his fine manners.

One of his sources of pleasure was to pass long winter evenings with the Dutch farmers, as they sat by the fire with a long row of apples roasting and sputtering along the hearth. He listened to their wondrous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, or “Galloping Hessian of the Hollow,” as they sometimes called him. And then he would entertain them withstories of witchcraft, and would frighten them with woeful speculations about comets and shooting stars, and by telling them that the world did really turn round, and that they were half the time topsy-turvy.

There was pleasure in all this while snugly cuddling in the chimney corner of a room that was lighted by the ruddy glow from a crackling wood fire, and where no ghost dared show its face; but it was a pleasure dearly bought by the terrors which would beset him during his walk homeward. How fearful were the shapes and shadows that fell across his way in the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night! How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet, and dread to look over his shoulder lest he should behold some uncouth being tramping close behind him!

On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool from whence he watched the doings of his little school. In his hand heheld a ferule, that scepter of despotic power; the birch of justice reposed on three nails behind the stool, a constant terror to evil doers; while on the desk were sundry contraband articles taken from idle urchins, such as half-eaten apples, popguns, whirligigs, and fly cages. 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 reigned throughout the schoolroom.

This stillness was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro, in tow-cloth jacket and trousers, who, mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, came clattering up to the schoolhouse door. He brought an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merrymaking, or “quilting frolic,” to be held that evening at the house of Herr Van Tassel; and having delivered his message, 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 schoolroom. The scholars were hurried through their lessons. Those who were nimble skipped over half without being noticed; and those who were slow were hurried along by a smart application of the rod. Then books were flung aside without being put away on theshelves; inkstands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual time, the children yelping and racketing about the green, in joy at their early freedom.

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing his best and only suit of rusty black, and arranging his looks by a bit of broken looking-glass that hung up in the schoolhouse. That he might make his appearance at the party in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was boarding, and, thus gallantly mounted, rode forth, like a knight-errant in quest of adventures.

The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plow horse. He was gaunt and shagged, with a slender neck, and a head like a hammer. His mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burs. One eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral, but the other still gleamed with genuine wickedness. He must have had plenty of fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge from his name, which was Gunpowder.

Ichabod was a rider suited for such a steed. He rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle; his elbows stuck out like a grasshopper’s; and as the horse joggedon, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat 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 along the highway; and it was altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight.

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day. The sky was clear and serene. The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frost 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 beech and hickory, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble fields.

The small birds fluttered, chirping and frolicking, from bush to bush, and tree to tree, gay and happy because of the plenty and variety around them. There were the twittering blackbirds, flying in sable clouds; and the golden-winged woodpecker, with his crimson crest and splendid plumage; and the cedar bird, with its red-tipped wings and yellow-tipped tail;and the blue jay, in his gay, light-blue coat and white underclothes, screaming and chattering, nodding and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with every songster of the grove.

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of apples,—some still hanging 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. There, too, were multitudes of yellow pumpkins turning up their yellow sides 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 beheld them, he dreamed of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey.

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts, 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 his broad disk down into the west. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move them. Thehorizon was of a fine, golden tint, changing gradually into a pure apple-green, and from that into the deep blue of the midheaven. 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.

It was toward evening when Ichabod arrived at the castle of the Herr Van Tassel. He found it thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country,—old farmers, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles; their brisk little dames, in close-crimped caps and long-waisted gowns, with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside; young girls, almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock showed signs of city innovations; the sons, in short, square-skirted coats with rows of huge brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times.

What a world of charms burst upon the gaze of my hero as he entered the state parlor of Van Tassel’s mansion—the ample charms of a Dutch country tea table, in the sumptuous time of autumn! Such heaped-up platters of cakes, of various and indescribable kinds, known only to experienced Dutch housewives!

There were doughnuts and crisp, crumbling crullers; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes; and then there were apple pies, and peach pies, and pumpkin pies; and slices of ham and smoked beef; and 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, with the motherly teapot sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst! I want breath and time to describe this banquet as I ought, and am too eager to get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry, but did ample justice to every dainty.

And now, supper being ended, the sound of music from the common room summoned to the dance. The musician was an old, gray-headed negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half a century. His instrument was as old andbattered as himself. The greater part of the time he scraped away on two or three strings, moving his head with every movement of the bow, and stamping his foot whenever a fresh couple were to start.

Ichabod prided himself on his dancing. Not a limb, not a fiber about him was idle. How could the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous? When the dance was over, Ichabod joined a circle of the older folks, who, with Herr Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the piazza, and told stories of the war and wild and wonderful legends of ghosts and other supernatural beings.

Some mention was made of a woman in white that haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on wintry nights before a storm. 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. One man told how he had once met the horseman and was obliged to get up behind him; how they galloped over bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge by the church, when the horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw him into the brook, and sprang away over the tree tops with a clap of thunder.

A wild, roistering young man, who was called Brom Bones, declared that the headless horseman was, after all, no rider compared with himself. He said that returning one night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight trooper; that he had offered to race with him for a bowl of punch, and would have won it, too, but just as they came to the church bridge, the specter bolted and vanished in a flash of fire.

The party now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered together their families in their wagons, and were heard for some time rattling along the hollow roads and over the distant hills. Their light-hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, growing fainter and fainter till they gradually died away, and the late scene of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted.

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod pursued his travel homeward. In the dead hush ofmidnight he could hear the barking of a dog on the opposite shore of the Hudson, but it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of the distance between them. No signs of life occurred near, but now and then the chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bullfrog from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably and turning suddenly in his bed.

All the stories that Ichabod had heard about ghosts and goblins now came crowding into his mind. The night grew darker and darker. The stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, 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 a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large as the trunks of ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the ground, and rising again into the air.

As Ichabod approached this tree, he began to whistle. He thought his whistle was answered: it was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. Coming a little nearer, he thought he saw somethingwhite 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 struck by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan. His teeth chattered, and his knees smote against the saddle. It was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before him.

About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly wooded glen. A few rough logs laid side by side served for a bridge over this stream. To pass this bridge was the severest trial; for it was here that the unfortunate André had been captured, and under covert of the thicket of chestnuts and vines by the side of the road had the sturdy yeomen, who surprised him, lain concealed. The stream has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark.

As Ichabod approached the stream his heart began to thump. He gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and tried to dash briskly across the bridge; but instead of starting forward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside againstthe fence. Ichabod jerked the rein 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 plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles.

The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon the ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, but came to a stand just by the bridge with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider 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 trees he beheld something huge, black, and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveler.

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with terror. What was to be done? Summoning up a show of courage, he called out 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 cudgeled the sides of Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth 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 horse of powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on 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 bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones and the headless horseman, now quickened his steed, in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod drew up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind; the other did the same. His heart began to sink within him. There was something in the moody and dogged silence of his 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, 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 pommelof his saddle. His terror rose to desperation. He rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping, by 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 horse’s 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 down hill to the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees for about 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 whitewashed church.

Just as he had got halfway through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, and Ichabod felt it slipping from under him. He seized it by the pommel, and tried to hold it firm, but in vain. He had just time to save himself by clasping Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. For amoment the terror of its owner’s wrath passed across his mind, for it was his Sunday saddle; but this was no time for petty fears. He had much ado to keep his seat, sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse’s backbone with a violence that was far from pleasant.

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hope that the church bridge was at hand. “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 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 to see if his pursuer should vanish in a 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 tried to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash. He was tumbled headlong into the dust; and Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider passed by like a whirlwind.

The next morning the old horse was found withouthis 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.

An inquiry was set on foot, and after much investigation they came upon his traces. In one part of the road by the church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt. The tracks of horses’ hoofs 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 schoolmaster was not to be discovered.

As Ichabod was a bachelor, and in nobody’s debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him. It is true, an old farmer, who went down to New York on a visit several years after, brought home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive; that he had left the neighborhood, partly through fear of the goblin and the farmer whose horse he had ridden, and partly for other reasons; that he had changedhis quarters to a distant part of the country, had kept school and studied law, and finally had been made a justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones, too, was observed to look very 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 suppose that he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell.

—Washington Irving.

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