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.
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