Hello there. Welcome to episode 25 of Down to Sleep. This is the podcast of softly spoken

stories to help you get a good night's rest. Tonight, I will be reading you The Legend of Sleepy

Hollow by Washington Irving. Before we jump in, if you would like to support this podcast by joining

our Sleepy Book Club on Patreon,

where you'll get a bonus reading every single week and every episode is twice as long,

you can do that at patreon.com slash down to sleep. It's only a few dollars a month. The link should be

in the information for this episode, and I would love to have you join our little community on there.

But otherwise, thank you so much for listening. I just really enjoy reading to you, and I hope that

you find this podcast useful, so thank you for being here. Let's begin. Go ahead and tuck

yourself in and get nice and comfortable. It's time for the legend of Sleepy Hollow.

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the it's time for the legend of Sleepy Hollow.

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 Tepanzee,

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 Greensburg, 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

tranquility. I recollect that when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel shooting,

...