Good evening. Welcome to the Just Sleep podcast. I'm Tasia, your host.

Every week, I will read you an old story to help you relax of the stressful day behind you and drift off to sleep.

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Happy Halloween.

Tonight, I will be reading The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving.

So lie down, close your eyes, and let me read you a story.

Found among the papers of the late Dietrich Knickerbocker.

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson,

and that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators, the Tappin-Z,

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, which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarrytown.

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's 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 was in a grove of tall walnut trees that shades one side of the valley.

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