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affection ancient antiquity appearance arms authors beautiful become bosom brought called carried castle character Christmas church comfort considered continually custom dark deep delight distant door earth England English face fancy feelings fire flowers gathered gave give given grave green hall hand happy head hear heard heart hour Ichabod Indian interest keep kind lady land light living look manner Master mind morning mountain nature neighbourhood neighbouring never night observed once passed picture poor present pride quiet received rich round rural scene seated seemed seen side sometimes song soon sound spirit stand story taken tender thing thought told tomb trees true turn village walls wandering whole wild window worthy young
Page 39 - ... in a sharp cocked hat made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere tone what brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village. "Alas! gentlemen...
Page 39 - Nicholas Vedder?" There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin, piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder! why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too.
Page 39 - A tory! A tory! A spy! A refugee! Hustle him! Away with him!" It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for and whom he was seeking. The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his neighbors who used to keep about the tavern. "Well, who are they? Name them.
Page 253 - Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise: Arise, arise.
Page 38 - There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity.
Page 335 - In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon and juicy relishing ham; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savory sausages...
Page 133 - Say I died true. My love was false, but I was firm, From my hour of birth, Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth.
Page 68 - She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps', And lovers around her are sighing'; But coldly she turns from their gaze', and weeps', For her heart in his grave is lying'.
Page 32 - On the other side, he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene ; evening was gradually advancing ; the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys ; he saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors...