and oats, and whole valleys of timothy and clover.

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod,
heavy-hearted and crestfallen, pursued his travels homewards, along
the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and
which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was
as dismal as himself. Far below him the Tappan Zee spread its
dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and there the
tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land. In
the dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the barking of the
watchdog from the opposite shore of the Hudson; but it was so
vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this
faithful companion of man. Now and then, too, the long-drawn
crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound far, far
off, from some farmhouse away among the hills--but it was like a
dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near him,
but occasionally the melancholy 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 of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in
the afternoon now came crowding upon his recollection. 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 centre 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 enough to form trunks