TO DYER’S HOLLOW. 
One of my favorite jaunts was to climb 
this hill, or plateau, the ‘Hill of Storms”’ 
(1 am still ignorant whether the storms in 
question were political, ecclesiastical, or at- 
mospheric, but I approve the name), and 
go down on the other side into a narrow 
valley whose meanderings led me to the 
ocean beach. This valley, or, to speak in 
the local dialect, this hollow, like the paral- 
lel one in which I lived, — the vailey of the 
Pamet, — runs quite across the Cape, from 
ocean to bay, a distance of two miles and a 
half, more or less. 
At my very first sight of Dyer’s Hollow 
I fell in love with it, and now that I have 
left it behind me, perhaps forever, I foresee 
that my memories of it are likely to be even 
fairer and brighter than was the place itself. 
T call it Dyer’s Hollow upon the authority 
of the town historian, who told me, if I un- 
derstood him correctly, that this was its 
name among sailors, to whom it is a land- 
mark. By the residents of the town I com- 
monly heard it spoken of as Longnook or 
Pike’s Hollow, but for reasons of my own I 
choose to remember it by its nautical desig- 
nation, though myself as far as possible from 
being a nautical man. 
