DYERS HOLLOW. 75 
hook or by crook manage to coax a kind 
of return out of the poverty-stricken soil. 
Even on Cape Cod there must be some pota- 
toes to go with the fish. Vegetables raised 
under such difficulties are naturally sweet to 
the taste, and I was not so much surprised, 
therefore, on a certain state occasion at the 
Castle, to see a mighty dish of string beans 
ladled into soup-plates and exalted to the 
dignity of a separate course. Here, too, — 
but this was in Dyer’s Hollow, —I found 
in successful operation one of the latest, and, 
if I may venture an unprofessional opinion, 
one of the most valuable, improvements in 
the art of husbandry. An old man, an an- 
cient mariner, no doubt, was seated on a 
camp-stool and plying a hoe among his cab- 
bages. He was bent nearly double with age 
(“triple’”’ is the word in my notebook, but 
that may have been an exaggeration), and 
had learned wisdom with years. I regretted 
afterward that I had not got over the fence 
and accosted him. I could hardly have 
missed hearing something rememberable. 
Yet I may have done wisely to keep the 
road. Industry like his ought never to be 
intruded upon lightly. Some, I dare say, 
