82 DYER’S HOLLOW. 
along the roadside and on the edge of the 
thickets, I should think, yet I cannot recol- 
lect them, nor does the name appear in my 
penciled memoranda. Had the month been 
June instead of August, notebook and mem- 
ory would record a very different story, I 
can hardly doubt; but out of flower is out 
of mind. 
In the course of my many visits to Dyer’s 
Hollow I saw thirty-three kinds of birds, of 
the eighty-four species in my full Truro list. 
The number of individuals was small, how- 
ever, and, except at its lower end, the val- 
ley was, or appeared to be, nearly destitute 
of feathered life. A few song sparrows, a 
eat-bird or two, a chewink or two, a field 
sparrow, and perhaps a Maryland yellow- 
throat might be seen above the last houses, 
but as a general thing the bushes and trees 
were deserted. Walking here, I could for 
the time almost forget that I had ever owned 
ahobby-horse. But farther down the hollow 
there was one really “birdy” spot, to bor- 
row a word — useful enough to claim lexico- 
graphical standing — from one of my com- 
panions: a tiny grove of stunted oaks, by 
the roadside, just at the point where I nat- 
