DYER’S HOLLOW. 83 
urally struck the valley when I approached 
it by way of the Hill of Storms. Here I 
happened upon my only Cape Cod cowbird, 
a full-grown youngster, who was being min- 
istered unto in the most devoted manner by 
a red-eyed vireo, —such a sight as always 
fills me with mingled amusement, astonish- 
ment, admiration, and disgust. That any 
bird should be so befooled and imposed 
upon! Here, too, I saw at different times 
an adult male blue yellow-backed warbler, 
and a bird of the same species in immature 
plumage. It seemed highly probable, to say 
the least, that the young fellow had been 
reared not far off, the more so as the neigh- 
boring Wellfleet woods were spectral with 
hanging lichens, of the sort which this ex- 
quisite especially affects. At first I won- 
dered why this particular little grove, by no 
means peculiarly inviting in appearance, 
should be the favorite resort of so many 
birds, —robins, orioles, wood pewees, king- 
birds, chippers, golden warblers, black-and- 
white creepers, prairie warblers, red-eyed 
vireos, and blue yellow-backs; but I pres- 
ently concluded that a fine spring of water 
just across the road must be the attraction. 
