DYER’S HOLLOW. 87 
edifying spectacle it was, —this venerable 
worthy sitting behind his bunch of wooden 
decoys, a wounded tern fluttering in agony 
at his feet. Withal, be it said, he was a 
man of gentlemanly bearing, courteous, and 
a Christian. He did not shoot on Sunday, 
—not he. Such sport is to me despicable. 
Yet it is affirmed by those who ought to 
know — by those, that is, who engage in it 
—that it tends to promote a spirit of man- 
liness. 
But thoughts of this kind belong not in 
Dyer’s Hollow. Rather let me remember 
only its stillness and tranquillity, its inno- 
cent inhabitants, its gray hills, its sandy 
road, and the ocean at the end of the way. 
Even at the western extremity, near the rail- 
way and the busy harbor, the valley was the 
very abode of quietness. Here, on one of: 
my earlier excursions, | came unexpectedly 
to a bridge, and on the farther side of the 
bridge to a tidy house and garden; and in 
the garden were several pear-trees, with 
fruit on them! Still more to my surprise, 
here was a little shop. The keeper of it had 
also the agency of some insurance company, 
—so a signboard informed the passer-by. 
