When the ponds were firmly frozen, they afforded not only new

and shorter routes to many points, but new views from their surfaces

of the familiar landscape around them. When I crossed Flints Pond,

after it was covered with snow, though I had often paddled about and

skated over it, it was so unexpectedly wide and so strange that I

could think of nothing but Baffins Bay. The Lincoln hills rose up

around me at the extremity of a snowy plain, in which I did not

remember to have stood before; and the fishermen, at an

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