AMONG THE WIND-SWEPT LAKES . 215 
From the ledge I could see the whole of 
Whitton Pond, lying just below me. It looked 
like a silver Maltese cross with its four arms 
reaching out to the four points of the compass. 
A small island and one or two single rocks rose 
from its surface. At least three bluff head¬ 
lands, pine-crowned and rock-faced, stood out 
boldly into its waters. Just across its eastern 
side, and due north from the elevation upon 
which I was standing, rose an impressive hill 
whose precipitous southern side was formed of 
a series of polished ledges sloping directly 
towards the deep waters of the lake. In the 
depths below those ledges large trout are said 
to live in a state of haughty contempt for all 
except favored anglers. I once asked a native, 
presumably not a favorite of the Whitton Pond 
trout, whether he would advise me to go to the 
pond fishing. Turning his gray eye upon me, 
he said solemnly, “Young man, ef I had the 
ch’ice of fishing all day in Whitton Pond or in 
this sandy road, I’d take the road every time.” 
A logging road led from the back of the ledge 
down to the pond. In the dark spruces near 
the water stood a tiny and dilapidated log hut 
and stable. So small was the hut, it seemed as 
though only one lumberman could have lived 
there. From the hut the road led straight to 
the lakeside, and to as lovely a view of the 
