The Pond in Winter

After a still winter night I awoke with the impression that some question had been put to me, which I had been endeavoring in vain to answer in my sleep, as what—how—when—where? But there was dawning Nature, in whom all creatures live, looking in at my broad windows with serene and satisfied face, and no question on her lips. I awoke to an answered question, to Nature and daylight. The snow lying deep on the earth dotted with young pines, and the very slope of the hill on which my house is placed, seemed to say, Forward! Nature puts no question and answers none which we mortals ask. She has long ago taken her resolution. “O Prince, our eyes contemplate with admiration and transmit to the soul the wonderful and varied spectacle of this universe. The night veils without doubt a part of this glorious creation; but day comes to reveal to us this great work, which extends from earth even into the plains of the ether.”

After a quiet winter night, I woke feeling that someone had asked me a question. I had tried in vain to answer it in my sleep: what, how, when, where? But there was Nature at dawn, in whom all creatures live, looking through my wide windows. Her face was calm and satisfied, and there was no question on her lips. I woke to a question already answered, to Nature and daylight. Deep snow covered the earth, dotted with young pines. The snow and the very slope of the hill where my house stands seemed to say, Forward! Nature asks no questions and answers none of the questions we mortals ask. She made up her mind long ago. “O Prince, our eyes admire the wonderful and varied sight of this universe and convey it to the soul. Night certainly hides part of this glorious creation. But day comes to reveal this great work, stretching from earth into the vast reaches of the heavens.”

Then to my morning work. First I take an axe and pail and go in search of water, if that be not a dream. After a cold and snowy night it needed a divining rod to find it. Every winter the liquid and trembling surface of the pond, which was so sensitive to every breath, and reflected every light and shadow, becomes solid to the depth of a foot or a foot and a half, so that it will support the heaviest teams, and perchance the snow covers it to an equal depth, and it is not to be distinguished from any level field. Like the marmots in the surrounding hills, it closes its eye-lids and becomes dormant for three months or more. Standing on the snow-covered plain, as if in a pasture amid the hills, I cut my way first through a foot of snow, and then a foot of ice, and open a window under my feet, where, kneeling to drink, I look down into the quiet parlor of the fishes, pervaded by a softened light as through a window of ground glass, with its bright sanded floor the same as in summer; there a perennial waveless serenity reigns as in the amber twilight sky, corresponding to the cool and even temperament of the inhabitants. Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads.

Then I turn to my morning work. First I take an axe and bucket and go looking for water, if that is not a dream. After a cold, snowy night, finding water took a divining rod. Every winter the pond’s trembling, liquid surface freezes a foot to a foot and a half deep. Before freezing, the surface responded to every breath of wind and reflected every light and shadow. Now the ice can support even the heaviest teams of draft animals and their loads. Perhaps snow covers the ice just as deeply, making the pond indistinguishable from any level field. Like the marmots in the surrounding hills, the pond closes its eyelids and sleeps for three months or more. I stand on the snow-covered plain as if in a pasture among the hills. First I cut through a foot of snow, then a foot of ice, opening a window beneath my feet. Kneeling to drink, I look down into the fishes’ quiet sitting room. Softened light fills the room, as though passing through a frosted-glass window. Its bright, sandy floor is the same as in summer. An enduring, waveless peace reigns there, as in the amber twilight sky. That peace matches the cool, steady temperament of the inhabitants. Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads.

Early in the morning, while all things are crisp with frost, men come with fishing reels and slender lunch, and let down their fine lines through the snowy field to take pickerel and perch; wild men, who instinctively follow other fashions and trust other authorities than their townsmen, and by their goings and comings stitch towns together in parts where else they would be ripped. They sit and eat their luncheon in stout fear-naughts on the dry oak leaves on the shore, as wise in natural lore as the citizen is in artificial. They never consulted with books, and know and can tell much less than they have done. The things which they practise are said not yet to be known. Here is one fishing for pickerel with grown perch for bait. You look into his pail with wonder as into a summer pond, as if he kept summer locked up at home, or knew where she had retreated. How, pray, did he get these in mid-winter? O, he got worms out of rotten logs since the ground froze, and so he caught them. His life itself passes deeper in Nature than the studies of the naturalist penetrate; himself a subject for the naturalist. The latter raises the moss and bark gently with his knife in search of insects; the former lays open logs to their core with his axe, and moss and bark fly far and wide. He gets his living by barking trees. Such a man has some right to fish, and I love to see Nature carried out in him. The perch swallows the grub-worm, the pickerel swallows the perch, and the fisher-man swallows the pickerel; and so all the chinks in the scale of being are filled.

Early in the morning, while everything is crisp with frost, men come with fishing reels and small lunches. They lower their fine lines through the snowy field to catch pickerel and perch. These are wild men, who instinctively follow different customs and trust different authorities than their fellow townspeople. Their travels stitch towns together in places where they would otherwise come apart. Wearing thick, heavy coats, they sit on dry oak leaves along the shore and eat their lunch. They know as much about the natural world as townspeople know about the artificial one. They have never consulted books, and they know and can explain far less than they have done. The things they do are said to be unknown as yet. Here is one man fishing for pickerel with full-grown perch as bait. You look into his pail in wonder, as if looking into a summer pond. It is as if he kept summer locked up at home, or knew where she had gone. How, tell me, did he get these fish in the middle of winter? Oh, since the ground froze, he has found worms in rotten logs and used them to catch the perch. His very life reaches deeper into Nature than a naturalist’s studies do. He himself is a subject for the naturalist. The naturalist gently lifts moss and bark with his knife, searching for insects. The fisherman splits logs to their core with his axe, sending moss and bark flying everywhere. He earns his living by stripping bark from trees. Such a man has some right to fish, and I love seeing Nature at work in him. The perch swallows the grub, the pickerel swallows the perch, and the fisherman swallows the pickerel. And so all the gaps in the hierarchy of living things are filled.

When I strolled around the pond in misty weather I was sometimes amused by the primitive mode which some ruder fisherman had adopted. He would perhaps have placed alder branches over the narrow holes in the ice, which were four or five rods apart and an equal distance from the shore, and having fastened the end of the line to a stick to prevent its being pulled through, have passed the slack line over a twig of the alder, a foot or more above the ice, and tied a dry oak leaf to it, which, being pulled down, would show when he had a bite. These alders loomed through the mist at regular intervals as you walked half way round the pond.

When I strolled around the pond in misty weather, I was sometimes amused by some rough fisherman’s simple method. He might have placed alder branches over narrow holes in the ice. The holes were 66 to 82 feet apart and the same distance from shore. He would have tied the end of each fishing line to a stick to keep it from being pulled through. Then he would have draped the slack line over an alder twig, a foot or more above the ice. He would have tied a dry oak leaf to the line. When a fish bit, the leaf would be pulled down, showing him he had a bite. As you walked halfway around the pond, these alders loomed through the mist at regular intervals.

Ah, the pickerel of Walden! when I see them lying on the ice, or in the well which the fisherman cuts in the ice, making a little hole to admit the water, I am always surprised by their rare beauty, as if they were fabulous fishes, they are so foreign to the streets, even to the woods, foreign as Arabia to our Concord life. They possess a quite dazzling and transcendent beauty which separates them by a wide interval from the cadaverous cod and haddock whose fame is trumpeted in our streets. They are not green like the pines, nor gray like the stones, nor blue like the sky; but they have, to my eyes, if possible, yet rarer colors, like flowers and precious stones, as if they were the pearls, the animalized nuclei or crystals of the Walden water. They, of course, are Walden all over and all through; are themselves small Waldens in the animal kingdom, Waldenses. It is surprising that they are caught here,—that in this deep and capacious spring, far beneath the rattling teams and chaises and tinkling sleighs that travel the Walden road, this great gold and emerald fish swims. I never chanced to see its kind in any market; it would be the cynosure of all eyes there. Easily, with a few convulsive quirks, they give up their watery ghosts, like a mortal translated before his time to the thin air of heaven.

Ah, the pickerel of Walden! I see them lying on the ice, or in the wells fishermen cut into it. The fishermen make a little hole to let water into each well. The fishes’ rare beauty always surprises me, as if they were creatures of legend. They seem so foreign to the streets, even to the woods, as foreign as Arabia to our Concord life. Their beauty is dazzling and extraordinary. It sets them far apart from the deathly-looking cod and haddock praised so loudly in our streets. They are not green like the pines, or gray like the stones, or blue like the sky. Instead, to my eyes, their colors are even rarer, if possible, like those of flowers and precious stones. They seem like pearls, like the living nuclei or crystals of Walden’s water. Of course, these fish are Walden through and through. They are small Waldens in the animal kingdom, Waldenses. It is surprising that these fish are caught here, in this deep and spacious spring. Far above, wagons and carriages rattle and sleighs jingle along the Walden road. Far below, this great gold and emerald fish swims. I have never happened to see its kind in any market. There, it would draw every eye. With just a few convulsive twists, these fish easily give up their watery spirits. They are like a mortal carried before his time into the thin air of heaven.

As I was desirous to recover the long lost bottom of Walden Pond, I surveyed it carefully, before the ice broke up, early in ’46, with compass and chain and sounding line. There have been many stories told about the bottom, or rather no bottom, of this pond, which certainly had no foundation for themselves. It is remarkable how long men will believe in the bottomlessness of a pond without taking the trouble to sound it. I have visited two such Bottomless Ponds in one walk in this neighborhood. Many have believed that Walden reached quite through to the other side of the globe. Some who have lain flat on the ice for a long time, looking down through the illusive medium, perchance with watery eyes into the bargain, and driven to hasty conclusions by the fear of catching cold in their breasts, have seen vast holes “into which a load of hay might be driven,” if there were any body to drive it, the undoubted source of the Styx and entrance to the Infernal Regions from these parts. Others have gone down from the village with a “fifty-six” and a wagon load of inch rope, but yet have failed to find any bottom; for while the “fifty-six” was resting by the way, they were paying out the rope in the vain attempt to fathom their truly immeasurable capacity for marvellousness. But I can assure my readers that Walden has a reasonably tight bottom at a not unreasonable, though at an unusual, depth. I fathomed it easily with a cod-line and a stone weighing about a pound and a half, and could tell accurately when the stone left the bottom, by having to pull so much harder before the water got underneath to help me. The greatest depth was exactly one hundred and two feet; to which may be added the five feet which it has risen since, making one hundred and seven. This is a remarkable depth for so small an area; yet not an inch of it can be spared by the imagination. What if all ponds were shallow? Would it not react on the minds of men? I am thankful that this pond was made deep and pure for a symbol. While men believe in the infinite some ponds will be thought to be bottomless.

I wanted to rediscover the long-lost bottom of Walden Pond, so I carefully surveyed the pond early in 1846. Before the ice broke up, I used a compass, a measuring chain, and a sounding line. Many stories have been told about the pond’s bottom, or rather its lack of one. These stories certainly had no foundation themselves. It is remarkable how long people will believe a pond is bottomless without bothering to measure its depth. I have visited two such Bottomless Ponds in a single walk around this neighborhood. Many have believed that Walden reached all the way through to the other side of the globe. Some have lain flat on the ice for a long time, looking down through that deceptive surface. Perhaps their eyes were watering as well. Fear of catching a chest cold drove them to hasty conclusions. They saw vast holes “into which a load of hay might be driven,” if anyone were there to drive it. These holes were undoubtedly the source of the Styx and the local entrance to the Infernal Regions. Others have come down from the village with a “fifty-six” (a fifty-six-pound weight) and a wagonload of inch-thick rope. Yet they have failed to find the bottom. For while the “fifty-six” rested partway down, they kept letting out rope. They were vainly trying to measure their own truly immeasurable capacity for believing wonders. But I can assure my readers that Walden has a reasonably solid bottom. Its depth is unusual, though not unreasonable. I measured the depth easily with a cod-fishing line and a stone weighing about a pound and a half. I could tell exactly when the stone left the bottom. Before water could get underneath the stone to help me, I had to pull much harder. The greatest depth was exactly one hundred and two feet. The water has since risen five feet, bringing the depth to one hundred and seven feet. That is a remarkable depth for such a small area. Yet the imagination cannot spare a single inch of that depth. What if all ponds were shallow? Wouldn’t that affect people’s minds? I am thankful that this pond was made deep and pure to serve as a symbol. As long as people believe in the infinite, some ponds will be thought bottomless.

A factory owner, hearing what depth I had found, thought that it could not be true, for, judging from his acquaintance with dams, sand would not lie at so steep an angle. But the deepest ponds are not so deep in proportion to their area as most suppose, and, if drained, would not leave very remarkable valleys. They are not like cups between the hills; for this one, which is so unusually deep for its area, appears in a vertical section through its centre not deeper than a shallow plate. Most ponds, emptied, would leave a meadow no more hollow than we frequently see. William Gilpin, who is so admirable in all that relates to landscapes, and usually so correct, standing at the head of Loch Fyne, in Scotland, which he describes as “a bay of salt water, sixty or seventy fathoms deep, four miles in breadth,” and about fifty miles long, surrounded by mountains, observes, “If we could have seen it immediately after the diluvian crash, or whatever convulsion of Nature occasioned it, before the waters gushed in, what a horrid chasm must it have appeared!

A factory owner heard how deep I had found the pond to be and thought my measurement could not be true. From his experience with dams, he believed sand would not stay on so steep a slope. But even the deepest ponds are not as deep relative to their area as most people suppose. If drained, these ponds would not leave very remarkable valleys. Ponds are not like cups between the hills. This pond is unusually deep for its area. Yet a vertical cross-section through its center looks no deeper than a shallow plate. Most ponds, if emptied, would leave a meadow no more hollow than many we commonly see. William Gilpin is so admirable in everything concerning landscapes, and usually so accurate. Standing at the head of Loch Fyne in Scotland, he describes the loch as “a saltwater bay, sixty or seventy fathoms deep, four miles wide,” and about fifty miles long, surrounded by mountains. He remarks, “Suppose we could have seen the loch immediately after the great flood, or whatever upheaval of nature formed it. Before the waters rushed in, what a terrifying chasm it must have seemed!

But if, using the shortest diameter of Loch Fyne, we apply these proportions to Walden, which, as we have seen, appears already in a vertical section only like a shallow plate, it will appear four times as shallow. So much for the increased horrors of the chasm of Loch Fyne when emptied. No doubt many a smiling valley with its stretching cornfields occupies exactly such a “horrid chasm,” from which the waters have receded, though it requires the insight and the far sight of the geologist to convince the unsuspecting inhabitants of this fact. Often an inquisitive eye may detect the shores of a primitive lake in the low horizon hills, and no subsequent elevation of the plain has been necessary to conceal their history. But it is easiest, as they who work on the highways know, to find the hollows by the puddles after a shower. The amount of it is, the imagination give it the least license, dives deeper and soars higher than Nature goes. So, probably, the depth of the ocean will be found to be very inconsiderable compared with its breadth.

But suppose we apply these proportions to Walden, using the shortest diameter of Loch Fyne. As we have seen, Walden already looks like a shallow plate in a vertical cross section. Under these proportions, Walden would look four times as shallow. So much for the increased horrors of the chasm of Loch Fyne when drained. No doubt many a pleasant valley, with its spreading cornfields, occupies just such a “horrid chasm,” whose waters have receded. Yet convincing the unsuspecting inhabitants takes a geologist’s insight and ability to look far into the past. An observant eye can often spot an ancient lake’s shores in the low hills along the horizon. No later rise in the plain’s level was needed to hide the lake’s history. But as road workers know, the easiest way to find hollows is by the puddles after a shower. In short, give the imagination the slightest freedom, and it dives deeper and soars higher than Nature goes. So the ocean’s depth will probably prove very slight compared with its breadth.

As I sounded through the ice I could determine the shape of the bottom with greater accuracy than is possible in surveying harbors which do not freeze over, and I was surprised at its general regularity. In the deepest part there are several acres more level than almost any field which is exposed to the sun wind and plough. In one instance, on a line arbitrarily chosen, the depth did not vary more than one foot in thirty rods; and generally, near the middle, I could calculate the variation for each one hundred feet in any direction beforehand within three or four inches. Some are accustomed to speak of deep and dangerous holes even in quiet sandy ponds like this, but the effect of water under these circumstances is to level all inequalities. The regularity of the bottom and its conformity to the shores and the range of the neighboring hills were so perfect that a distant promontory betrayed itself in the soundings quite across the pond, and its direction could be determined by observing the opposite shore. Cape becomes bar, and plain shoal, and valley and gorge deep water and channel.

By measuring depths through the ice, I could map the bottom more accurately than when surveying harbors that never freeze. I was surprised by how even the bottom was overall. In the deepest part, several acres are flatter than almost any field exposed to sun, wind, and plow. Along one line chosen at random, the depth varied by no more than one foot over thirty rods. Generally, near the middle, I could predict the change in depth over every hundred feet in any direction. My predictions were accurate to within three or four inches. Some people speak of deep, dangerous holes even in quiet, sandy ponds like this one. But under these conditions, water smooths out all unevenness. The bottom was remarkably regular and followed the shape of the shores and the surrounding hills perfectly. So a distant point of land showed up in the depth measurements all the way across the pond. Its direction could be determined by looking at the opposite shore. A cape becomes a sandbar, a plain becomes a shallow area, and valleys and gorges become deep water and channels.

When I had mapped the pond by the scale of ten rods to an inch, and put down the soundings, more than a hundred in all, I observed this remarkable coincidence. Having noticed that the number indicating the greatest depth was apparently in the centre of the map, I laid a rule on the map lengthwise, and then breadthwise, and found, to my surprise, that the line of greatest length intersected the line of greatest breadth exactly at the point of greatest depth, notwithstanding that the middle is so nearly level, the outline of the pond far from regular, and the extreme length and breadth were got by measuring into the coves; and I said to myself, Who knows but this hint would conduct to the deepest part of the ocean as well as of a pond or puddle? Is not this the rule also for the height of mountains, regarded as the opposite of valleys? We know that a hill is not highest at its narrowest part.

I mapped the pond at a scale of ten rods to an inch and marked more than a hundred depth measurements. Then I noticed a remarkable coincidence. The number marking the greatest depth seemed to be at the center of the map. I placed a ruler on the map, first lengthwise, then crosswise. To my surprise, the lines marking the greatest length and width crossed exactly at the deepest point. Yet the pond’s bottom was nearly level in the middle, and its outline was far from regular. Also, I had measured its greatest length and width by extending the measurements into the coves. And I said to myself, Who knows whether this clue might lead to the deepest part of the ocean too? Might it work for an ocean as well as a pond or puddle? Does the same rule also apply to the height of mountains, considered as the opposite of valleys? We know that a hill is not highest at its narrowest part.

Of five coves, three, or all which had been sounded, were observed to have a bar quite across their mouths and deeper water within, so that the bay tended to be an expansion of water within the land not only horizontally but vertically, and to form a basin or independent pond, the direction of the two capes showing the course of the bar. Every harbor on the sea-coast, also, has its bar at its entrance. In proportion as the mouth of the cove was wider compared with its length, the water over the bar was deeper compared with that in the basin. Given, then, the length and breadth of the cove, and the character of the surrounding shore, and you have almost elements enough to make out a formula for all cases.

Of the five coves, three had been measured for depth. All three had a bar stretching across their mouths, with deeper water inside. So each bay tended to extend into the land both horizontally and vertically, forming a basin or separate pond. The direction of the two headlands showed the course of the bar. Every harbor on the coast also has a bar at its entrance. The wider a cove’s mouth was compared with its length, the deeper the water over the bar compared with the basin. Given a cove’s length and width and the nature of the surrounding shore, you have almost enough information. From these, you could work out a formula for all cases.

In order to see how nearly I could guess, with this experience, at the deepest point in a pond, by observing the outlines of its surface and the character of its shores alone, I made a plan of White Pond, which contains about forty-one acres, and, like this, has no island in it, nor any visible inlet or outlet; and as the line of greatest breadth fell very near the line of least breadth, where two opposite capes approached each other and two opposite bays receded, I ventured to mark a point a short distance from the latter line, but still on the line of greatest length, as the deepest. The deepest part was found to be within one hundred feet of this, still farther in the direction to which I had inclined, and was only one foot deeper, namely, sixty feet. Of course, a stream running through, or an island in the pond, would make the problem much more complicated.

I wanted to test how closely, with this experience, I could predict a pond’s deepest point. I would judge only by the shape of its surface and the nature of its shores. To do so, I drew a map of White Pond, which covers about forty-one acres. Like this pond, White Pond has no island and no visible inlet or outlet. Its widest crossing lay very near its narrowest crossing. At the narrowest crossing, two opposite points of land approached each other, and two opposite bays curved away. Because these crossings were so close, I ventured to mark a point near the narrowest crossing as the deepest. The point was still on the pond’s longest line. The deepest spot proved to be within one hundred feet of my mark, farther in the direction I had favored. It was only one foot deeper, at sixty feet. Of course, a stream flowing through the pond, or an island in it, would make the problem much more complicated.

If we knew all the laws of Nature, we should need only one fact, or the description of one actual phenomenon, to infer all the particular results at that point. Now we know only a few laws, and our result is vitiated, not, of course, by any confusion or irregularity in Nature, but by our ignorance of essential elements in the calculation. Our notions of law and harmony are commonly confined to those instances which we detect; but the harmony which results from a far greater number of seemingly conflicting, but really concurring, laws, which we have not detected, is still more wonderful. The particular laws are as our points of view, as, to the traveller, a mountain outline varies with every step, and it has an infinite number of profiles, though absolutely but one form. Even when cleft or bored through it is not comprehended in its entireness.

If we knew all the laws of Nature, we would need only one fact, or one description of an actual phenomenon. From that alone, we could infer all the specific results at that point. Now we know only a few laws, and our conclusions are flawed. Of course, the fault lies not in any confusion or disorder in Nature, but in our ignorance of essential factors. Our ideas of law and harmony are usually limited to the examples we can detect. But an even more wonderful harmony comes from a far greater number of laws we have not detected. These laws seem to conflict, but they actually work together. The individual laws are like our points of view. To a traveler, a mountain’s outline changes with every step. The mountain has infinitely many profiles, though only one actual shape. Even cutting into the mountain or boring through it does not reveal the mountain in its entirety.

What I have observed of the pond is no less true in ethics. It is the law of average. Such a rule of the two diameters not only guides us toward the sun in the system and the heart in man, but draw lines through the length and breadth of the aggregate of a man’s particular daily behaviors and waves of life into his coves and inlets, and where they intersect will be the height or depth of his character. Perhaps we need only to know how his shores trend and his adjacent country or circumstances, to infer his depth and concealed bottom. If he is surrounded by mountainous circumstances, an Achillean shore, whose peaks overshadow and are reflected in his bosom, they suggest a corresponding depth in him. But a low and smooth shore proves him shallow on that side. In our bodies, a bold projecting brow falls off to and indicates a corresponding depth of thought. Also there is a bar across the entrance of our every cove, or particular inclination; each is our harbor for a season, in which we are detained and partially land-locked. These inclinations are not whimsical usually, but their form, size, and direction are determined by the promontories of the shore, the ancient axes of elevation. When this bar is gradually increased by storms, tides, or currents, or there is a subsidence of the waters, so that it reaches to the surface, that which was at first but an inclination in the shore in which a thought was harbored becomes an individual lake, cut off from the ocean, wherein the thought secures its own conditions, changes, perhaps, from salt to fresh, becomes a sweet sea, dead sea, or a marsh. At the advent of each individual into this life, may we not suppose that such a bar has risen to the surface somewhere? It is true, we are such poor navigators that our thoughts, for the most part, stand off and on upon a harborless coast, are conversant only with the bights of the bays of poesy, or steer for the public ports of entry, and go into the dry docks of science, where they merely refit for this world, and no natural currents concur to individualize them.

What I have observed about the pond is just as true in ethics. It is the law of averages. This rule of two diameters guides us toward the sun in the solar system and the heart in a person. Now draw lines through the length and breadth of a person’s daily actions and life’s waves, into his coves and inlets. Where those lines cross, you will find the height or depth of his character. Perhaps we need only know the shape of his shores and the surrounding land, or circumstances, to infer his depth and hidden bottom. If mountainous circumstances surround him, his shore is an Achillean shore. Its peaks cast shadows over his heart and are reflected there, suggesting a corresponding depth within him. But a low, smooth shore shows that he is shallow on that side. In our bodies, a boldly projecting brow slopes back toward, and indicates, a corresponding depth of thought. There is also a sandbar across the entrance to each of our coves, or particular inclinations. Each inclination serves as our harbor for a time, holding us there, partly enclosed by land. These inclinations are usually not arbitrary. Their shape, size, and direction are determined by the headlands along the shore, the ancient lines of rising ground. Storms, tides, or currents may gradually build up the sandbar, or the water may fall until the bar reaches the surface. Then what began as a bend in the shore, sheltering a thought, becomes a separate lake, cut off from the ocean. There, the thought establishes its own conditions. Perhaps it changes from salt water to fresh, becoming a sweet sea, a dead sea, or a marsh. When each individual enters this life, may we not suppose that such a bar has risen to the surface somewhere? It is true that we are such poor navigators that our thoughts mostly sail back and forth along a harborless coast. They know only the curves of poetry’s bays, or steer toward the public ports of entry. They enter the dry docks of science, where they merely prepare themselves again for this world. There, no natural currents work together to give them an individual character.

As for the inlet or outlet of Walden, I have not discovered any but rain and snow and evaporation, though perhaps, with a thermometer and a line, such places may be found, for where the water flows into the pond it will probably be coldest in summer and warmest in winter. When the ice-men were at work here in ’46–7, the cakes sent to the shore were one day rejected by those who were stacking them up there, not being thick enough to lie side by side with the rest; and the cutters thus discovered that the ice over a small space was two or three inches thinner than elsewhere, which made them think that there was an inlet there. They also showed me in another place what they thought was a “leach hole,” through which the pond leaked out under a hill into a neighboring meadow, pushing me out on a cake of ice to see it. It was a small cavity under ten feet of water; but I think that I can warrant the pond not to need soldering till they find a worse leak than that. One has suggested, that if such a “leach hole” should be found, its connection with the meadow, if any existed, might be proved by conveying some colored powder or sawdust to the mouth of the hole, and then putting a strainer over the spring in the meadow, which would catch some of the particles carried through by the current.

As for water flowing into or out of Walden, I have found no source but rain, snow, and evaporation. Still, perhaps a thermometer and a sounding line could reveal places where water enters or leaves. Water flowing into the pond would probably be coldest in summer and warmest in winter. When the ice harvesters worked here in the winter of 1846 to 1847, the workers stacking ice on shore rejected some blocks one day. Those blocks were not thick enough to lie side by side with the others. The cutters thus discovered a small area where the ice was two or three inches thinner than elsewhere. This thinner ice made them think there was an inlet there. Elsewhere, they showed me what they thought was a “leach hole,” where the pond leaked beneath a hill into a neighboring meadow. They pushed me out on a block of ice to see the hole. It was a small hollow beneath ten feet of water. But I think I can guarantee the pond will need no soldering until they find a worse leak than that. Someone has suggested a way to test such a “leach hole,” if one should be found. Any connection between the hole and the meadow might be proved by bringing colored powder or sawdust to the hole’s opening. A strainer could then be placed over the spring in the meadow. The strainer would catch some of the particles carried through by the current.

While I was surveying, the ice, which was sixteen inches thick, undulated under a slight wind like water. It is well known that a level cannot be used on ice. At one rod from the shore its greatest fluctuation, when observed by means of a level on land directed toward a graduated staff on the ice, was three quarters of an inch, though the ice appeared firmly attached to the shore. It was probably greater in the middle. Who knows but if our instruments were delicate enough we might detect an undulation in the crust of the earth? When two legs of my level were on the shore and the third on the ice, and the sights were directed over the latter, a rise or fall of the ice of an almost infinitesimal amount made a difference of several feet on a tree across the pond. When I began to cut holes for sounding, there were three or four inches of water on the ice under a deep snow which had sunk it thus far; but the water began immediately to run into these holes, and continued to run for two days in deep streams, which wore away the ice on every side, and contributed essentially, if not mainly, to dry the surface of the pond; for, as the water ran in, it raised and floated the ice. This was somewhat like cutting a hole in the bottom of a ship to let the water out. When such holes freeze, and a rain succeeds, and finally a new freezing forms a fresh smooth ice over all, it is beautifully mottled internally by dark figures, shaped somewhat like a spider’s web, what you may call ice rosettes, produced by the channels worn by the water flowing from all sides to a centre. Sometimes, also, when the ice was covered with shallow puddles, I saw a double shadow of myself, one standing on the head of the other, one on the ice, the other on the trees or hill-side.

While I was surveying, the ice, sixteen inches thick, rose and fell like water in a light wind. It is well known that a surveying level cannot be used on ice. I measured the ice’s movement one rod (sixteen and a half feet) from shore. I used a level on land, aimed at a marked measuring staff on the ice. The greatest movement was three-quarters of an inch, though the ice seemed firmly attached to the shore. The movement was probably greater in the middle. Who knows whether, with sensitive enough instruments, we might detect a similar rise and fall in the earth’s crust? I placed two legs of my level on shore and the third on the ice, then sighted across the ice. An almost infinitely small rise or fall of the ice shifted my sightline several feet on a tree across the pond. When I began cutting holes to measure the pond’s depth, three or four inches of water covered the ice. Deep snow had weighed the ice down that far. But the water immediately began draining into the holes and continued for two days in deep streams. The streams wore away the ice on every side and helped substantially, if not chiefly, to dry the pond’s surface. For as the water drained into the holes, the water lifted the ice and set it afloat. Draining the pond’s surface this way was rather like cutting a hole in a ship’s bottom to let water out. When such holes freeze, rain follows, and another freeze finally covers everything with fresh, smooth ice, beautiful dark patterns appear inside. These patterns look somewhat like spiderwebs, or what you might call ice rosettes. They form from channels worn by water flowing from all sides toward a center. Sometimes, too, when shallow puddles covered the ice, I saw a double shadow of myself, one standing on the other’s head. One shadow fell on the ice, the other on the trees or hillside.

While yet it is cold January, and snow and ice are thick and solid, the prudent landlord comes from the village to get ice to cool his summer drink; impressively, even pathetically wise, to foresee the heat and thirst of July now in January,—wearing a thick coat and mittens! when so many things are not provided for. It may be that he lays up no treasures in this world which will cool his summer drink in the next. He cuts and saws the solid pond, unroofs the house of fishes, and carts off their very element and air, held fast by chains and stakes like corded wood, through the favoring winter air, to wintry cellars, to underlie the summer there. It looks like solidified azure, as, far off, it is drawn through the streets. These ice-cutters are a merry race, full of jest and sport, and when I went among them they were wont to invite me to saw pit-fashion with them, I standing underneath.

It is still cold January, and the snow and ice are thick and solid. The prudent landlord comes from the village to collect ice to cool his summer drink. How impressively wise, even pathetically so, to foresee July’s heat and thirst now in January! And he does so wearing a thick coat and mittens, while so many needs go unprovided for. Perhaps he stores up no treasures in this world that will cool his summer drink in the next. He cuts and saws the frozen pond, removing the roof from the fishes’ home. He carts away their very element and air, secured with chains and stakes like bundled firewood. The ice travels through the helpful winter air to wintry cellars, where it will lie beneath the summer heat. Seen from far away as it passes through the streets, the ice looks like solidified blue sky. These ice-cutters are a cheerful bunch, full of jokes and fun. When I went among them, they would invite me to saw with them as workers do over a sawpit. I was to stand underneath.

In the winter of ’46–7 there came a hundred men of Hyperborean extraction swoop down on to our pond one morning, with many car-loads of ungainly-looking farming tools, sleds, ploughs, drill-barrows, turf-knives, spades, saws, rakes, and each man was armed with a double-pointed pike-staff, such as is not described in the New-England Farmer or the Cultivator. I did not know whether they had come to sow a crop of winter rye, or some other kind of grain recently introduced from Iceland. As I saw no manure, I judged that they meant to skim the land, as I had done, thinking the soil was deep and had lain fallow long enough. They said that a gentleman farmer, who was behind the scenes, wanted to double his money, which, as I understood, amounted to half a million already; but in order to cover each one of his dollars with another, he took off the only coat, ay, the skin itself, of Walden Pond in the midst of a hard winter. They went to work at once, ploughing, harrowing, rolling, furrowing, in admirable order, as if they were bent on making this a model farm; but when I was looking sharp to see what kind of seed they dropped into the furrow, a gang of fellows by my side suddenly began to hook up the virgin mould itself, with a peculiar jerk, clean down to the sand, or rather the water,—for it was a very springy soil,—indeed all the terra firma there was,—and haul it away on sleds, and then I guessed that they must be cutting peat in a bog. So they came and went every day, with a peculiar shriek from the locomotive, from and to some point of the polar regions, as it seemed to me, like a flock of arctic snow-birds. But sometimes Squaw Walden had her revenge, and a hired man, walking behind his team, slipped through a crack in the ground down toward Tartarus, and he who was so brave before suddenly became but the ninth part of a man, almost gave up his animal heat, and was glad to take refuge in my house, and acknowledged that there was some virtue in a stove; or sometimes the frozen soil took a piece of steel out of a ploughshare, or a plough got set in the furrow and had to be cut out.

One morning in the winter of 1846 to 1847, a hundred men of Hyperborean ancestry swooped down onto our pond. They brought many carloads of awkward-looking farming tools: sleds, plows, drill-barrows, turf-knives, spades, saws, and rakes. Each man carried a double-pointed pike-staff, a tool not described in the New-England Farmer or the Cultivator. I did not know whether they had come to sow winter rye or some other grain recently introduced from Iceland. Since I saw no manure, I guessed they meant to strip the land without replenishing it, as I had done. They must have thought the soil was deep and had lain fallow long enough. They said a gentleman farmer behind the scenes wanted to double his money. As I understood, his money already amounted to half a million dollars. But to cover each dollar with another, he stripped Walden Pond of its only coat in a hard winter. Yes, he stripped off its very skin. The men immediately began plowing, harrowing, rolling, and cutting furrows in admirable order. They seemed determined to make this a model farm. But I watched closely to see what seed they dropped into the furrows. Then a gang beside me suddenly began hooking up the untouched soil itself with a peculiar jerk. They stripped it clean down to the sand, or rather the water, for the soil was very springy. Indeed, they took all the solid ground there was and hauled it away on sleds. Then I guessed they must be cutting peat in a bog. So the men came and went every day, accompanied by the locomotive’s peculiar shriek. They traveled from and to some point in the polar regions, or so it seemed to me. They were like a flock of arctic snowbirds. But sometimes Squaw Walden took her revenge. A hired man walking behind his team would slip through a crack in the ground, down toward Tartarus. The man who had been so brave suddenly became only a ninth of a man. He nearly lost all his body heat and was glad to take shelter in my house. He admitted that a stove had some value. Or sometimes the frozen soil broke a piece of steel from a plowshare. Or a plow became stuck in its furrow and had to be cut out.

To speak literally, a hundred Irishmen, with Yankee overseers, came from Cambridge every day to get out the ice. They divided it into cakes by methods too well known to require description, and these, being sledded to the shore, were rapidly hauled off on to an ice platform, and raised by grappling irons and block and tackle, worked by horses, on to a stack, as surely as so many barrels of flour, and there placed evenly side by side, and row upon row, as if they formed the solid base of an obelisk designed to pierce the clouds. They told me that in a good day they could get out a thousand tons, which was the yield of about one acre. Deep ruts and “cradle holes” were worn in the ice, as on terra firma, by the passage of the sleds over the same track, and the horses invariably ate their oats out of cakes of ice hollowed out like buckets. They stacked up the cakes thus in the open air in a pile thirty-five feet high on one side and six or seven rods square, putting hay between the outside layers to exclude the air; for when the wind, though never so cold, finds a passage through, it will wear large cavities, leaving slight supports or studs only here and there, and finally topple it down. At first it looked like a vast blue fort or Valhalla; but when they began to tuck the coarse meadow hay into the crevices, and this became covered with rime and icicles, it looked like a venerable moss-grown and hoary ruin, built of azure-tinted marble, the abode of Winter, that old man we see in the almanac,—his shanty, as if he had a design to estivate with us. They calculated that not twenty-five per cent of this would reach its destination, and that two or three per cent would be wasted in the cars. However, a still greater part of this heap had a different destiny from what was intended; for, either because the ice was found not to keep so well as was expected, containing more air than usual, or for some other reason, it never got to market. This heap, made in the winter of ’46–7 and estimated to contain ten thousand tons, was finally covered with hay and boards; and though it was unroofed the following July, and a part of it carried off, the rest remaining exposed to the sun, it stood over that summer and the next winter, and was not quite melted till September 1848. Thus the pond recovered the greater part.

To speak literally, a hundred Irishmen came from Cambridge every day with Yankee overseers to harvest the ice. They cut it into blocks by methods too familiar to need describing. The blocks were taken by sled to shore and quickly hauled onto an ice platform. Horses powered grappling hooks and a pulley system to lift the blocks onto a stack, as reliably as barrels of flour. There the blocks were laid evenly side by side, row upon row. They looked like the solid base of an obelisk meant to pierce the clouds. The men told me they could harvest a thousand tons on a good day, the yield of about one acre. The sleds wore deep ruts and “cradle holes” into the ice by repeatedly following the same track, just as on solid ground. The horses always ate their oats from ice blocks hollowed out like buckets. The men stacked the blocks outdoors in a pile thirty-five feet high on one side and roughly a hundred feet square. They packed hay between the outer layers to keep air out. For wind, however cold, will wear large hollows in the ice if it finds a way through. It leaves only thin supports or posts here and there, and finally brings the pile down. At first the pile looked like a vast blue fort or Valhalla. But then the men began tucking coarse meadow hay into the cracks, and frost and icicles covered the hay. The pile now looked like an ancient, moss-covered, frost-whitened ruin built of blue-tinted marble. It seemed the home of Winter, that old man pictured in the almanac. This was his shack, as if he planned to spend the summer with us. The men calculated that less than twenty-five percent of the ice would reach its destination. They expected two or three percent to be lost in the railroad cars. Yet an even larger share of the pile met a different fate than intended, for it never reached the market. Perhaps the ice kept less well than expected because it contained more air than usual, or perhaps for another reason. The pile, made in the winter of 1846 to 1847, was estimated to contain ten thousand tons. It was eventually covered with hay and boards. The covering was removed the following July, and some of the ice was taken away. Although the rest remained exposed to the sun, it lasted through that summer and the next winter. It did not finish melting until September 1848. Thus the pond recovered most of the ice.

Like the water, the Walden ice, seen near at hand, has a green tint, but at a distance is beautifully blue, and you can easily tell it from the white ice of the river, or the merely greenish ice of some ponds, a quarter of a mile off. Sometimes one of those great cakes slips from the ice-man’s sled into the village street, and lies there for a week like a great emerald, an object of interest to all passers. I have noticed that a portion of Walden which in the state of water was green will often, when frozen, appear from the same point of view blue. So the hollows about this pond will, sometimes, in the winter, be filled with a greenish water somewhat like its own, but the next day will have frozen blue. Perhaps the blue color of water and ice is due to the light and air they contain, and the most transparent is the bluest. Ice is an interesting subject for contemplation. They told me that they had some in the ice-houses at Fresh Pond five years old which was as good as ever. Why is it that a bucket of water soon becomes putrid, but frozen remains sweet forever? It is commonly said that this is the difference between the affections and the intellect.

Like the water, Walden ice has a green tint up close, but from a distance it is beautifully blue. Even a quarter of a mile away, you can easily distinguish it from the river’s white ice. You can also distinguish it from the merely greenish ice of some ponds. Sometimes a great block slips from the ice seller’s sled into the village street. It lies there for a week like a great emerald, attracting the interest of everyone passing by. I have noticed that a part of Walden that looked green as water will often look blue when frozen. This is true even when viewed from the same spot. Similarly, in winter, the hollows around this pond sometimes fill with greenish water somewhat like the pond’s own. But by the next day, the water in the hollows will have frozen blue. Perhaps the blue color of water and ice comes from the light and air they contain. The most transparent water and ice are the bluest. Ice is an interesting subject to think about. I was told that the icehouses at Fresh Pond held five-year-old ice that was as good as ever. Why does a bucket of water soon become foul, while the same water, frozen, stays fresh forever? People commonly say that this is the difference between the emotions and the intellect.

Thus for sixteen days I saw from my window a hundred men at work like busy husbandmen, with teams and horses and apparently all the implements of farming, such a picture as we see on the first page of the almanac; and as often as I looked out I was reminded of the fable of the lark and the reapers, or the parable of the sower, and the like; and now they are all gone, and in thirty days more, probably, I shall look from the same window on the pure sea-green Walden water there, reflecting the clouds and the trees, and sending up its evaporations in solitude, and no traces will appear that a man has ever stood there. Perhaps I shall hear a solitary loon laugh as he dives and plumes himself, or shall see a lonely fisher in his boat, like a floating leaf, beholding his form reflected in the waves, where lately a hundred men securely labored.

For sixteen days, I watched a hundred men from my window as they worked like busy farmers. They had teams of horses and apparently all the tools of farming. The scene looked like a picture on the first page of an almanac. Whenever I looked out, I thought of the fable of the lark and the reapers, or the parable of the sower, and similar stories. Now the men are all gone. In another thirty days, I will probably look from the same window at Walden’s pure sea-green water. The water will reflect the clouds and trees, evaporating in solitude. No trace will remain to show that anyone has ever stood there. Perhaps I will hear a lone loon laugh as he dives and preens his feathers. Or perhaps I will see a lone fisherman in his boat, like a floating leaf. He will gaze at his reflection in the waves, where a hundred men worked safely not long before.

Thus it appears that the sweltering inhabitants of Charleston and New Orleans, of Madras and Bombay and Calcutta, drink at my well. In the morning I bathe my intellect in the stupendous and cosmogonal philosophy of the Bhagvat Geeta, since whose composition years of the gods have elapsed, and in comparison with which our modern world and its literature seem puny and trivial; and I doubt if that philosophy is not to be referred to a previous state of existence, so remote is its sublimity from our conceptions. I lay down the book and go to my well for water, and lo! there I meet the servant of the Bramin, priest of Brahma and Vishnu and Indra, who still sits in his temple on the Ganges reading the Vedas, or dwells at the root of a tree with his crust and water jug. I meet his servant come to draw water for his master, and our buckets as it were grate together in the same well. The pure Walden water is mingled with the sacred water of the Ganges. With favoring winds it is wafted past the site of the fabulous islands of Atlantis and the Hesperides, makes the periplus of Hanno, and, floating by Ternate and Tidore and the mouth of the Persian Gulf, melts in the tropic gales of the Indian seas, and is landed in ports of which Alexander only heard the names.

So it seems that people in sweltering Charleston and New Orleans, Madras and Bombay and Calcutta, drink from my well. Each morning I bathe my mind in the vast philosophy of the Bhagvat Geeta and its account of the universe’s origins. Ages measured in the years of gods have passed since it was written. Beside it, our modern world and its literature seem small and trivial. I wonder whether that philosophy belongs to a previous state of existence, so far beyond our understanding is its grandeur. I put down the book and go to my well for water. And look! There I meet the servant of the Bramin, priest of Brahma and Vishnu and Indra. His master still sits in his temple on the Ganges reading the Vedas. Or he lives at the foot of a tree with his crust of bread and water jug. I meet the servant coming to draw water for his master. Our buckets seem to scrape against each other in the same well. The pure water of Walden mingles with the sacred water of the Ganges. Favorable winds carry the water past the sites of the legendary islands of Atlantis and the Hesperides. It follows Hanno’s voyage around the coast, then floats past Ternate and Tidore and the mouth of the Persian Gulf. It melts in the tropical winds of the Indian seas. Finally, it arrives in ports whose names were all Alexander ever knew of them.