The Ponds

Sometimes, having had a surfeit of human society and gossip, and worn out all my village friends, I rambled still farther westward than I habitually dwell, into yet more unfrequented parts of the town, “to fresh woods and pastures new,” or, while the sun was setting, made my supper of huckleberries and blueberries on Fair Haven Hill, and laid up a store for several days. The fruits do not yield their true flavor to the purchaser of them, nor to him who raises them for the market. There is but one way to obtain it, yet few take that way. If you would know the flavor of huckleberries, ask the cow-boy or the partridge. It is a vulgar error to suppose that you have tasted huckleberries who never plucked them. A huckleberry never reaches Boston; they have not been known there since they grew on her three hills. The ambrosial and essential part of the fruit is lost with the bloom which is rubbed off in the market cart, and they become mere provender. As long as Eternal Justice reigns, not one innocent huckleberry can be transported thither from the country’s hills.

Sometimes I had enough of company and gossip and had worn out all my village friends. Then I wandered farther west than where I usually lived, into even less visited parts of town. I went “to fresh woods and pastures new,” or ate huckleberries and blueberries for supper on Fair Haven Hill at sunset. I also gathered enough berries to last several days. Fruit does not give its true flavor to those who buy it or grow it for market. There is only one way to get that flavor, yet few people take that way. If you want to know the flavor of huckleberries, ask the boy tending cows or the partridge. It is a common mistake to think you have tasted huckleberries if you have never picked them. Not a single huckleberry ever reaches Boston. Huckleberries have not been known there since they grew on Boston’s three hills. The fruit’s heavenly flavor and essential nature disappear with the delicate coating rubbed off in the market cart. The berries become nothing more than feed. As long as Eternal Justice rules, not one innocent huckleberry can be carried to Boston from the country’s hills.

Occasionally, after my hoeing was done for the day, I joined some impatient companion who had been fishing on the pond since morning, as silent and motionless as a duck or a floating leaf, and, after practising various kinds of philosophy, had concluded commonly, by the time I arrived, that he belonged to the ancient sect of Cœnobites. There was one older man, an excellent fisher and skilled in all kinds of woodcraft, who was pleased to look upon my house as a building erected for the convenience of fishermen; and I was equally pleased when he sat in my doorway to arrange his lines. Once in a while we sat together on the pond, he at one end of the boat, and I at the other; but not many words passed between us, for he had grown deaf in his later years, but he occasionally hummed a psalm, which harmonized well enough with my philosophy. Our intercourse was thus altogether one of unbroken harmony, far more pleasing to remember than if it had been carried on by speech. When, as was commonly the case, I had none to commune with, I used to raise the echoes by striking with a paddle on the side of my boat, filling the surrounding woods with circling and dilating sound, stirring them up as the keeper of a menagerie his wild beasts, until I elicited a growl from every wooded vale and hill-side.

Occasionally, after finishing my hoeing for the day, I joined some impatient companion who had fished the pond since morning. He had sat as silent and motionless as a duck or a floating leaf, trying out various philosophies. By the time I arrived, he had usually concluded that he belonged to the ancient sect of Cœnobites, or communal monks. One older man was an excellent fisherman and skilled in all kinds of woodcraft. He liked to think my house had been built for the convenience of fishermen. I was equally pleased when he sat in my doorway to arrange his fishing lines. Once in a while we sat together on the pond, each at an opposite end of the boat. But we exchanged few words, because he had grown deaf in his later years. Still, he occasionally hummed a psalm, which harmonized well enough with my philosophy. Our companionship was thus entirely one of unbroken harmony. Remembering our time together is far more pleasant than if we had spent it talking. When I had no companion, as was usually the case, I stirred the echoes by striking my boat’s side with a paddle. The sound circled and spread, filling the surrounding woods. I stirred the woods as the keeper of a collection of wild animals stirs his beasts. I kept at it until I drew a growl from every wooded valley and hillside.

In warm evenings I frequently sat in the boat playing the flute, and saw the perch, which I seemed to have charmed, hovering around me, and the moon travelling over the ribbed bottom, which was strewed with the wrecks of the forest. Formerly I had come to this pond adventurously, from time to time, in dark summer nights, with a companion, and making a fire close to the water’s edge, which we thought attracted the fishes, we caught pouts with a bunch of worms strung on a thread; and when we had done, far in the night, threw the burning brands high into the air like skyrockets, which, coming down into the pond, were quenched with a loud hissing, and we were suddenly groping in total darkness. Through this, whistling a tune, we took our way to the haunts of men again. But now I had made my home by the shore.

On warm evenings I often sat in the boat playing the flute. Perch hovered around me, seemingly charmed by my music. I watched the moon move across the ridged pond bottom, scattered with fallen remains of the forest. In earlier years, I had sometimes come to this pond with a companion on dark summer nights, seeking adventure. We built a fire close to the water’s edge, thinking the fire attracted fish. We caught small catfish with a bunch of worms strung on a thread. When we finished, late at night, we threw the burning sticks high into the air like rockets. The sticks fell into the pond and went out with a loud hiss, leaving us suddenly groping in total darkness. Whistling a tune, we made our way through the darkness back to where people lived. But now I had made my home by the shore.

Sometimes, after staying in a village parlor till the family had all retired, I have returned to the woods, and, partly with a view to the next day’s dinner, spent the hours of midnight fishing from a boat by moonlight, serenaded by owls and foxes, and hearing, from time to time, the creaking note of some unknown bird close at hand. These experiences were very memorable and valuable to me,—anchored in forty feet of water, and twenty or thirty rods from the shore, surrounded sometimes by thousands of small perch and shiners, dimpling the surface with their tails in the moonlight, and communicating by a long flaxen line with mysterious nocturnal fishes which had their dwelling forty feet below, or sometimes dragging sixty feet of line about the pond as I drifted in the gentle night breeze, now and then feeling a slight vibration along it, indicative of some life prowling about its extremity, of dull uncertain blundering purpose there, and slow to make up its mind. At length you slowly raise, pulling hand over hand, some horned pout squeaking and squirming to the upper air. It was very queer, especially in dark nights, when your thoughts had wandered to vast and cosmogonal themes in other spheres, to feel this faint jerk, which came to interrupt your dreams and link you to Nature again. It seemed as if I might next cast my line upward into the air, as well as downward into this element, which was scarcely more dense. Thus I caught two fishes as it were with one hook.

Sometimes I stayed in a village sitting room until the whole family had gone to bed. Then I returned to the woods and spent the midnight hours fishing from a boat by moonlight. Part of my purpose was to catch the next day’s dinner. Owls and foxes serenaded me. From time to time, I heard the creaking call of some unknown bird nearby. These experiences were very memorable and valuable to me. I would anchor in forty feet of water, about a hundred to a hundred and sixty yards from shore. Sometimes thousands of small perch and shiners surrounded me, their tails dimpling the surface in the moonlight. A long flax fishing line connected me with mysterious night fish living forty feet below. At other times, I trailed sixty feet of line through the pond while drifting in the gentle night breeze. Now and then, I felt a slight vibration along the line. Some living creature was prowling around its far end, with a dull, uncertain, fumbling purpose, slow to decide. At last, pulling hand over hand, you slowly raise a horned pout, a kind of catfish, squeaking and squirming into the air above. The faint tug felt very strange, especially on dark nights. Your thoughts had wandered to vast questions about the origins of worlds in other realms. Then the tug interrupted your dreams and connected you to Nature again. It seemed as if I might next cast my line upward into the air instead of downward into the water. The water was scarcely denser than the air. In this way, I caught two fish with one hook, so to speak.

The scenery of Walden is on a humble scale, and, though very beautiful, does not approach to grandeur, nor can it much concern one who has not long frequented it or lived by its shore; yet this pond is so remarkable for its depth and purity as to merit a particular description. It is a clear and deep green well, half a mile long and a mile and three quarters in circumference, and contains about sixty-one and a half acres; a perennial spring in the midst of pine and oak woods, without any visible inlet or outlet except by the clouds and evaporation. The surrounding hills rise abruptly from the water to the height of forty to eighty feet, though on the south-east and east they attain to about one hundred and one hundred and fifty feet respectively, within a quarter and a third of a mile. They are exclusively woodland. All our Concord waters have two colors at least; one when viewed at a distance, and another, more proper, close at hand. The first depends more on the light, and follows the sky. In clear weather, in summer, they appear blue at a little distance, especially if agitated, and at a great distance all appear alike. In stormy weather they are sometimes of a dark slate color. The sea, however, is said to be blue one day and green another without any perceptible change in the atmosphere. I have seen our river, when, the landscape being covered with snow, both water and ice were almost as green as grass. Some consider blue “to be the color of pure water, whether liquid or solid.” But, looking directly down into our waters from a boat, they are seen to be of very different colors. Walden is blue at one time and green at another, even from the same point of view. Lying between the earth and the heavens, it partakes of the color of both. Viewed from a hill-top it reflects the color of the sky; but near at hand it is of a yellowish tint next the shore where you can see the sand, then a light green, which gradually deepens to a uniform dark green in the body of the pond. In some lights, viewed even from a hill-top, it is of a vivid green next the shore. Some have referred this to the reflection of the verdure; but it is equally green there against the railroad sand-bank, and in the spring, before the leaves are expanded, and it may be simply the result of the prevailing blue mixed with the yellow of the sand. Such is the color of its iris. This is that portion, also, where in the spring, the ice being warmed by the heat of the sun reflected from the bottom, and also transmitted through the earth, melts first and forms a narrow canal about the still frozen middle. Like the rest of our waters, when much agitated, in clear weather, so that the surface of the waves may reflect the sky at the right angle, or because there is more light mixed with it, it appears at a little distance of a darker blue than the sky itself; and at such a time, being on its surface, and looking with divided vision, so as to see the reflection, I have discerned a matchless and indescribable light blue, such as watered or changeable silks and sword blades suggest, more cerulean than the sky itself, alternating with the original dark green on the opposite sides of the waves, which last appeared but muddy in comparison. It is a vitreous greenish blue, as I remember it, like those patches of the winter sky seen through cloud vistas in the west before sundown. Yet a single glass of its water held up to the light is as colorless as an equal quantity of air. It is well known that a large plate of glass will have a green tint, owing, as the makers say, to its “body,” but a small piece of the same will be colorless. How large a body of Walden water would be required to reflect a green tint I have never proved. The water of our river is black or a very dark brown to one looking directly down on it, and, like that of most ponds, imparts to the body of one bathing in it a yellowish tinge; but this water is of such crystalline purity that the body of the bather appears of an alabaster whiteness, still more unnatural, which, as the limbs are magnified and distorted withal, produces a monstrous effect, making fit studies for a Michael Angelo.

Walden’s scenery is modest in scale. Though very beautiful, it falls short of grandeur. Nor can it mean much to anyone who has not visited often or lived by its shore. Yet the pond’s remarkable depth and purity deserve a detailed description. It is a clear, deep green well, half a mile long and a mile and three quarters around. It covers about sixty-one and a half acres. It is a year-round spring among pine and oak woods, with no visible inlet or outlet except clouds and evaporation. The surrounding hills rise steeply from the water to heights of forty to eighty feet. To the southeast, however, they reach about one hundred feet within a quarter mile. To the east, they reach about one hundred and fifty feet within a third of a mile. The hills are entirely wooded. All our Concord waters have at least two colors. One appears from a distance, and another, their truer color, appears close up. The distant color depends more on the light and follows the sky. In clear summer weather, the waters look blue from a short distance, especially when stirred by wind. From far away, they all look alike. In stormy weather, they are sometimes dark slate gray. The sea, however, is said to be blue one day and green another, without any noticeable change in the atmosphere. I have seen our river when snow covered the landscape and both water and ice were almost grass green. Some consider blue “to be the color of pure water, whether liquid or solid.” But looking straight down into our waters from a boat reveals very different colors. Walden is blue at one time and green at another, even from the same viewpoint. Lying between earth and sky, it shares the colors of both. From a hilltop, the pond reflects the sky’s color. But close up, the water looks yellowish beside the shore, where you can see the sand. Farther out, it turns light green, gradually deepening to a uniform dark green in the main body of the pond. In some light, even from a hilltop, the water beside the shore looks vividly green. Some have attributed this green to reflected vegetation. But the water is equally green beside the railroad’s sandy bank and in spring, before the leaves unfold. The green may simply come from the dominant blue mixing with the yellow of the sand. Such is the color of the pond’s iris. This shoreline band is also where the ice first melts in spring. The ice is warmed by the sun’s heat reflected from the bottom and also transmitted through the earth. The melting forms a narrow channel around the still-frozen center. Like our other waters, Walden looks darker blue than the sky from a short distance when rough in clear weather. This happens when the waves reflect the sky at the right angle, or because more light is mixed in. At such times, while on the pond, I have adjusted my gaze to see the reflection. I have seen an unmatched, indescribable light blue, like the shifting sheen of silk or the gleam of sword blades. It is a purer sky blue than the sky itself. This blue alternates with the pond’s original dark green on opposite sides of the waves. Beside the blue, the green looks merely muddy. As I remember it, the blue is glassy and greenish. It resembles patches of winter sky seen through openings in the western clouds before sunset. Yet a single glass of Walden’s water, held to the light, is as colorless as an equal volume of air. A large sheet of glass is known to have a green tint because of what glassmakers call its “body.” But a small piece of the same glass is colorless. I have never tested how much Walden water would be needed to reflect a green tint. Our river’s water looks black or very dark brown when viewed from directly above. Like the water of most ponds, it gives a bather’s body a yellowish tint. But Walden’s water is so crystal clear that a bather’s body looks alabaster white, an even more unnatural color. The water also magnifies and distorts the limbs. Together, these effects make the body look monstrous, a fitting subject for studies by a Michael Angelo.

The water is so transparent that the bottom can easily be discerned at the depth of twenty-five or thirty feet. Paddling over it, you may see, many feet beneath the surface the schools of perch and shiners, perhaps only an inch long, yet the former easily distinguished by their transverse bars, and you think that they must be ascetic fish that find a subsistence there. Once, in the winter, many years ago, when I had been cutting holes through the ice in order to catch pickerel, as I stepped ashore I tossed my axe back on to the ice, but, as if some evil genius had directed it, it slid four or five rods directly into one of the holes, where the water was twenty-five feet deep. Out of curiosity, I lay down on the ice and looked through the hole, until I saw the axe a little on one side, standing on its head, with its helve erect and gently swaying to and fro with the pulse of the pond; and there it might have stood erect and swaying till in the course of time the handle rotted off, if I had not disturbed it. Making another hole directly over it with an ice chisel which I had, and cutting down the longest birch which I could find in the neighborhood with my knife, I made a slip-noose, which I attached to its end, and, letting it down carefully, passed it over the knob of the handle, and drew it by a line along the birch, and so pulled the axe out again.

The water is so clear that you can easily see the bottom twenty-five or thirty feet below. As you paddle over it, you may see schools of perch and shiners many feet beneath the surface. The fish may be only an inch long, yet you can easily recognize the perch by their crosswise stripes. You think the fish must live like ascetics to find enough food there. One winter many years ago, I had been cutting holes through the ice to catch pickerel. As I stepped ashore, I tossed my axe back onto the ice. But as if some evil spirit had guided the axe, it slid sixty-six to eighty-two feet straight into a hole. The water there was twenty-five feet deep. Out of curiosity, I lay down on the ice and looked through the hole. Finally, I saw the axe a little to one side, standing on its head with its handle upright. The handle swayed gently back and forth with the pulse of the pond. The axe might have stayed there, upright and swaying, until its handle rotted off, if I had not disturbed it. With an ice chisel I had, I made another hole directly above the axe. Then, using my knife, I cut down the longest birch I could find nearby. I made a sliding noose and attached it to the end of the birch. Lowering the noose carefully, I slipped it over the knob at the end of the axe handle. I tightened the noose with a line running along the birch, and so pulled the axe out again.

The shore is composed of a belt of smooth rounded white stones like paving stones, excepting one or two short sand beaches, and is so steep that in many places a single leap will carry you into water over your head; and were it not for its remarkable transparency, that would be the last to be seen of its bottom till it rose on the opposite side. Some think it is bottomless. It is nowhere muddy, and a casual observer would say that there were no weeds at all in it; and of noticeable plants, except in the little meadows recently overflowed, which do not properly belong to it, a closer scrutiny does not detect a flag nor a bulrush, nor even a lily, yellow or white, but only a few small heart-leaves and potamogetons, and perhaps a water-target or two; all which however a bather might not perceive; and these plants are clean and bright like the element they grow in. The stones extend a rod or two into the water, and then the bottom is pure sand, except in the deepest parts, where there is usually a little sediment, probably from the decay of the leaves which have been wafted on to it so many successive falls, and a bright green weed is brought up on anchors even in midwinter.

The shore is a belt of smooth, rounded white stones like paving stones, apart from one or two short sandy beaches. The shore is so steep that, in many places, a single leap takes you into water over your head. Without the water’s remarkable clarity, you would lose sight of the bottom until it rose on the opposite side. Some think the pond is bottomless. The bottom is nowhere muddy, and a casual observer would say there were no weeds at all. Even a closer look reveals no flag irises or bulrushes, or even a lily, yellow or white. The exceptions are in the small meadows recently flooded, which do not really belong to the pond. The only noticeable plants in the pond are a few small heart-leaves and pondweeds, and perhaps one or two water-targets. A swimmer, however, might not notice any of these plants. The plants are clean and bright, like the water they grow in. The stones extend sixteen to thirty-three feet into the water. Beyond them, the bottom is pure sand, except in the deepest parts, where there is usually a little sediment. The sediment probably comes from decaying leaves blown onto the pond over so many autumns. And even in midwinter, anchors bring up a bright green weed.

We have one other pond just like this, White Pond, in Nine Acre Corner, about two and a half miles westerly; but, though I am acquainted with most of the ponds within a dozen miles of this centre I do not know a third of this pure and well-like character. Successive nations perchance have drank at, admired, and fathomed it, and passed away, and still its water is green and pellucid as ever. Not an intermitting spring! Perhaps on that spring morning when Adam and Eve were driven out of Eden Walden Pond was already in existence, and even then breaking up in a gentle spring rain accompanied with mist and a southerly wind, and covered with myriads of ducks and geese, which had not heard of the fall, when still such pure lakes sufficed them. Even then it had commenced to rise and fall, and had clarified its waters and colored them of the hue they now wear, and obtained a patent of heaven to be the only Walden Pond in the world and distiller of celestial dews. Who knows in how many unremembered nations’ literatures this has been the Castalian Fountain? or what nymphs presided over it in the Golden Age? It is a gem of the first water which Concord wears in her coronet.

We have one other pond just like Walden: White Pond, in Nine Acre Corner, about two and a half miles west. I know most of the ponds within twelve miles of here. But I know no third pond so pure and like a well. Perhaps nation after nation has drunk from Walden, admired it, measured its depths, and passed away. Yet its water is as green and clear as ever. Here is a spring that never stops flowing! Perhaps Walden Pond already existed on that spring morning when Adam and Eve were driven out of Eden. Perhaps even then its ice was breaking up in a gentle spring rain, with mist and a south wind. Perhaps countless ducks and geese covered the pond, having heard nothing of the Fall. Such pure lakes were still enough for those birds. Even then, the pond had begun to rise and fall. It had cleared its waters and given them the color they have today. It had received heaven’s exclusive charter to be the world’s only Walden Pond and a distiller of heavenly dew. Who knows how many forgotten nations celebrated this pond in their literature as the Castalian Fountain? Or what nymphs watched over the pond in the Golden Age? It is a gem of the finest clarity, worn by Concord in her crown.

Yet perchance the first who came to this well have left some trace of their footsteps. I have been surprised to detect encircling the pond, even where a thick wood has just been cut down on the shore, a narrow shelf-like path in the steep hill-side, alternately rising and falling, approaching and receding from the water’s edge, as old probably as the race of man here, worn by the feet of aboriginal hunters, and still from time to time unwittingly trodden by the present occupants of the land. This is particularly distinct to one standing on the middle of the pond in winter, just after a light snow has fallen, appearing as a clear undulating white line, unobscured by weeds and twigs, and very obvious a quarter of a mile off in many places where in summer it is hardly distinguishable close at hand. The snow reprints it, as it were, in clear white type alto-relievo. The ornamented grounds of villas which will one day be built here may still preserve some trace of this.

Yet perhaps the first people who came to this well have left some trace of their footsteps. I have been surprised to find a narrow, shelf-like path circling the pond along the steep hillside. The path survives even where thick woods have just been cut down along the shore. It rises and falls, drawing closer to the water’s edge and then farther away. It is probably as old as human life here, worn by the feet of Indigenous hunters. The people now occupying the land still walk it from time to time without knowing it. The path is especially clear when you stand in the middle of the frozen pond just after a light snowfall. It appears as a clear, winding white line, unobscured by weeds and twigs. In many places, you can easily see it from a quarter of a mile away. Yet in summer, you can hardly make it out even close at hand. The snow reprints the path, so to speak, in clear white lettering raised above the surface. The landscaped grounds of villas that will one day be built here may still preserve some trace of this path.

The pond rises and falls, but whether regularly or not, and within what period, nobody knows, though, as usual, many pretend to know. It is commonly higher in the winter and lower in the summer, though not corresponding to the general wet and dryness. I can remember when it was a foot or two lower, and also when it was at least five feet higher, than when I lived by it. There is a narrow sand-bar running into it, with very deep water on one side, on which I helped boil a kettle of chowder, some six rods from the main shore, about the year 1824, which it has not been possible to do for twenty-five years; and on the other hand, my friends used to listen with incredulity when I told them, that a few years later I was accustomed to fish from a boat in a secluded cove in the woods, fifteen rods from the only shore they knew, which place was long since converted into a meadow. But the pond has risen steadily for two years, and now, in the summer of ’52, is just five feet higher than when I lived there, or as high as it was thirty years ago, and fishing goes on again in the meadow. This makes a difference of level, at the outside, of six or seven feet; and yet the water shed by the surrounding hills is insignificant in amount, and this overflow must be referred to causes which affect the deep springs. This same summer the pond has begun to fall again. It is remarkable that this fluctuation, whether periodical or not, appears thus to require many years for its accomplishment. I have observed one rise and a part of two falls, and I expect that a dozen or fifteen years hence the water will again be as low as I have ever known it. Flint’s Pond, a mile eastward, allowing for the disturbance occasioned by its inlets and outlets, and the smaller intermediate ponds also, sympathize with Walden, and recently attained their greatest height at the same time with the latter. The same is true, as far as my observation goes, of White Pond.

The pond rises and falls, but nobody knows whether it follows a regular cycle or how long that cycle lasts. As usual, though, many pretend to know. The pond is usually higher in winter and lower in summer. But its level does not follow the general pattern of wet and dry weather. I remember the pond being a foot or two lower than when I lived beside it. I also remember it being at least five feet higher. A narrow sandbar extends into the pond, with very deep water on one side. Around 1824, I helped boil a kettle of chowder on that sandbar, about six rods from the main shore. For twenty-five years, the water has made that impossible. On the other hand, my friends could hardly believe what I told them about fishing there a few years later. I used to fish from a boat in a secluded cove in the woods. The cove was fifteen rods beyond the only shoreline my friends knew, in a place long since turned into meadow. But the pond has risen steadily for two years. Now, in the summer of 1852, it is exactly five feet higher than when I lived there. It is as high as it was thirty years ago, and people are fishing in the meadow again. The total difference in level is six or seven feet at most. Yet very little water runs into the pond from the surrounding hills. This rise must therefore come from causes affecting the deep springs. This same summer, the pond has begun to fall again. Remarkably, these changes seem to take many years, whether or not they follow a regular cycle. I have observed one rise and parts of two falls. I expect that twelve or fifteen years from now, the water will again be as low as I have ever known it. Flint’s Pond, a mile to the east, rises and falls along with Walden, allowing for changes caused by its inlets and outlets. The smaller ponds between them do the same. All these ponds recently reached their highest levels at the same time as Walden. As far as I have observed, the same is true of White Pond.

This rise and fall of Walden at long intervals serves this use at least; the water standing at this great height for a year or more, though it makes it difficult to walk round it, kills the shrubs and trees which have sprung up about its edge since the last rise, pitch-pines, birches, alders, aspens, and others, and, falling again, leaves an unobstructed shore; for, unlike many ponds and all waters which are subject to a daily tide, its shore is cleanest when the water is lowest. On the side of the pond next my house, a row of pitch pines fifteen feet high has been killed and tipped over as if by a lever, and thus a stop put to their encroachments; and their size indicates how many years have elapsed since the last rise to this height. By this fluctuation the pond asserts its title to a shore, and thus the shore is shorn, and the trees cannot hold it by right of possession. These are the lips of the lake on which no beard grows. It licks its chaps from time to time. When the water is at its height, the alders, willows, and maples send forth a mass of fibrous red roots several feet long from all sides of their stems in the water, and to the height of three or four feet from the ground, in the effort to maintain themselves; and I have known the high-blueberry bushes about the shore, which commonly produce no fruit, bear an abundant crop under these circumstances.

Walden’s rise and fall at long intervals serves at least one purpose. Though the high water makes walking around the pond difficult, it stays high for a year or more. This kills the shrubs and trees that have grown along the edge since the last rise. These include pitch pines, birches, alders, aspens, and others. When the water falls again, it leaves a clear shore. Unlike many ponds and all waters with a daily tide, Walden’s shore is cleanest when the water is lowest. On the side nearest my house, the water has killed a row of pitch pines fifteen feet tall. The trees have tipped over as if pushed by a lever, putting a stop to their spread. Their size shows how many years have passed since the water last rose this high. Through this rise and fall, the pond asserts its right to a shore. So the shore is shorn, and the trees cannot claim ownership simply by occupying it. These are the lake’s lips, on which no beard grows. From time to time, the lake licks its lips. When the water is highest, alders, willows, and maples send out masses of fibrous red roots several feet long. These roots grow from all sides of their submerged trunks, reaching three or four feet above the ground. The trees put out these roots in an effort to survive. I have also known the high-blueberry bushes along the shore, which usually bear no fruit, to produce abundantly under these conditions.

Some have been puzzled to tell how the shore became so regularly paved. My townsmen have all heard the tradition, the oldest people tell me that they heard it in their youth, that anciently the Indians were holding a pow-wow upon a hill here, which rose as high into the heavens as the pond now sinks deep into the earth, and they used much profanity, as the story goes, though this vice is one of which the Indians were never guilty, and while they were thus engaged the hill shook and suddenly sank, and only one old squaw, named Walden, escaped, and from her the pond was named. It has been conjectured that when the hill shook these stones rolled down its side and became the present shore. It is very certain, at any rate, that once there was no pond here, and now there is one; and this Indian fable does not in any respect conflict with the account of that ancient settler whom I have mentioned, who remembers so well when he first came here with his divining rod, saw a thin vapor rising from the sward, and the hazel pointed steadily downward, and he concluded to dig a well here. As for the stones, many still think that they are hardly to be accounted for by the action of the waves on these hills; but I observe that the surrounding hills are remarkably full of the same kind of stones, so that they have been obliged to pile them up in walls on both sides of the railroad cut nearest the pond; and, moreover, there are most stones where the shore is most abrupt; so that, unfortunately, it is no longer a mystery to me. I detect the paver. If the name was not derived from that of some English locality,—Saffron Walden, for instance,—one might suppose that it was called originally Walled-in Pond.

Some people have struggled to explain how the shore became so evenly paved with stones. All my townspeople have heard the old story. The oldest people tell me they heard it in their youth. Long ago, according to the story, the Indians were holding a pow-wow on a hill here. The hill rose as high into the sky as the pond now reaches down into the earth. The Indians were swearing a great deal, the story says, though they were never guilty of that vice. While they were gathered there, the hill shook and suddenly sank. Only one old Indian woman, named Walden, escaped, and the pond was named after her. Some have guessed that when the hill shook, these stones rolled down its sides and formed the present shore. At any rate, one thing is certain: once there was no pond here, and now there is one. And this Indian fable does not conflict at all with the account of the old settler I mentioned earlier. He remembers so well when he first came here with his divining rod. He saw a thin mist rising from the grass, and his hazel rod pointed steadily downward. So he decided to dig a well here. As for the stones, many still think the waves acting on these hills can hardly explain them. But I notice that the surrounding hills are remarkably full of the same kind of stones. There are so many that workers have had to pile them into walls beside the nearest railroad cutting. These walls stand on both sides of the cutting. Moreover, the stones are most plentiful where the shore is steepest. So, unfortunately, the paving is no longer a mystery to me. I have found the paver. Perhaps the name came from an English place, such as Saffron Walden. If not, one might suppose the pond was originally called Walled-in Pond.

The pond was my well ready dug. For four months in the year its water is as cold as it is pure at all times; and I think that it is then as good as any, if not the best, in the town. In the winter, all water which is exposed to the air is colder than springs and wells which are protected from it. The temperature of the pond water which had stood in the room where I sat from five o’clock in the afternoon till noon the next day, the sixth of March, 1846, the thermometer having been up to 65° or 70° some of the time, owing partly to the sun on the roof, was 42°, or one degree colder than the water of one of the coldest wells in the village just drawn. The temperature of the Boiling Spring the same day was 45°, or the warmest of any water tried, though it is the coldest that I know of in summer, when, beside, shallow and stagnant surface water is not mingled with it. Moreover, in summer, Walden never becomes so warm as most water which is exposed to the sun, on account of its depth. In the warmest weather I usually placed a pailful in my cellar, where it became cool in the night, and remained so during the day; though I also resorted to a spring in the neighborhood. It was as good when a week old as the day it was dipped, and had no taste of the pump. Whoever camps for a week in summer by the shore of a pond, needs only bury a pail of water a few feet deep in the shade of his camp to be independent of the luxury of ice.

The pond was my well, already dug. For four months each year, its water is as cold as it is pure all year round. I think the water is then as good as any in town, if not the best. In winter, all water exposed to the air is colder than water in springs and wells sheltered from the air. On March 6, 1846, I measured pond water that had stood in my room from five the previous afternoon until noon. The room had reached 65° or 70° at times, partly because the sun shone on the roof. Yet the pond water was 42°, one degree colder than water freshly drawn from one of the village’s coldest wells. That same day, the Boiling Spring was 45°, the warmest of all the water I tested. Yet in summer, the Boiling Spring is the coldest water I know. In summer, too, shallow, stagnant surface water does not mix with the spring water. Also, because of its depth, Walden never becomes as warm in summer as most water exposed to the sun. In the hottest weather, I usually put a bucket of pond water in my cellar. The water cooled overnight and stayed cool during the day, though I also used a nearby spring. The pond water was as good after a week as on the day I collected it. And the water had no taste of a pump. Anyone camping beside a pond for a week in summer needs only to bury a bucket of water. Buried a few feet deep in the shade of the camp, the water makes the luxury of ice unnecessary.

There have been caught in Walden pickerel, one weighing seven pounds, to say nothing of another which carried off a reel with great velocity, which the fisherman safely set down at eight pounds because he did not see him, perch and pouts, some of each weighing over two pounds, shiners, chivins or roach (Leuciscus pulchellus), a very few breams, and a couple of eels, one weighing four pounds,—I am thus particular because the weight of a fish is commonly its only title to fame, and these are the only eels I have heard of here;—also, I have a faint recollection of a little fish some five inches long, with silvery sides and a greenish back, somewhat dace-like in its character, which I mention here chiefly to link my facts to fable. Nevertheless, this pond is not very fertile in fish. Its pickerel, though not abundant, are its chief boast. I have seen at one time lying on the ice pickerel of at least three different kinds; a long and shallow one, steel-colored, most like those caught in the river; a bright golden kind, with greenish reflections and remarkably deep, which is the most common here; and another, golden-colored, and shaped like the last, but peppered on the sides with small dark brown or black spots, intermixed with a few faint blood-red ones, very much like a trout. The specific name reticulatus would not apply to this; it should be guttatus rather. These are all very firm fish, and weigh more than their size promises. The shiners, pouts, and perch also, and indeed all the fishes which inhabit this pond, are much cleaner, handsomer, and firmer fleshed than those in the river and most other ponds, as the water is purer, and they can easily be distinguished from them. Probably many ichthyologists would make new varieties of some of them. There are also a clean race of frogs and tortoises, and a few muscels in it; muskrats and minks leave their traces about it, and occasionally a travelling mud-turtle visits it. Sometimes, when I pushed off my boat in the morning, I disturbed a great mud-turtle which had secreted himself under the boat in the night. Ducks and geese frequent it in the spring and fall, the white-bellied swallows (Hirundo bicolor) skim over it, and the peetweets (Totanus macularius) “teter” along its stony shores all summer. I have sometimes disturbed a fishhawk sitting on a white-pine over the water; but I doubt if it is ever profaned by the wing of a gull, like Fair Haven. At most, it tolerates one annual loon. These are all the animals of consequence which frequent it now.

Pickerel have been caught in Walden, including one weighing seven pounds. Another sped away with a reel. The fisherman confidently put its weight at eight pounds because he never saw it. Perch and pouts have also been caught, some of each weighing over two pounds. Other catches include shiners, chivins or roach (Leuciscus pulchellus), a very few bream, and a couple of eels. One eel weighed four pounds. I give these details because a fish’s weight is usually its only claim to fame. These are also the only eels I have heard of here. I also vaguely remember a little fish about five inches long, with silvery sides and a greenish back. It was somewhat like a dace. I mention this fish chiefly to link my facts to fable. Nevertheless, this pond does not produce many fish. Its pickerel, though not abundant, are its greatest pride. I once saw pickerel of at least three different kinds lying together on the ice. One was long, slender, and steel-colored, most like those caught in the river. Another was bright gold, with greenish reflections and a remarkably deep body. This is the most common kind here. The third was golden and shaped like the second, but its sides were sprinkled with small dark brown or black spots. A few faint blood-red spots were mixed in, making it look very much like a trout. The species name reticulatus would not fit this fish. It should be guttatus instead. All these fish have very firm flesh and weigh more than their size suggests. The shiners, pouts, and perch are also much cleaner, handsomer, and firmer-fleshed than those in the river and most other ponds. Indeed, all the fish in Walden are, because the water is purer. Walden’s fish are easily distinguished from fish in those other waters. Many fish specialists would probably classify some of them as new varieties. The pond also has a clean population of frogs and tortoises, along with a few mussels. Muskrats and minks leave traces around the pond, and an occasional wandering mud turtle visits. Sometimes, when I pushed my boat off in the morning, I disturbed a large mud turtle. The turtle had hidden beneath the boat during the night. Ducks and geese visit in spring and fall. White-bellied swallows (Hirundo bicolor) skim over the pond, and peetweets (Totanus macularius) “teter” along its rocky shores all summer. I have sometimes disturbed a fish hawk sitting on a white pine over the water. But I doubt that a gull’s wing ever desecrates Walden, as gulls do Fair Haven. At most, the pond tolerates one loon a year. These are all the animals of any importance that visit the pond now.

You may see from a boat, in calm weather, near the sandy eastern shore, where the water is eight or ten feet deep, and also in some other parts of the pond, some circular heaps half a dozen feet in diameter by a foot in height, consisting of small stones less than a hen’s egg in size, where all around is bare sand. At first you wonder if the Indians could have formed them on the ice for any purpose, and so, when the ice melted, they sank to the bottom; but they are too regular and some of them plainly too fresh for that. They are similar to those found in rivers; but as there are no suckers nor lampreys here, I know not by what fish they could be made. Perhaps they are the nests of the chivin. These lend a pleasing mystery to the bottom.

From a boat in calm weather, you may see circular piles of stones near the sandy eastern shore. They lie where the water is eight or ten feet deep, and in some other parts of the pond. The piles are about six feet across and one foot high. The stones are smaller than a hen’s egg, and all around the piles is bare sand. At first, you wonder if Native Americans might have made these piles on the ice for some purpose. The piles would then have sunk to the bottom when the ice melted. But the piles are too regular, and some are clearly too fresh, for that explanation. They resemble piles found in rivers. But there are no suckers or lampreys here, so I do not know what fish could have made them. Perhaps the piles are the nests of the chivin. These piles give the pond’s bottom a pleasing mystery.

The shore is irregular enough not to be monotonous. I have in my mind’s eye the western indented with deep bays, the bolder northern, and the beautifully scalloped southern shore, where successive capes overlap each other and suggest unexplored coves between. The forest has never so good a setting, nor is so distinctly beautiful, as when seen from the middle of a small lake amid hills which rise from the water’s edge; for the water in which it is reflected not only makes the best foreground in such a case, but, with its winding shore, the most natural and agreeable boundary to it. There is no rawness nor imperfection in its edge there, as where the axe has cleared a part, or a cultivated field abuts on it. The trees have ample room to expand on the water side, and each sends forth its most vigorous branch in that direction. There Nature has woven a natural selvage, and the eye rises by just gradations from the low shrubs of the shore to the highest trees. There are few traces of man’s hand to be seen. The water laves the shore as it did a thousand years ago.

The shoreline is varied enough to avoid being monotonous. In my mind, I see the western shore with its deep bays and the more rugged northern shore. I also see the beautifully curved southern shore, where one point of land overlaps another, hinting at unexplored coves between. A forest never has a better setting or looks more distinctly beautiful than from the middle of a small lake. This is especially true when hills rise from the water’s edge. For the water reflecting the forest provides the best foreground. And the winding shoreline forms the forest’s most natural and pleasing boundary. The forest’s edge here looks neither rough nor incomplete, unlike places where axes have cleared land or cultivated fields meet the trees. The trees have plenty of room to spread toward the water, and each extends its strongest branch in that direction. Here Nature has woven a natural border. The eye rises in gentle stages from the low shrubs along the shore to the tallest trees. Few traces of human work are visible. The water washes the shore just as it did a thousand years ago.

A lake is the landscape’s most beautiful and expressive feature. It is earth’s eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his own nature. The fluviatile trees next the shore are the slender eyelashes which fringe it, and the wooded hills and cliffs around are its overhanging brows.

A lake is the landscape’s most beautiful and expressive feature. It is the earth’s eye. Looking into the lake, you measure the depth of your own nature. The trees along the shore are the slender eyelashes around the eye. The wooded hills and cliffs around the lake are the brows hanging over it.

Standing on the smooth sandy beach at the east end of the pond, in a calm September afternoon, when a slight haze makes the opposite shore line indistinct, I have seen whence came the expression, “the glassy surface of a lake.” When you invert your head, it looks like a thread of finest gossamer stretched across the valley, and gleaming against the distant pine woods, separating one stratum of the atmosphere from another. You would think that you could walk dry under it to the opposite hills, and that the swallows which skim over might perch on it. Indeed, they sometimes dive below this line, as it were by mistake, and are undeceived. As you look over the pond westward you are obliged to employ both your hands to defend your eyes against the reflected as well as the true sun, for they are equally bright; and if, between the two, you survey its surface critically, it is literally as smooth as glass, except where the skater insects, at equal intervals scattered over its whole extent, by their motions in the sun produce the finest imaginable sparkle on it, or, perchance, a duck plumes itself, or, as I have said, a swallow skims so low as to touch it. It may be that in the distance a fish describes an arc of three or four feet in the air, and there is one bright flash where it emerges, and another where it strikes the water; sometimes the whole silvery arc is revealed; or here and there, perhaps, is a thistle-down floating on its surface, which the fishes dart at and so dimple it again. It is like molten glass cooled but not congealed, and the few motes in it are pure and beautiful like the imperfections in glass. You may often detect a yet smoother and darker water, separated from the rest as if by an invisible cobweb, boom of the water nymphs, resting on it. From a hill-top you can see a fish leap in almost any part; for not a pickerel or shiner picks an insect from this smooth surface but it manifestly disturbs the equilibrium of the whole lake. It is wonderful with what elaborateness this simple fact is advertised,—this piscine murder will out,—and from my distant perch I distinguish the circling undulations when they are half a dozen rods in diameter. You can even detect a water-bug (Gyrinus) ceaselessly progressing over the smooth surface a quarter of a mile off; for they furrow the water slightly, making a conspicuous ripple bounded by two diverging lines, but the skaters glide over it without rippling it perceptibly. When the surface is considerably agitated there are no skaters nor water-bugs on it, but apparently, in calm days, they leave their havens and adventurously glide forth from the shore by short impulses till they completely cover it. It is a soothing employment, on one of those fine days in the fall when all the warmth of the sun is fully appreciated, to sit on a stump on such a height as this, overlooking the pond, and study the dimpling circles which are incessantly inscribed on its otherwise invisible surface amid the reflected skies and trees. Over this great expanse there is no disturbance but it is thus at once gently smoothed away and assuaged, as, when a vase of water is jarred, the trembling circles seek the shore and all is smooth again. Not a fish can leap or an insect fall on the pond but it is thus reported in circling dimples, in lines of beauty, as it were the constant welling up of its fountain, the gentle pulsing of its life, the heaving of its breast. The thrills of joy and thrills of pain are undistinguishable. How peaceful the phenomena of the lake! Again the works of man shine as in the spring. Ay, every leaf and twig and stone and cobweb sparkles now at mid-afternoon as when covered with dew in a spring morning. Every motion of an oar or an insect produces a flash of light; and if an oar falls, how sweet the echo!

Standing on the smooth, sandy beach at the pond’s east end, I have understood the expression “the glassy surface of a lake.” This was on a calm September afternoon, when a slight haze blurred the opposite shore. When you turn your head upside down, the surface looks like a thread of the finest spider silk. It stretches across the valley, gleaming against the distant pine woods and separating one layer of air from another. You would think you could walk beneath it to the opposite hills without getting wet. You might also think the swallows skimming above could perch on it. Indeed, the swallows sometimes dive below this line, as if by mistake, and discover their error. Looking west across the pond, you must use both hands to shield your eyes. You need protection from both the sun and its reflection, for both are equally bright. If you look closely at the surface between them, the water is literally as smooth as glass. Only a few things disturb it. Water striders, scattered at regular intervals across the entire pond, create the finest imaginable sparkle as they move in sunlight. Or perhaps a duck preens its feathers, or, as I have said, a swallow skims low enough to touch the water. Perhaps a distant fish leaps through an arc of three or four feet. One bright flash marks where the fish emerges, and another marks where it strikes the water. Sometimes the whole silvery arc appears. Or perhaps a bit of thistledown floats here and there on the surface. Fish dart at the fluff, dimpling the water again. The water resembles molten glass that has cooled but not hardened. Its few specks are pure and beautiful, like imperfections in glass. You can often spot a still smoother, darker patch of water. It seems separated from the rest by an invisible cobweb resting on the surface, a floating barrier of the water nymphs. From a hilltop, you can see a fish leap almost anywhere in the pond. For every pickerel or shiner that snatches an insect from the smooth surface visibly disturbs the balance of the whole lake. It is wonderful how elaborately this simple event announces itself. This fish’s murder cannot stay hidden. From my distant perch, I can make out the spreading circles when they are about thirty-three yards across. You can even detect a water beetle (Gyrinus) moving ceaselessly across the smooth surface a quarter of a mile away. These beetles cut a slight furrow through the water, making a noticeable ripple between two spreading lines. But water striders glide across without making any noticeable ripple. When the surface is quite rough, neither water striders nor water beetles appear on it. But apparently, on calm days, they leave their shelters and venture out from shore in short bursts. Eventually, they cover the entire pond. On those fine fall days when you fully appreciate all the sun’s warmth, sitting on a stump here is soothing. From this height, you can overlook the pond and study the circles constantly dimpling its surface. Among the reflected skies and trees, the surface itself is otherwise invisible. Across this great expanse, every disturbance is at once gently smoothed away and calmed. Just so, when a vase of water is jolted, trembling circles travel toward its edges, and everything becomes smooth again. Every leaping fish or falling insect announces itself in dimpling circles, in lines of beauty. These circles seem like the constant rising of the pond’s fountain, the gentle pulse of its life, its breathing chest. Shivers of joy and shivers of pain are indistinguishable. How peaceful the lake’s movements are! Once again, human works shine as they do in spring. Yes, every leaf, twig, stone, and cobweb sparkles now in midafternoon, just as when covered with dew on a spring morning. Every movement of an oar or an insect produces a flash of light. And if an oar drops, how sweet the echo!

In such a day, in September or October, Walden is a perfect forest mirror, set round with stones as precious to my eye as if fewer or rarer. Nothing so fair, so pure, and at the same time so large, as a lake, perchance, lies on the surface of the earth. Sky water. It needs no fence. Nations come and go without defiling it. It is a mirror which no stone can crack, whose quicksilver will never wear off, whose gilding Nature continually repairs; no storms, no dust, can dim its surface ever fresh;—a mirror in which all impurity presented to it sinks, swept and dusted by the sun’s hazy brush,—this the light dust-cloth,—which retains no breath that is breathed on it, but sends its own to float as clouds high above its surface, and be reflected in its bosom still.

On such a day in September or October, Walden is a perfect forest mirror, bordered by stones. To my eyes, these stones are as precious as if they were fewer or rarer. Perhaps nothing on the earth’s surface is as beautiful, as pure, and at the same time as large as a lake. Sky water. It needs no fence. Nations come and go without polluting it. The lake is a mirror that no stone can crack, whose silver backing will never wear away. Nature continually repairs its gilded frame. No storms or dust can dull its ever-fresh surface. In this mirror, every impurity brought to it sinks. The sun’s hazy brush sweeps and dusts the mirror, using light as a dusting cloth. The lake holds none of the breath breathed onto it. Instead, the lake sends its own breath floating as clouds high above its surface, still reflected in its depths.

A field of water betrays the spirit that is in the air. It is continually receiving new life and motion from above. It is intermediate in its nature between land and sky. On land only the grass and trees wave, but the water itself is rippled by the wind. I see where the breeze dashes across it by the streaks or flakes of light. It is remarkable that we can look down on its surface. We shall, perhaps, look down thus on the surface of air at length, and mark where a still subtler spirit sweeps over it.

A stretch of water reveals the spirit in the air. The water constantly receives new life and motion from above. Its nature lies somewhere between land and sky. On land, only the grass and trees sway, but the wind ripples the water itself. I see where the breeze sweeps across the water by the streaks or flecks of light. It is remarkable that we can look down on the water’s surface. Perhaps someday we will look down the same way on the surface of the air. Then we may see where an even subtler spirit sweeps over the air.

The skaters and water-bugs finally disappear in the latter part of October, when the severe frosts have come; and then and in November, usually, in a calm day, there is absolutely nothing to ripple the surface. One November afternoon, in the calm at the end of a rain storm of several days’ duration, when the sky was still completely overcast and the air was full of mist, I observed that the pond was remarkably smooth, so that it was difficult to distinguish its surface; though it no longer reflected the bright tints of October, but the sombre November colors of the surrounding hills. Though I passed over it as gently as possible, the slight undulations produced by my boat extended almost as far as I could see, and gave a ribbed appearance to the reflections. But, as I was looking over the surface, I saw here and there at a distance a faint glimmer, as if some skater insects which had escaped the frosts might be collected there, or, perchance, the surface, being so smooth, betrayed where a spring welled up from the bottom. Paddling gently to one of these places, I was surprised to find myself surrounded by myriads of small perch, about five inches long, of a rich bronze color in the green water, sporting there, and constantly rising to the surface and dimpling it, sometimes leaving bubbles on it. In such transparent and seemingly bottomless water, reflecting the clouds, I seemed to be floating through the air as in a balloon, and their swimming impressed me as a kind of flight or hovering, as if they were a compact flock of birds passing just beneath my level on the right or left, their fins, like sails, set all around them. There were many such schools in the pond, apparently improving the short season before winter would draw an icy shutter over their broad skylight, sometimes giving to the surface an appearance as if a slight breeze struck it, or a few rain-drops fell there. When I approached carelessly and alarmed them, they made a sudden splash and rippling with their tails, as if one had struck the water with a brushy bough, and instantly took refuge in the depths. At length the wind rose, the mist increased, and the waves began to run, and the perch leaped much higher than before, half out of water, a hundred black points, three inches long, at once above the surface. Even as late as the fifth of December, one year, I saw some dimples on the surface, and thinking it was going to rain hard immediately, the air being full of mist, I made haste to take my place at the oars and row homeward; already the rain seemed rapidly increasing, though I felt none on my cheek, and I anticipated a thorough soaking. But suddenly the dimples ceased, for they were produced by the perch, which the noise of my oars had seared into the depths, and I saw their schools dimly disappearing; so I spent a dry afternoon after all.

The water striders and water bugs finally disappear in late October, when the hard frosts arrive. Then, and usually in November, absolutely nothing ripples the surface on a calm day. One November afternoon, I observed the pond during the calm after several days of rain. The sky was still completely overcast, and the air was full of mist. The pond was so remarkably smooth that its surface was hard to make out. It no longer reflected October’s bright shades, but the somber November colors of the surrounding hills. Though I moved across the pond as gently as possible, my boat’s slight ripples spread almost as far as I could see. Those ripples gave the reflections a ribbed appearance. But as I looked across the surface, I noticed faint glimmers here and there in the distance. They looked as if some water striders that had survived the frosts might have gathered there. Or perhaps the surface was so smooth that it revealed where a spring rose from the bottom. I paddled gently toward one of these places and was surprised to find myself surrounded by countless small perch. They were about five inches long and a rich bronze color in the green water. The perch played there, constantly rising to the surface and making dimples, sometimes leaving bubbles behind. In water so clear and seemingly bottomless, reflecting the clouds, I felt as if I were floating through the air in a balloon. The fish seemed to fly or hover as they swam. They were like a tightly gathered flock of birds passing just below me on either side. Their fins were spread around them like sails. There were many such schools in the pond. They seemed to be making the most of the short season before winter closed an icy shutter over their broad skylight. Sometimes the fish made the surface look as if a light breeze had touched it or a few raindrops had fallen. When I approached carelessly and startled the perch, they suddenly splashed and stirred ripples with their tails. It was as if someone had struck the water with a leafy branch. The fish instantly took refuge in the depths. At last the wind rose, the mist thickened, and waves began to roll. The perch leaped much higher than before, halfway out of the water. A hundred black points, each three inches long, appeared above the surface at once. One year, even as late as December fifth, I saw some dimples on the surface. The air was full of mist, and I thought heavy rain was about to begin. So I hurried to take my place at the oars and row home. Already the rain seemed to be increasing rapidly, though I felt none on my cheek. I expected to get thoroughly soaked. But suddenly the dimples stopped, because the perch had made them. The noise of my oars had frightened the fish into the depths, and I faintly saw their schools disappearing. So I spent a dry afternoon after all.

An old man who used to frequent this pond nearly sixty years ago, when it was dark with surrounding forests, tells me that in those days he sometimes saw it all alive with ducks and other water fowl, and that there were many eagles about it. He came here a-fishing, and used an old log canoe which he found on the shore. It was made of two white-pine logs dug out and pinned together, and was cut off square at the ends. It was very clumsy, but lasted a great many years before it became water-logged and perhaps sank to the bottom. He did not know whose it was; it belonged to the pond. He used to make a cable for his anchor of strips of hickory bark tied together. An old man, a potter, who lived by the pond before the Revolution, told him once that there was an iron chest at the bottom, and that he had seen it. Sometimes it would come floating up to the shore; but when you went toward it, it would go back into deep water and disappear. I was pleased to hear of the old log canoe, which took the place of an Indian one of the same material but more graceful construction, which perchance had first been a tree on the bank, and then, as it were, fell into the water, to float there for a generation, the most proper vessel for the lake. I remember that when I first looked into these depths there were many large trunks to be seen indistinctly lying on the bottom, which had either been blown over formerly, or left on the ice at the last cutting, when wood was cheaper; but now they have mostly disappeared.

An old man used to visit this pond nearly sixty years ago, when the surrounding forests kept it dark. He tells me that back then he sometimes saw the whole pond alive with ducks and other waterbirds. There were also many eagles around the pond. He came here to fish and used an old log canoe he found on the shore. The canoe was made from two hollowed-out white pine logs pinned together, with the ends cut square. It was very awkward to handle, but lasted many years before becoming waterlogged and perhaps sinking to the bottom. He did not know who owned the canoe. It belonged to the pond. He used to make a rope for his anchor by tying strips of hickory bark together. An old potter who lived beside the pond before the Revolution once told him about an iron chest. The potter said the chest was on the bottom and that he had seen it. Sometimes the chest would float up to the shore. But when you approached, it would move back into deep water and disappear. I was pleased to hear about the old log canoe. It had replaced a Native American canoe made of the same material but more gracefully built. Perhaps that earlier canoe had first been a tree on the bank. Then, as if it had simply fallen into the water, the canoe floated there for a generation. It was the most fitting vessel for the lake. I remember seeing many large tree trunks faintly on the bottom when I first looked into these depths. The trunks had either blown down long before or been left on the ice during the last logging, when wood was cheaper. But now most of those trunks have disappeared.

When I first paddled a boat on Walden, it was completely surrounded by thick and lofty pine and oak woods, and in some of its coves grape vines had run over the trees next the water and formed bowers under which a boat could pass. The hills which form its shores are so steep, and the woods on them were then so high, that, as you looked down from the west end, it had the appearance of an amphitheatre for some kind of sylvan spectacle. I have spent many an hour, when I was younger, floating over its surface as the zephyr willed, having paddled my boat to the middle, and lying on my back across the seats, in a summer forenoon, dreaming awake, until I was aroused by the boat touching the sand, and I arose to see what shore my fates had impelled me to; days when idleness was the most attractive and productive industry. Many a forenoon have I stolen away, preferring to spend thus the most valued part of the day; for I was rich, if not in money, in sunny hours and summer days, and spent them lavishly; nor do I regret that I did not waste more of them in the workshop or the teacher’s desk. But since I left those shores the woodchoppers have still further laid them waste, and now for many a year there will be no more rambling through the aisles of the wood, with occasional vistas through which you see the water. My Muse may be excused if she is silent henceforth. How can you expect the birds to sing when their groves are cut down?

When I first paddled a boat on Walden, thick woods of tall pines and oaks completely surrounded the pond. In some coves, grapevines had spread over the trees beside the water, forming leafy shelters a boat could pass beneath. The hills along the shore are so steep, and the woods then were so tall, that they suggested an amphitheater. Looking down from the west end, you could imagine some woodland spectacle taking place there. When I was younger, I spent many hours floating on the pond, wherever the gentle breeze carried me. On summer mornings, I would paddle to the middle and lie on my back across the seats, dreaming while awake. I stayed there until the boat touched the sand and woke me from my daydreams. Then I got up to see which shore fate had carried me to. Those were days when doing nothing was the most appealing and productive kind of work. Many mornings I slipped away, choosing to spend the most precious part of the day this way. For I was rich, if not in money, then in sunny hours and summer days, and I spent them freely. Nor do I regret not wasting more of those hours in a workshop or at a teacher’s desk. But since I left those shores, woodcutters have done still more damage. For many years to come, no one will wander those woodland aisles, catching occasional views of the water through openings. My Muse may be forgiven if she falls silent from now on. How can you expect birds to sing when their groves are cut down?

Now the trunks of trees on the bottom, and the old log canoe, and the dark surrounding woods, are gone, and the villagers, who scarcely know where it lies, instead of going to the pond to bathe or drink, are thinking to bring its water, which should be as sacred as the Ganges at least, to the village in a pipe, to wash their dishes with!—to earn their Walden by the turning of a cock or drawing of a plug! That devilish Iron Horse, whose ear-rending neigh is heard throughout the town, has muddied the Boiling Spring with his foot, and he it is that has browsed off all the woods on Walden shore, that Trojan horse, with a thousand men in his belly, introduced by mercenary Greeks! Where is the country’s champion, the Moore of Moore Hill, to meet him at the Deep Cut and thrust an avenging lance between the ribs of the bloated pest?

Now the tree trunks on the bottom, the old log canoe, and the dark surrounding woods are gone. And the villagers scarcely know where the pond lies. Instead of going to the pond to bathe or drink, they are thinking of piping its water into the village. That water should be at least as sacred as the Ganges, yet they would use it to wash their dishes! They would get their Walden by turning a faucet or pulling a plug! That devilish Iron Horse, whose ear-splitting neigh is heard throughout the town, has muddied the Boiling Spring with his foot. And he has grazed away all the woods along Walden’s shore. He is that Trojan horse, with a thousand men in his belly, brought in by Greeks motivated by money! Where is the country’s champion, the Moore of Moore Hill? Where is he to meet the Iron Horse at the Deep Cut? Where is he to drive an avenging lance between the ribs of the bloated pest?

Nevertheless, of all the characters I have known, perhaps Walden wears best, and best preserves its purity. Many men have been likened to it, but few deserve that honor. Though the woodchoppers have laid bare first this shore and then that, and the Irish have built their sties by it, and the railroad has infringed on its border, and the ice-men have skimmed it once, it is itself unchanged, the same water which my youthful eyes fell on; all the change is in me. It has not acquired one permanent wrinkle after all its ripples. It is perennially young, and I may stand and see a swallow dip apparently to pick an insect from its surface as of yore. It struck me again tonight, as if I had not seen it almost daily for more than twenty years,—Why, here is Walden, the same woodland lake that I discovered so many years ago; where a forest was cut down last winter another is springing up by its shore as lustily as ever; the same thought is welling up to its surface that was then; it is the same liquid joy and happiness to itself and its Maker, ay, and it may be to me. It is the work of a brave man surely, in whom there was no guile! He rounded this water with his hand, deepened and clarified it in his thought, and in his will bequeathed it to Concord. I see by its face that it is visited by the same reflection; and I can almost say, Walden, is it you?

Still, of all the characters I have known, perhaps Walden has aged best and best preserved its purity. Many men have been compared to Walden, but few deserve that honor. Woodcutters have stripped first one shore and then another, and the Irish have built their pigsties beside the pond. The railroad has pushed into its borders, and ice harvesters have scraped its surface once. Yet Walden itself remains unchanged, the same water I saw in my youth. All the change is in me. Despite all its ripples, the pond has not gained a single permanent wrinkle. Walden is forever young. I can still stand and watch a swallow dip toward its surface, apparently picking up an insect, just as before. Tonight the thought struck me again, as if I had not seen Walden almost daily for more than twenty years. Why, here is Walden, the same woodland lake I discovered so many years ago. Where a forest was cut down last winter, another is growing beside the shore as vigorously as ever. The same thought is rising to the pond’s surface as it did then. Walden is the same liquid joy and happiness to itself and its Maker. Yes, and it may be to me. Surely Walden is the work of a brave man without deceit! He shaped this water with his hand, deepened and cleared it in his thought, and left it to Concord in his will. I can see by Walden’s face that the same reflection still visits it. And I can almost say, Walden, is it you?

The cars never pause to look at it; yet I fancy that the engineers and firemen and brakemen, and those passengers who have a season ticket and see it often, are better men for the sight. The engineer does not forget at night, or his nature does not, that he has beheld this vision of serenity and purity once at least during the day. Though seen but once, it helps to wash out State-street and the engine’s soot. One proposes that it be called “God’s Drop.”

The trains never stop to look at it. Yet I imagine the engineers, firemen, and brakemen are better men for seeing it. So are the passengers with season tickets who see it often. At night, the engineer does not forget seeing this vision of peace and purity at least once that day. Or at least his nature does not forget. Even seeing it once helps wash away State-street and the engine’s soot. Someone suggests calling it “God’s Drop.”

I have said that Walden has no visible inlet nor outlet, but it is on the one hand distantly and indirectly related to Flint’s Pond, which is more elevated, by a chain of small ponds coming from that quarter, and on the other directly and manifestly to Concord River, which is lower, by a similar chain of ponds through which in some other geological period it may have flowed, and by a little digging, which God forbid, it can be made to flow thither again. If by living thus reserved and austere, like a hermit in the woods, so long, it has acquired such wonderful purity, who would not regret that the comparatively impure waters of Flint’s Pond should be mingled with it, or itself should ever go to waste its sweetness in the ocean wave?

I have said that Walden has no visible inlet or outlet. But on one side, a chain of small ponds connects Walden distantly and indirectly to the higher Flint’s Pond. On the other side, a similar chain of ponds connects Walden directly and clearly to the lower Concord River. Walden may have flowed through these ponds to the river in some earlier geological period. With a little digging, Walden could be made to flow there again. God forbid that should happen. Perhaps Walden has gained its wonderful purity by living so long in seclusion and simplicity, like a hermit in the woods. If so, who would not regret seeing the comparatively impure waters of Flint’s Pond mixed with Walden’s? Or seeing Walden’s own waters flow away to waste their sweetness in the ocean waves?

Flint’s, or Sandy Pond, in Lincoln, our greatest lake and inland sea, lies about a mile east of Walden. It is much larger, being said to contain one hundred and ninety-seven acres, and is more fertile in fish; but it is comparatively shallow, and not remarkably pure. A walk through the woods thither was often my recreation. It was worth the while, if only to feel the wind blow on your cheek freely, and see the waves run, and remember the life of mariners. I went a-chestnutting there in the fall, on windy days, when the nuts were dropping into the water and were washed to my feet; and one day, as I crept along its sedgy shore, the fresh spray blowing in my face, I came upon the mouldering wreck of a boat, the sides gone, and hardly more than the impression of its flat bottom left amid the rushes; yet its model was sharply defined, as if it were a large decayed pad, with its veins. It was as impressive a wreck as one could imagine on the sea-shore, and had as good a moral. It is by this time mere vegetable mould and undistinguishable pond shore, through which rushes and flags have pushed up. I used to admire the ripple marks on the sandy bottom, at the north end of this pond, made firm and hard to the feet of the wader by the pressure of the water, and the rushes which grew in Indian file, in waving lines, corresponding to these marks, rank behind rank, as if the waves had planted them. There also I have found, in considerable quantities, curious balls, composed apparently of fine grass or roots, of pipewort perhaps, from half an inch to four inches in diameter, and perfectly spherical. These wash back and forth in shallow water on a sandy bottom, and are sometimes cast on the shore. They are either solid grass, or have a little sand in the middle. At first you would say that they were formed by the action of the waves, like a pebble; yet the smallest are made of equally coarse materials, half an inch long, and they are produced only at one season of the year. Moreover, the waves, I suspect, do not so much construct as wear down a material which has already acquired consistency. They preserve their form when dry for an indefinite period.

Flint’s, or Sandy Pond, in Lincoln, our greatest lake and inland sea, lies about a mile east of Walden. The pond is much larger than Walden, reportedly covering one hundred and ninety-seven acres, and has more fish. But it is comparatively shallow, and its water is not especially pure. A walk through the woods to the pond was often my recreation. The walk was worthwhile just to feel the wind blow freely on your cheek and watch the waves roll. You could think of the lives of sailors. I went there to gather chestnuts on windy fall days. The nuts dropped into the water and washed up at my feet. One day I crept along the shore among the sedges, with fresh spray blowing in my face. I came upon the rotting wreck of a boat. Its sides were gone, and hardly more than the imprint of its flat bottom remained among the rushes. Yet the boat’s outline was sharply defined, like a large, decaying lily pad with its veins. The wreck was as impressive as any one could imagine on the seashore, and offered as good a moral lesson. By now, the boat has become mere decayed plant matter, indistinguishable from the pond’s shore. Rushes and irises have pushed up through its remains. I used to admire the ripple marks on the sandy bottom at the pond’s north end. Water pressure made the rippled sand firm and hard beneath a wader’s feet. Rushes grew in single file, in wavy lines matching the ripple marks. Row stood behind row, as if the waves had planted them. There I also found large quantities of curious balls, apparently made of fine grass or roots, perhaps from pipewort. The balls were perfectly round and ranged from half an inch to four inches across. They wash back and forth in shallow water over a sandy bottom and are sometimes tossed onto the shore. The balls are either grass all the way through or have a little sand at the center. At first, you would say the waves had shaped them, like pebbles. Yet the smallest balls contain equally coarse material, half an inch long, and form only during one season each year. Moreover, I suspect the waves wear down material that has already become firm, rather than build the balls. Once dry, the balls keep their shape indefinitely.

Flint’s Pond! Such is the poverty of our nomenclature. What right had the unclean and stupid farmer, whose farm abutted on this sky water, whose shores he has ruthlessly laid bare, to give his name to it? Some skin-flint, who loved better the reflecting surface of a dollar, or a bright cent, in which he could see his own brazen face; who regarded even the wild ducks which settled in it as trespassers; his fingers grown into crooked and horny talons from the long habit of grasping harpy-like;—so it is not named for me. I go not there to see him nor to hear of him; who never saw it, who never bathed in it, who never loved it, who never protected it, who never spoke a good word for it, nor thanked God that he had made it. Rather let it be named from the fishes that swim in it, the wild fowl or quadrupeds which frequent it, the wild flowers which grow by its shores, or some wild man or child the thread of whose history is interwoven with its own; not from him who could show no title to it but the deed which a like-minded neighbor or legislature gave him,—him who thought only of its money value; whose presence perchance cursed all the shore; who exhausted the land around it, and would fain have exhausted the waters within it; who regretted only that it was not English hay or cranberry meadow,—there was nothing to redeem it, forsooth, in his eyes,—and would have drained and sold it for the mud at its bottom. It did not turn his mill, and it was no privilege to him to behold it. I respect not his labors, his farm where every thing has its price; who would carry the landscape, who would carry his God, to market, if he could get any thing for him; who goes to market for his god as it is; on whose farm nothing grows free, whose fields bear no crops, whose meadows no flowers, whose trees no fruits, but dollars; who loves not the beauty of his fruits, whose fruits are not ripe for him till they are turned to dollars. Give me the poverty that enjoys true wealth. Farmers are respectable and interesting to me in proportion as they are poor,—poor farmers. A model farm! where the house stands like a fungus in a muck-heap, chambers for men, horses, oxen, and swine, cleansed and uncleansed, all contiguous to one another! Stocked with men! A great grease-spot, redolent of manures and buttermilk! Under a high state of cultivation, being manured with the hearts and brains of men! As if you were to raise your potatoes in the church-yard! Such is a model farm.

Flint’s Pond! How poor our names are. What right did that filthy, stupid farmer have to give the pond his name? His farm bordered this water reflecting the sky, and he ruthlessly stripped its shores bare. Some skinflint who preferred the gleaming surface of a dollar or a bright cent, where he could see his own shameless face! He even considered the wild ducks that landed on the pond trespassers. His fingers had grown into crooked, hardened claws from his long habit of grasping like a harpy. So that is not what I call the pond. I do not go there to see him or hear about him. He never saw the pond, never bathed in it, never loved it, never protected it. He never spoke a good word for the pond or thanked God for making it. Instead, name the pond after the fish that swim in it, or the wild birds or four-legged animals that visit. Name it after the wildflowers along its shores. Or name it after some wild man or child whose story is woven into the pond’s own history. Do not name it after a man whose only claim was a deed from a like-minded neighbor or legislature. He thought only of the pond’s cash value. Perhaps his presence cursed the entire shore. He exhausted the surrounding land and would gladly have exhausted the pond’s waters too. His only regret was that the pond was not a field of English hay or a cranberry meadow. Apparently, the pond had nothing else to recommend it in his eyes! He would have drained it and sold it for the mud at the bottom. The pond did not power his mill, and seeing it was no privilege to him. I have no respect for his work or his farm, where everything has a price. He would take the landscape to market, and even his God, if he could get anything for him. As things stand, he goes to market for his god. Nothing grows freely on his farm. His fields produce no crops, his meadows no flowers, and his trees no fruit, only dollars. He does not love the beauty of his fruit. For him, his fruit is not ripe until it has been turned into dollars. Give me the poverty that enjoys true wealth. Farmers earn my respect and interest in proportion to their poverty. Poor farmers! A model farm! The house stands like a fungus on a manure heap. Rooms for people, horses, oxen, and pigs, washed and unwashed, all stand next to one another! Stocked with people! A great grease spot, reeking of manure and buttermilk! Highly cultivated, with human hearts and brains for fertilizer! As if you were growing your potatoes in a graveyard! Such is a model farm.

No, no; if the fairest features of the landscape are to be named after men, let them be the noblest and worthiest men alone. Let our lakes receive as true names at least as the Icarian Sea, where “still the shore” a “brave attempt resounds.”

No, no. If the landscape’s most beautiful features are named after men, let them honor only the noblest and worthiest men. Let our lakes have names at least as fitting as the Icarian Sea. There, “still the shore” echoes with the sound of a “brave attempt.”

Goose Pond, of small extent, is on my way to Flint’s; Fair-Haven, an expansion of Concord River, said to contain some seventy acres, is a mile south-west; and White Pond, of about forty acres, is a mile and a half beyond Fair-Haven. This is my lake country. These, with Concord River, are my water privileges; and night and day, year in year out, they grind such grist as I carry to them.

The small Goose Pond is on my way to Flint’s. Fair-Haven, a widening of Concord River, is said to cover some seventy acres. It lies a mile southwest. White Pond covers about forty acres and lies a mile and a half beyond Fair-Haven. This is my lake country. These ponds, along with Concord River, are the waters that power my mills. Night and day, year after year, they grind whatever grain I bring them.

Since the woodcutters, and the railroad, and I myself have profaned Walden, perhaps the most attractive, if not the most beautiful, of all our lakes, the gem of the woods, is White Pond;—a poor name from its commonness, whether derived from the remarkable purity of its waters or the color of its sands. In these as in other respects, however, it is a lesser twin of Walden. They are so much alike that you would say they must be connected under ground. It has the same stony shore, and its waters are of the same hue. As at Walden, in sultry dog-day weather, looking down through the woods on some of its bays which are not so deep but that the reflection from the bottom tinges them, its waters are of a misty bluish-green or glaucous color. Many years since I used to go there to collect the sand by cart-loads, to make sand-paper with, and I have continued to visit it ever since. One who frequents it proposes to call it Virid Lake. Perhaps it might be called Yellow-Pine Lake, from the following circumstance. About fifteen years ago you could see the top of a pitch-pine, of the kind called yellow-pine hereabouts, though it is not a distinct species, projecting above the surface in deep water, many rods from the shore. It was even supposed by some that the pond had sunk, and this was one of the primitive forest that formerly stood there. I find that even so long ago as 1792, in a “Topographical Description of the Town of Concord,” by one of its citizens, in the Collections of the Massachusetts Historical Society, the author, after speaking of Walden and White Ponds, adds: “In the middle of the latter may be seen, when the water is very low, a tree which appears as if it grew in the place where it now stands, although the roots are fifty feet below the surface of the water; the top of this tree is broken off, and at that place measures fourteen inches in diameter.” In the spring of ’49 I talked with the man who lives nearest the pond in Sudbury, who told me that it was he who got out this tree ten or fifteen years before. As near as he could remember, it stood twelve or fifteen rods from the shore, where the water was thirty or forty feet deep. It was in the winter, and he had been getting out ice in the forenoon, and had resolved that in the afternoon, with the aid of his neighbors, he would take out the old yellow-pine. He sawed a channel in the ice toward the shore, and hauled it over and along and out on to the ice with oxen; but, before he had gone far in his work, he was surprised to find that it was wrong end upward, with the stumps of the branches pointing down, and the small end firmly fastened in the sandy bottom. It was about a foot in diameter at the big end, and he had expected to get a good saw-log, but it was so rotten as to be fit only for fuel, if for that. He had some of it in his shed then. There were marks of an axe and of woodpeckers on the butt. He thought that it might have been a dead tree on the shore, but was finally blown over into the pond, and after the top had become waterlogged, while the butt-end was still dry and light, had drifted out and sunk wrong end up. His father, eighty years old, could not remember when it was not there. Several pretty large logs may still be seen lying on the bottom, where, owing to the undulation of the surface, they look like huge water snakes in motion.

The woodcutters, the railroad, and I myself have spoiled Walden’s sacred beauty. Since then, White Pond is perhaps the most attractive, if not the most beautiful, of all our lakes. It is the gem of the woods. Its name is disappointingly common, whether it comes from the remarkable purity of its waters or the color of its sands. In these and other ways, however, White Pond is a smaller twin of Walden. The two ponds are so much alike that you would think they must be connected underground. White Pond has the same stony shore, and its waters have the same color. As at Walden, during the sultry heat of late summer, you can look down through the woods at its bays. Some bays are shallow enough for reflected light from the bottom to tint the water a misty bluish-green. Many years ago, I used to collect cartloads of sand there to make sandpaper. I have continued to visit ever since. One regular visitor proposes calling it Virid Lake. Perhaps it might be called Yellow-Pine Lake, for the following reason. About fifteen years ago, you could see the top of a pitch-pine sticking above the surface in deep water. The tree stood many rods from shore. Hereabouts, this kind of pitch-pine is called yellow-pine, though it is not a separate species. Some people even supposed that the pond’s bed had sunk. They thought the tree belonged to the ancient forest that had once stood there. I find a reference to the tree as far back as 1792. It appears in a “Topographical Description of the Town of Concord,” written by a citizen of the town. The account was published in the Collections of the Massachusetts Historical Society. After discussing Walden and White Ponds, the author adds: “When the water is very low, a tree can be seen in the middle of White Pond. It looks as if it grew where it now stands, although its roots are fifty feet below the water’s surface. The top of the tree is broken off, and the trunk measures fourteen inches across at the break.” In the spring of 1849, I spoke with the man who lives nearest the pond in Sudbury. He told me he had pulled out the tree ten or fifteen years earlier. As nearly as he could remember, the tree stood twelve or fifteen rods from shore. The water there was thirty or forty feet deep. It was winter, and he had spent the morning harvesting ice. He decided that, with his neighbors’ help, he would pull out the old yellow-pine that afternoon. He sawed a channel through the ice toward shore. Then, using oxen, he pulled the tree over, along the channel, and out onto the ice. But early in the work, he was surprised to discover that the tree was upside down. The broken branches pointed downward, and the narrow end was firmly stuck in the sandy bottom. The thick end was about a foot across, and he had expected to get a good log for sawing. But the wood was so rotten that it was fit only for fuel, if even that. He still had some of the wood in his shed when we spoke. The butt of the trunk bore marks made by an axe and by woodpeckers. He thought the tree might have stood dead on shore before finally being blown into the pond. Its top then became waterlogged while the butt remained dry and light. In his account, the tree had drifted out and sunk upside down. His father, who was eighty years old, could not remember a time when the tree was not there. Several fairly large logs can still be seen lying on the bottom. Ripples on the surface make the logs look like huge water snakes in motion.

This pond has rarely been profaned by a boat, for there is little in it to tempt a fisherman. Instead of the white lily, which requires mud, or the common sweet flag, the blue flag (Iris versicolor) grows thinly in the pure water, rising from the stony bottom all around the shore, where it is visited by humming birds in June; and the color both of its bluish blades and its flowers, and especially their reflections, are in singular harmony with the glaucous water.

Boats have rarely disturbed this pond, because there is little in the water to attract a fisherman. Instead of the white lily, which needs mud, or the common sweet flag, blue flag (Iris versicolor) grows sparsely in the clear water. It rises from the stony bottom all around the shore, where hummingbirds visit the plants in June. The bluish leaves and flowers, and especially their reflections, blend in striking harmony with the blue-green water.

White Pond and Walden are great crystals on the surface of the earth, Lakes of Light. If they were permanently congealed, and small enough to be clutched, they would, perchance, be carried off by slaves, like precious stones, to adorn the heads of emperors; but being liquid, and ample, and secured to us and our successors forever, we disregard them, and run after the diamond of Kohinoor. They are too pure to have a market value; they contain no muck. How much more beautiful than our lives, how much more transparent than our characters, are they! We never learned meanness of them. How much fairer than the pool before the farmer’s door, in which his ducks swim! Hither the clean wild ducks come. Nature has no human inhabitant who appreciates her. The birds with their plumage and their notes are in harmony with the flowers, but what youth or maiden conspires with the wild luxuriant beauty of Nature? She flourishes most alone, far from the towns where they reside. Talk of heaven! ye disgrace earth.

White Pond and Walden are great crystals on the earth’s surface, Lakes of Light. If permanently frozen and small enough to hold, perhaps they would be carried off by slaves like precious stones. They would adorn emperors’ heads. But these lakes are liquid, vast, and secured forever for us and future generations. So we disregard them and chase after the diamond of Kohinoor. They are too pure to have a market value. They contain no muck. How much more beautiful these lakes are than our lives, how much clearer than our characters! We never learned pettiness from them. How much lovelier they are than the pool outside the farmer’s door, where his ducks swim! Clean wild ducks come here. Nature has no human inhabitant who appreciates her. The birds, with their feathers and songs, are in harmony with the flowers. But what young man or woman joins in Nature’s wild, abundant beauty? She flourishes most when alone, far from the towns where those young people live. You talk of heaven! You disgrace earth.