{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/wikisource_Walden_1893_Thoreau_Chapter_IX/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/wikisource_Walden_1893_Thoreau_Chapter_IX","id":"wikisource_Walden_1893_Thoreau_Chapter_IX","license":"Public Domain / CC-BY-SA (see source)","rights_basis":"wikisource_site_inclusion_policy","source":"wikisource","source_url":"https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Walden_(1893)_Thoreau/Chapter_IX","summary":null,"tags":["Subpages"],"text":"Sometimes, having had a surfeit of human society and gossip, and\nworn out all my village friends, I rambled still farther westward\nthan I habitually dwell, into yet more unfrequented parts of the\ntown, \"to fresh woods and pastures new,\" or, while the sun was\nsetting, made my supper of huckleberries and blueberries on Fair\nHaven Hill, and laid up a store for several days. The fruits do not\nyield their true flavor to the purchaser of them, nor to him who\nraises them for the market. There is but one way to obtain it, yet\nfew take that way. If you would know the flavor of huckleberries,\nask the cowboy or the partridge. It is a vulgar error to suppose\nthat you have tasted huckleberries who never plucked them. A\nhuckleberry never reaches Boston; they have not been known there\nsince they grew on her three hills. The ambrosial and essential\npart of the fruit is lost with the bloom which is rubbed off in the\nmarket cart, and they become mere provender. As long as Eternal\nJustice reigns, not one innocent huckleberry can be transported\nthither from the country's hills.\n\nOccasionally, after my hoeing was done for the day, I joined\nsome impatient companion who had been fishing on the pond since\nmorning, as silent and motionless as a duck or a floating leaf, and,\nafter practising various kinds of philosophy, had concluded\ncommonly, by the time I arrived, that he belonged to the ancient\nsect of Coenobites. There was one older man, an excellent fisher\nand skilled in all kinds of woodcraft, who was pleased to look upon\nmy house as a building erected for the convenience of fishermen; and\nI was equally pleased when he sat in my doorway to arrange his\nlines. Once in a while we sat together on the pond, he at one end\nof the boat, and I at the other; but not many words passed between\nus, for he had grown deaf in his later years, but he occasionally\nhummed a psalm, which harmonized well enough with my philosophy.\nOur intercourse was thus altogether one of unbroken harmony, far\nmore pleasing to remember than if it had been carried on by speech.\nWhen, as was commonly the case, I had none to commune with, I used\nto raise the echoes by striking with a paddle on the side of my\nboat, filling the surrounding woods with circling and dilating\nsound, stirring them up as the keeper of a menagerie his wild\nbeasts, until I elicited a growl from every wooded vale and\nhillside.\n\nIn warm evenings I frequently sat in the boat playing the flute,\nand saw the perch, which I seem to have charmed, hovering around me,\nand the moon travelling over the ribbed bottom, which was strewed\nwith the wrecks of the forest. Formerly I had come to this pond\nadventurously, from time to time, in dark summer nights, with a\ncompanion, and, making a fire close to the water's edge, which we\nthought attracted the fishes, we caught pouts with a bunch of worms\nstrung on a thread, and when we had done, far in the night, threw\nthe burning brands high into the air like skyrockets, which, coming\ndown into the pond, were quenched with a loud hissing, and we were\nsuddenly groping in total darkness. Through this, whistling a tune,\nwe took our way to the haunts of men again. But now I had made my\nhome by the shore.\n\nSometimes, after staying in a village parlor till the family had\nall retired, I have returned to the woods, and, partly with a view\nto the next day's dinner, spent the hours of midnight fishing from a\nboat by moonlight, serenaded by owls and foxes, and hearing, from\ntime to time, the creaking note of some unknown bird close at hand.\nThese experiences were very memorable and valuable to me -- anchored\nin forty feet of water, and twenty or thirty rods from the shore,\nsurrounded sometimes by thousands of small perch and shiners,\ndimpling the surface with their tails in the moonlight, and\ncommunicating by a long flaxen line with mysterious nocturnal fishes\nwhich had their dwelling forty feet below, or sometimes dragging\nsixty feet of line about the pond as I drifted in the gentle night\nbreeze, now and then feeling a slight vibration along it, indicative\nof some life prowling about its extremity, of dull uncertain\nblundering purpose there, and slow to make up its mind. At length\nyou slowly raise, pulling hand over hand, some horned pout squeaking\nand squirming to the upper air. It was very queer, especially in\ndark nights, when your thoughts had wandered to vast and cosmogonal\nthemes in other spheres, to feel this faint jerk, which came to\ninterrupt your dreams and link you to Nature again. It seemed as if\nI might next cast my line upward into the air, as well as downward\ninto this element, which was scarcely more dense. Thus I caught two\nfishes as it were with one hook.\n\nThe scenery of Walden is on a humble scale, and, though very\nbeautiful, does not approach to grandeur, nor can it much concern\none who has not long frequented it or lived by its shore; yet this\npond is so remarkable for its depth and purity as to merit a\nparticular description. It is a clear and deep green well, half a\nmile long and a mile and three quarters in circumference, and\ncontains about sixty-one and a half acres; a perennial spring in the\nmidst of pine and oak woods, without any visible inlet or outlet\nexcept by the clouds and evaporation. The surrounding hills rise\nabruptly from the water to the height of forty to eighty feet,\nthough on the southeast and east they attain to about one hundred\nand one hundred and fifty feet respectively, within a quarter and a\nthird of a mile. They are exclusively woodland. All our Concord\nwaters have two colors at least; one when viewed at a distance, and\nanother, more proper, close at hand. The first depends more on the\nlight, and follows the sky. In clear weather, in summer, they\nappear blue at a little distance, especially if agitated, and at a\ngreat distance all appear alike. In stormy weather they are\nsometimes of a dark slate-color. The sea, however, is said to be\nblue one day and green another without any perceptible change in the\natmosphere. I have seen our river, when, the landscape being\ncovered with snow, both water and ice were almost as green as grass.\nSome consider blue \"to be the color of pure water, whether liquid or\nsolid.\" But, looking directly down into our waters from a boat,\nthey are seen to be of very different colors. Walden is blue at one\ntime and green at another, even from the same point of view. Lying\nbetween the earth and the heavens, it partakes of the color of both.\nViewed from a hilltop it reflects the color of the sky; but near at\nhand it is of a yellowish tint next the shore where you can see the\nsand, then a light green, which gradually deepens to a uniform dark\ngreen in the body of the pond. In some lights, viewed even from a\nhilltop, it is of a vivid green next the shore. Some have referred\nthis to the reflection of the verdure; but it is equally green there\nagainst the railroad sandbank, and in the spring, before the leaves\nare expanded, and it may be simply the result of the prevailing blue\nmixed with the yellow of the sand. Such is the color of its iris.\nThis is that portion, also, where in the spring, the ice being\nwarmed by the heat of the sun reflected from the bottom, and also\ntransmitted through the earth, melts first and forms a narrow canal\nabout the still frozen middle. Like the rest of our waters, when\nmuch agitated, in clear weather, so that the surface of the waves\nmay reflect the sky at the right angle, or because there is more\nlight mixed with it, it appears at a little distance of a darker\nblue than the sky itself; and at such a time, being on its surface,\nand looking with divided vision, so as to see the reflection, I have\ndiscerned a matchless and indescribable light blue, such as watered\nor changeable silks and sword blades suggest, more cerulean than the\nsky itself, alternating with the original dark green on the opposite\nsides of the waves, which last appeared but muddy in comparison. It\nis a vitreous greenish blue, as I remember it, like those patches of\nthe winter sky seen through cloud vistas in the west before sundown.\nYet a single glass of its water held up to the light is as colorless\nas an equal quantity of air. It is well known that a large plate of\nglass will have a green tint, owing, as the makers say, to its\n\"body,\" but a small piece of the same will be colorless. How large\na body of Walden water would be required to reflect a green tint I\nhave never proved. The water of our river is black or a very dark\nbrown to one looking directly down on it, and, like that of most\nponds, imparts to the body of one bathing in it a yellowish tinge;\nbut this water is of such crystalline purity that the body of the\nbather appears of an alabaster whiteness, still more unnatural,\nwhich, as the limbs are magnified and distorted withal, produces a\nmonstrous effect, making fit studies for a Michael Angelo.\n\nThe water is so transparent that the bottom can easily be\ndiscerned at the depth of twenty-five or thirty feet. Paddling over\nit, you may see, many feet beneath the surface, the schools of perch\nand shiners, perhaps only an inch long, yet the former easily\ndistinguished by their transverse bars, and you think that they must\nbe ascetic fish that find a subsistence there. Once, in the winter,\nmany years ago, when I had been cutting holes through the ice in\norder to catch pickerel, as I stepped ashore I tossed my axe back on\nto the ice, but, as if some evil genius had directed it, it slid\nfour or five rods directly into one of the holes, where the water\nwas twenty-five feet deep. Out of curiosity, I lay down on the ice\nand looked through the hole, until I saw the axe a little on one\nside, standing on its head, with its helve erect and gently swaying\nto and fro with the pulse of the pond; and there it might have stood\nerect and swaying till in the course of time the handle rotted off,\nif I had not disturbed it. Making another hole directly over it\nwith an ice chisel which I had, and cutting down the longest birch\nwhich I could find in the neighborhood with my knife, I made a\nslip-noose, which I attached to its end, and, letting it down\ncarefully, passed it over the knob of the handle, and drew it by a\nline along the birch, and so pulled the axe out again.\n\nThe shore is composed of a belt of smooth rounded white stones\nlike paving-stones, excepting one or two short sand beaches, and is\nso steep that in many places a single leap will carry you into water\nover your head; and were it not for its remarkable transparency,\nthat would be the last to be seen of its bottom till it rose on the\nopposite side. Some think it is bottomless. It is nowhere muddy,\nand a casual observer would say that there were no weeds at all in\nit; and of noticeable plants, except in the little meadows recently\noverflowed, which do not properly belong to it, a closer scrutiny\ndoes not detect a flag nor a bulrush, nor even a lily, yellow or\nwhite, but only a few small heart-leaves and potamogetons, and\nperhaps a water-target or two; all which however a bather might not\nperceive; and these plants are clean and bright like the element\nthey grow in. The stones extend a rod or two into the water, and\nthen the bottom is pure sand, except in the deepest parts, where\nthere is usually a little sediment, probably from the decay of the\nleaves which have been wafted on to it so many successive falls, and\na bright green weed is brought up on anchors even in midwinter.\n\nWe have one other pond just like this, White Pond, in Nine Acre\nCorner, about two and a half miles westerly; but, though I am\nacquainted with most of the ponds within a dozen miles of this\ncentre I do not know a third of this pure and well-like character.\nSuccessive nations perchance have drank at, admired, and fathomed\nit, and passed away, and still its water is green and pellucid as\never. Not an intermitting spring! Perhaps on that spring morning\nwhen Adam and Eve were driven out of Eden Walden Pond was already in\nexistence, and even then breaking up in a gentle spring rain\naccompanied with mist and a southerly wind, and covered with myriads\nof ducks and geese, which had not heard of the fall, when still such\npure lakes sufficed them. Even then it had commenced to rise and\nfall, and had clarified its waters and colored them of the hue they\nnow wear, and obtained a patent of Heaven to be the only Walden Pond\nin the world and distiller of celestial dews. Who knows in how many\nunremembered nations' literatures this has been the Castalian\nFountain? or what nymphs presided over it in the Golden Age? It is\na gem of the first water which Concord wears in her coronet.\n\nYet perchance the first who came to this well have left some\ntrace of their footsteps. I have been surprised to detect\nencircling the pond, even where a thick wood has just been cut down\non the shore, a narrow shelf-like path in the steep hillside,\nalternately rising and falling, approaching and receding from the\nwater's edge, as old probably as the race of man here, worn by the\nfeet of aboriginal hunters, and still from time to time unwittingly\ntrodden by the present occupants of the land. This is particularly\ndistinct to one standing on the middle of the pond in winter, just\nafter a light snow has fallen, appearing as a clear undulating white\nline, unobscured by weeds and twigs, and very obvious a quarter of a\nmile off in many places where in summer it is hardly distinguishable\nclose at hand. The snow reprints it, as it were, in clear white\ntype alto-relievo. The ornamented grounds of villas which will one\nday be built here may still preserve some trace of this.\n\nThe pond rises and falls, but whether regularly or not, and\nwithin what period, nobody knows, though, as usual, many pretend to\nknow. It is commonly higher in the winter and lower in the summer,\nthough not corresponding to the general wet and dryness. I can\nremember when it was a foot or two lower, and also when it was at\nleast five feet higher, than when I lived by it. There is a narrow\nsand-bar running into it, with very deep water on one side, on which\nI helped boil a kettle of chowder, some six rods from the main\nshore, about the year 1824, which it has not been possible to do for\ntwenty-five years; and, on the other hand, my friends used to listen\nwith incredulity when I told them, that a few years later I was\naccustomed to fish from a boat in a secluded cove in the woods,\nfifteen rods from the only shore they knew, which place was long\nsince converted into a meadow. But the pond has risen steadily for\ntwo years, and now, in the summer of '52, is just five feet higher\nthan when I lived there, or as high as it was thirty years ago, and\nfishing goes on again in the meadow. This makes a difference of\nlevel, at the outside, of six or seven feet; and yet the water shed\nby the surrounding hills is insignificant in amount, and this\noverflow must be referred to causes which affect the deep springs.\nThis same summer the pond has begun to fall again. It is remarkable\nthat this fluctuation, whether periodical or not, appears thus to\nrequire many years for its accomplishment. I have observed one rise\nand a part of two falls, and I expect that a dozen or fifteen years\nhence the water will again be as low as I have ever known it.\nFlint's Pond, a mile eastward, allowing for the disturbance\noccasioned by its inlets and outlets, and the smaller intermediate\nponds also, sympathize with Walden, and recently attained their\ngreatest height at the same time with the latter. The same is true,\nas far as my observation goes, of White Pond.\n\nThis rise and fall of Walden at long intervals serves this use\nat least; the water standing at this great height for a year or\nmore, though it makes it difficult to walk round it, kills the\nshrubs and trees which have sprung up about its edge since the last\nrise -- pitch pines, birches, alders, aspens, and others -- and,\nfalling again, leaves an unobstructed shore; for, unlike many ponds\nand all waters which are subject to a daily tide, its shore is\ncleanest when the water is lowest. On the side of the pond next my\nhouse a row of pitch pines, fifteen feet high, has been killed and\ntipped over as if by a lever, and thus a stop put to their\nencroachments; and their size indicates how many years have elapsed\nsince the last rise to this height. By this fluctuation the pond\nasserts its title to a shore, and thus the shore is shorn, and the\ntrees cannot hold it by right of possession. These are the lips of\nthe lake, on which no beard grows. It licks its chaps from time to\ntime. When the water is at its height, the alders, willows, and\nmaples send forth a mass of fibrous red roots several feet long from\nall sides of their stems in the water, and to the height of three or\nfour feet from the ground, in the effort to maintain themselves; and\nI have known the high blueberry bushes about the shore, which\ncommonly produce no fruit, bear an abundant crop under these\ncircumstances.\n\nSome have been puzzled to tell how the shore became so regularly\npaved. My townsmen have all heard the tradition -- the oldest\npeople tell me that they heard it in their youth -- that anciently\nthe Indians were holding a pow-wow upon a hill here, which rose as\nhigh into the heavens as the pond now sinks deep into the earth, and\nthey used much profanity, as the story goes, though this vice is one\nof which the Indians were never guilty, and while they were thus\nengaged the hill shook and suddenly sank, and only one old squaw,\nnamed Walden, escaped, and from her the pond was named. It has been\nconjectured that when the hill shook these stones rolled down its\nside and became the present shore. It is very certain, at any rate,\nthat once there was no pond here, and now there is one; and this\nIndian fable does not in any respect conflict with the account of\nthat ancient settler whom I have mentioned, who remembers so well\nwhen he first came here with his divining-rod, saw a thin vapor\nrising from the sward, and the hazel pointed steadily downward, and\nhe concluded to dig a well here. As for the stones, many still\nthink that they are hardly to be accounted for by the action of the\nwaves on these hills; but I observe that the surrounding hills are\nremarkably full of the same kind of stones, so that they have been\nobliged to pile them up in walls on both sides of the railroad cut\nnearest the pond; and, moreover, there are most stones where the\nshore is most abrupt; so that, unfortunately, it is no longer a\nmystery to me. I detect the paver. If the name was not derived\nfrom that of some English locality -- Saffron Walden, for instance\n-- one might suppose that it was called originally Walled-in Pond.\n\nThe pond was my well ready dug. For four months in the year its\nwater is as cold as it is pure at all times; and I think that it is\nthen as good as any, if not the best, in the town. In the winter,\nall water which is exposed to the air is colder than springs and\nwells which are protected from it. The temperature of the pond\nwater which had stood in the room where I sat from five o'clock in\nthe afternoon till noon the next day, the sixth of March, 1846, the\nthermometer having been up to 65x or 70x some of the time, owing\npartly to the sun on the roof, was 42x, or one degree colder than\nthe water of one of the coldest wells in the village just drawn.\nThe temperature of the Boiling Spring the same day was 45x, or the\nwarmest of any water tried, though it is the coldest that I know of\nin summer, when, beside, shallow and stagnant surface water is not\nmingled with it. Moreover, in summer, Walden never becomes so warm\nas most water which is exposed to the sun, on account of its depth.\nIn the warmest weather I usually placed a pailful in my cellar,\nwhere it became cool in the night, and remained so during the day;\nthough I also resorted to a spring in the neighborhood. It was as\ngood when a week old as the day it was dipped, and had no taste of\nthe pump. Whoever camps for a week in summer by the shore of a\npond, needs only bury a pail of water a few feet deep in the shade\nof his camp to be independent of the luxury of ice.\n\nThere have been caught in Walden pickerel, one weighing seven\npounds -- to say nothing of another which carried off a reel with\ngreat velocity, which the fisherman safely set down at eight pounds\nbecause he did not see him -- perch and pouts, some of each weighing\nover two pounds, shiners, chivins or roach (Leuciscus pulchellus), a\nvery few breams, and a couple of eels, one weighing four pounds -- I\nam thus particular because the weight of a fish is commonly its only\ntitle to fame, and these are the only eels I have heard of here; --\nalso, I have a faint recollection of a little fish some five inches\nlong, with silvery sides and a greenish back, somewhat dace-like in\nits character, which I mention here chiefly to link my facts to\nfable. Nevertheless, this pond is not very fertile in fish. Its\npickerel, though not abundant, are its chief boast. I have seen at\none time lying on the ice pickerel of at least three different\nkinds: a long and shallow one, steel-colored, most like those caught\nin the river; a bright golden kind, with greenish reflections and\nremarkably deep, which is the most common here; and another,\ngolden-colored, and shaped like the last, but peppered on the sides\nwith small dark brown or black spots, intermixed with a few faint\nblood-red ones, very much like a trout. The specific name\nreticulatus would not apply to this; it should be guttatus rather.\nThese are all very firm fish, and weigh more than their size\npromises. The shiners, pouts, and perch also, and indeed all the\nfishes which inhabit this pond, are much cleaner, handsomer, and\nfirmer-fleshed than those in the river and most other ponds, as the\nwater is purer, and they can easily be distinguished from them.\nProbably many ichthyologists would make new varieties of some of\nthem. There are also a clean race of frogs and tortoises, and a few\nmussels in it; muskrats and minks leave their traces about it, and\noccasionally a travelling mud-turtle visits it. Sometimes, when I\npushed off my boat in the morning, I disturbed a great mud-turtle\nwhich had secreted himself under the boat in the night. Ducks and\ngeese frequent it in the spring and fall, the white-bellied swallows\n(Hirundo bicolor) skim over it, and the peetweets (Totanus\nmacularius) \"teeter\" along its stony shores all summer. I have\nsometimes disturbed a fish hawk sitting on a white pine over the\nwater; but I doubt if it is ever profaned by the wind of a gull,\nlike Fair Haven. At most, it tolerates one annual loon. These are\nall the animals of consequence which frequent it now.\n\nYou may see from a boat, in calm weather, near the sandy\neastern shore, where the water is eight or ten feet deep, and also\nin some other parts of the pond, some circular heaps half a dozen\nfeet in diameter by a foot in height, consisting of small stones\nless than a hen's egg in size, where all around is bare sand. At\nfirst you wonder if the Indians could have formed them on the ice\nfor any purpose, and so, when the ice melted, they sank to the\nbottom; but they are too regular and some of them plainly too fresh\nfor that. They are similar to those found in rivers; but as there\nare no suckers nor lampreys here, I know not by what fish they could\nbe made. Perhaps they are the nests of the chivin. These lend a\npleasing mystery to the bottom.\n\nThe shore is irregular enough not to be monotonous. I have in\nmy mind's eye the western, indented with deep bays, the bolder\nnorthern, and the beautifully scalloped southern shore, where\nsuccessive capes overlap each other and suggest unexplored coves\nbetween. The forest has never so good a setting, nor is so\ndistinctly beautiful, as when seen from the middle of a small lake\namid hills which rise from the water's edge; for the water in which\nit is reflected not only makes the best foreground in such a case,\nbut, with its winding shore, the most natural and agreeable boundary\nto it. There is no rawness nor imperfection in its edge there, as\nwhere the axe has cleared a part, or a cultivated field abuts on it.\nThe trees have ample room to expand on the water side, and each\nsends forth its most vigorous branch in that direction. There\nNature has woven a natural selvage, and the eye rises by just\ngradations from the low shrubs of the shore to the highest trees.\nThere are few traces of man's hand to be seen. The water laves the\nshore as it did a thousand years ago.\n\nA lake is the landscape's most beautiful and expressive feature.\nIt is earth's eye; looking into which the beholder measures the\ndepth of his own nature. The fluviatile trees next the shore are\nthe slender eyelashes which fringe it, and the wooded hills and\ncliffs around are its overhanging brows.\n\nStanding on the smooth sandy beach at the east end of the pond,\nin a calm September afternoon, when a slight haze makes the opposite\nshore-line indistinct, I have seen whence came the expression, \"the\nglassy surface of a lake.\" When you invert your head, it looks like\na thread of finest gossamer stretched across the valley, and\ngleaming against the distant pine woods, separating one stratum of\nthe atmosphere from another. You would think that you could walk\ndry under it to the opposite hills, and that the swallows which skim\nover might perch on it. Indeed, they sometimes dive below this\nline, as it were by mistake, and are undeceived. As you look over\nthe pond westward you are obliged to employ both your hands to\ndefend your eyes against the reflected as well as the true sun, for\nthey are equally bright; and if, between the two, you survey its\nsurface critically, it is literally as smooth as glass, except where\nthe skater insects, at equal intervals scattered over its whole\nextent, by their motions in the sun produce the finest imaginable\nsparkle on it, or, perchance, a duck plumes itself, or, as I have\nsaid, a swallow skims so low as to touch it. It may be that in the\ndistance a fish describes an arc of three or four feet in the air,\nand there is one bright flash where it emerges, and another where it\nstrikes the water; sometimes the whole silvery arc is revealed; or\nhere and there, perhaps, is a thistle-down floating on its surface,\nwhich the fishes dart at and so dimple it again. It is like molten\nglass cooled but not congealed, and the few motes in it are pure and\nbeautiful like the imperfections in glass. You may often detect a\nyet smoother and darker water, separated from the rest as if by an\ninvisible cobweb, boom of the water nymphs, resting on it. From a\nhilltop you can see a fish leap in almost any part; for not a\npickerel or shiner picks an insect from this smooth surface but it\nmanifestly disturbs the equilibrium of the whole lake. It is\nwonderful with what elaborateness this simple fact is advertised --\nthis piscine murder will out -- and from my distant perch I\ndistinguish the circling undulations when they are half a dozen rods\nin diameter. You can even detect a water-bug (Gyrinus) ceaselessly\nprogressing over the smooth surface a quarter of a mile off; for\nthey furrow the water slightly, making a conspicuous ripple bounded\nby two diverging lines, but the skaters glide over it without\nrippling it perceptibly. When the surface is considerably agitated\nthere are no skaters nor water-bugs on it, but apparently, in calm\ndays, they leave their havens and adventurously glide forth from the\nshore by short impulses till they completely cover it. It is a\nsoothing employment, on one of those fine days in the fall when all\nthe warmth of the sun is fully appreciated, to sit on a stump on\nsuch a height as this, overlooking the pond, and study the dimpling\ncircles which are incessantly inscribed on its otherwise invisible\nsurface amid the reflected skies and trees. Over this great expanse\nthere is no disturbance but it is thus at once gently smoothed away\nand assuaged, as, when a vase of water is jarred, the trembling\ncircles seek the shore and all is smooth again. Not a fish can leap\nor an insect fall on the pond but it is thus reported in circling\ndimples, in lines of beauty, as it were the constant welling up of\nits fountain, the gentle pulsing of its life, the heaving of its\nbreast. The thrills of joy and thrills of pain are\nundistinguishable. How peaceful the phenomena of the lake! Again\nthe works of man shine as in the spring. Ay, every leaf and twig\nand stone and cobweb sparkles now at mid-afternoon as when covered\nwith dew in a spring morning. Every motion of an oar or an insect\nproduces a flash of light; and if an oar falls, how sweet the echo!\n\nIn such a day, in September or October, Walden is a perfect\nforest mirror, set round with stones as precious to my eye as if\nfewer or rarer. Nothing so fair, so pure, and at the same time so\nlarge, as a lake, perchance, lies on the surface of the earth. Sky\nwater. It needs no fence. Nations come and go without defiling it.\nIt is a mirror which no stone can crack, whose quicksilver will\nnever wear off, whose gilding Nature continually repairs; no storms,\nno dust, can dim its surface ever fresh; -- a mirror in which all\nimpurity presented to it sinks, swept and dusted by the sun's hazy\nbrush -- this the light dust-cloth -- which retains no breath that\nis breathed on it, but sends its own to float as clouds high above\nits surface, and be reflected in its bosom still.\n\nA field of water betrays the spirit that is in the air. It is\ncontinually receiving new life and motion from above. It is\nintermediate in its nature between land and sky. On land only the\ngrass and trees wave, but the water itself is rippled by the wind.\nI see where the breeze dashes across it by the streaks or flakes of\nlight. It is remarkable that we can look down on its surface. We\nshall, perhaps, look down thus on the surface of air at length, and\nmark where a still subtler spirit sweeps over it.\n\nThe skaters and water-bugs finally disappear in the latter part\nof October, when the severe frosts have come; and then and in\nNovember, usually, in a calm day, there is absolutely nothing to\nripple the surface. One November afternoon, in the calm at the end\nof a rain-storm of several days' duration, when the sky was still\ncompletely overcast and the air was full of mist, I observed that\nthe pond was remarkably smooth, so that it was difficult to\ndistinguish its surface; though it no longer reflected the bright\ntints of October, but the sombre November colors of the surrounding\nhills. Though I passed over it as gently as possible, the slight\nundulations produced by my boat extended almost as far as I could\nsee, and gave a ribbed appearance to the reflections. But, as I was\nlooking over the surface, I saw here and there at a distance a faint\nglimmer, as if some skater insects which had escaped the frosts\nmight be collected there, or, perchance, the surface, being so\nsmooth, betrayed where a spring welled up from the bottom. Paddling\ngently to one of these places, I was surprised to find myself\nsurrounded by myriads of small perch, about five inches long, of a\nrich bronze color in the green water, sporting there, and constantly\nrising to the surface and dimpling it, sometimes leaving bubbles on\nit. In such transparent and seemingly bottomless water, reflecting\nthe clouds, I seemed to be floating through the air as in a balloon,\nand their swimming impressed me as a kind of flight or hovering, as\nif they were a compact flock of birds passing just beneath my level\non the right or left, their fins, like sails, set all around them.\nThere were many such schools in the pond, apparently improving the\nshort season before winter would draw an icy shutter over their\nbroad skylight, sometimes giving to the surface an appearance as if\na slight breeze struck it, or a few rain-drops fell there. When I\napproached carelessly and alarmed them, they made a sudden splash\nand rippling with their tails, as if one had struck the water with a\nbrushy bough, and instantly took refuge in the depths. At length\nthe wind rose, the mist increased, and the waves began to run, and\nthe perch leaped much higher than before, half out of water, a\nhundred black points, three inches long, at once above the surface.\nEven as late as the fifth of December, one year, I saw some dimples\non the surface, and thinking it was going to rain hard immediately,\nthe air being fun of mist, I made haste to take my place at the oars\nand row homeward; already the rain seemed rapidly increasing, though\nI felt none on my cheek, and I anticipated a thorough soaking. But\nsuddenly the dimples ceased, for they were produced by the perch,\nwhich the noise of my oars had seared into the depths, and I saw\ntheir schools dimly disappearing; so I spent a dry afternoon after\nall.\n\nAn old man who used to frequent this pond nearly sixty years\nago, when it was dark with surrounding forests, tells me that in\nthose days he sometimes saw it all alive with ducks and other\nwater-fowl, and that there were many eagles about it. He came here\na-fishing, and used an old log canoe which he found on the shore.\nIt was made of two white pine logs dug out and pinned together, and\nwas cut off square at the ends. It was very clumsy, but lasted a\ngreat many years before it became water-logged and perhaps sank to\nthe bottom. He did not know whose it was; it belonged to the pond.\nHe used to make a cable for his anchor of strips of hickory bark\ntied together. An old man, a potter, who lived by the pond before\nthe Revolution, told him once that there was an iron chest at the\nbottom, and that he had seen it. Sometimes it would come floating\nup to the shore; but when you went toward it, it would go back into\ndeep water and disappear. I was pleased to hear of the old log\ncanoe, which took the place of an Indian one of the same material\nbut more graceful construction, which perchance had first been a\ntree on the bank, and then, as it were, fell into the water, to\nfloat there for a generation, the most proper vessel for the lake.\nI remember that when I first looked into these depths there were\nmany large trunks to be seen indistinctly lying on the bottom, which\nhad either been blown over formerly, or left on the ice at the last\ncutting, when wood was cheaper; but now they have mostly\ndisappeared.\n\nWhen I first paddled a boat on Walden, it was completely\nsurrounded by thick and lofty pine and oak woods, and in some of its\ncoves grape-vines had run over the trees next the water and formed\nbowers under which a boat could pass. The hills which form its\nshores are so steep, and the woods on them were then so high, that,\nas you looked down from the west end, it had the appearance of an\namphitheatre for some land of sylvan spectacle. I have spent many\nan hour, when I was younger, floating over its surface as the zephyr\nwilled, having paddled my boat to the middle, and lying on my back\nacross the seats, in a summer forenoon, dreaming awake, until I was\naroused by the boat touching the sand, and I arose to see what shore\nmy fates had impelled me to; days when idleness was the most\nattractive and productive industry. Many a forenoon have I stolen\naway, preferring to spend thus the most valued part of the day; for\nI was rich, if not in money, in sunny hours and summer days, and\nspent them lavishly; nor do I regret that I did not waste more of\nthem in the workshop or the teacher's desk. But since I left those\nshores the woodchoppers have still further laid them waste, and now\nfor many a year there will be no more rambling through the aisles of\nthe wood, with occasional vistas through which you see the water.\nMy Muse may be excused if she is silent henceforth. How can you\nexpect the birds to sing when their groves are cut down?\n\nNow the trunks of trees on the bottom, and the old log canoe,\nand the dark surrounding woods, are gone, and the villagers, who\nscarcely know where it lies, instead of going to the pond to bathe\nor drink, are thinking to bring its water, which should be as sacred\nas the Ganges at least, to the village in a pipe, to wash their\ndishes with! -- to earn their Walden by the turning of a cock or\ndrawing of a plug! That devilish Iron Horse, whose ear-rending\nneigh is heard throughout the town, has muddied the Boiling Spring\nwith his foot, and he it is that has browsed off all the woods on\nWalden shore, that Trojan horse, with a thousand men in his belly,\nintroduced by mercenary Greeks! Where is the country's champion,\nthe Moore of Moore Hill, to meet him at the Deep Cut and thrust an\navenging lance between the ribs of the bloated pest?\n\nNevertheless, of all the characters I have known, perhaps Walden\nwears best, and best preserves its purity. Many men have been\nlikened to it, but few deserve that honor. Though the woodchoppers\nhave laid bare first this shore and then that, and the Irish have\nbuilt their sties by it, and the railroad has infringed on its\nborder, and the ice-men have skimmed it once, it is itself\nunchanged, the same water which my youthful eyes fell on; all the\nchange is in me. It has not acquired one permanent wrinkle after\nall its ripples. It is perennially young, and I may stand and see a\nswallow dip apparently to pick an insect from its surface as of\nyore. It struck me again tonight, as if I had not seen it almost\ndaily for more than twenty years -- Why, here is Walden, the same\nwoodland lake that I discovered so many years ago; where a forest\nwas cut down last winter another is springing up by its shore as\nlustily as ever; the same thought is welling up to its surface that\nwas then; it is the same liquid joy and happiness to itself and its\nMaker, ay, and it may be to me. It is the work of a brave man\nsurely, in whom there was no guile! He rounded this water with his\nhand, deepened and clarified it in his thought, and in his will\nbequeathed it to Concord. I see by its face that it is visited by\nthe same reflection; and I can almost say, Walden, is it you?\n\nIt is no dream of mine,\nTo ornament a line;\nI cannot come nearer to God and Heaven\nThan I live to Walden even.\nI am its stony shore,\nAnd the breeze that passes o'er;\nIn the hollow of my hand\nAre its water and its sand,\nAnd its deepest resort\nLies high in my thought.\n\nThe cars never pause to look at it; yet I fancy that the\nengineers and firemen and brakemen, and those passengers who have a\nseason ticket and see it often, are better men for the sight. The\nengineer does not forget at night, or his nature does not, that he\nhas beheld this vision of serenity and purity once at least during\nthe day. Though seen but once, it helps to wash out State Street\nand the engine's soot. One proposes that it be called \"God's Drop.\"\n\nI have said that Walden has no visible inlet nor outlet, but it\nis on the one hand distantly and indirectly related to Flint's Pond,\nwhich is more elevated, by a chain of small ponds coming from that\nquarter, and on the other directly and manifestly to Concord River,\nwhich is lower, by a similar chain of ponds through which in some\nother geological period it may have flowed, and by a little digging,\nwhich God forbid, it can be made to flow thither again. If by\nliving thus reserved and austere, like a hermit in the woods, so\nlong, it has acquired such wonderful purity, who would not regret\nthat the comparatively impure waters of Flint's Pond should be\nmingled with it, or itself should ever go to waste its sweetness in\nthe ocean wave?\n\nFlint's, or Sandy Pond, in Lincoln, our greatest lake and inland\nsea, lies about a mile east of Walden. It is much larger, being\nsaid to contain one hundred and ninety-seven acres, and is more\nfertile in fish; but it is comparatively shallow, and not remarkably\npure. A walk through the woods thither was often my recreation. It\nwas worth the while, if only to feel the wind blow on your cheek\nfreely, and see the waves run, and remember the life of mariners. I\nwent a-chestnutting there in the fall, on windy days, when the nuts\nwere dropping into the water and were washed to my feet; and one\nday, as I crept along its sedgy shore, the fresh spray blowing in my\nface, I came upon the mouldering wreck of a boat, the sides gone,\nand hardly more than the impression of its flat bottom left amid the\nrushes; yet its model was sharply defined, as if it were a large\ndecayed pad, with its veins. It was as impressive a wreck as one\ncould imagine on the seashore, and had as good a moral. It is by\nthis time mere vegetable mould and undistinguishable pond shore,\nthrough which rushes and flags have pushed up. I used to admire the\nripple marks on the sandy bottom, at the north end of this pond,\nmade firm and hard to the feet of the wader by the pressure of the\nwater, and the rushes which grew in Indian file, in waving lines,\ncorresponding to these marks, rank behind rank, as if the waves had\nplanted them. There also I have found, in considerable quantities,\ncurious balls, composed apparently of fine grass or roots, of\npipewort perhaps, from half an inch to four inches in diameter, and\nperfectly spherical. These wash back and forth in shallow water on\na sandy bottom, and are sometimes cast on the shore. They are\neither solid grass, or have a little sand in the middle. At first\nyou would say that they were formed by the action of the waves, like\na pebble; yet the smallest are made of equally coarse materials,\nhalf an inch long, and they are produced only at one season of the\nyear. Moreover, the waves, I suspect, do not so much construct as\nwear down a material which has already acquired consistency. They\npreserve their form when dry for an indefinite period.\n\nFlint's Pond! Such is the poverty of our nomenclature. What\nright had the unclean and stupid farmer, whose farm abutted on this\nsky water, whose shores he has ruthlessly laid bare, to give his\nname to it? Some skin-flint, who loved better the reflecting\nsurface of a dollar, or a bright cent, in which he could see his own\nbrazen face; who regarded even the wild ducks which settled in it as\ntrespassers; his fingers grown into crooked and bony talons from the\nlong habit of grasping harpy-like; -- so it is not named for me. I\ngo not there to see him nor to hear of him; who never saw it, who\nnever bathed in it, who never loved it, who never protected it, who\nnever spoke a good word for it, nor thanked God that He had made it.\nRather let it be named from the fishes that swim in it, the wild\nfowl or quadrupeds which frequent it, the wild flowers which grow by\nits shores, or some wild man or child the thread of whose history is\ninterwoven with its own; not from him who could show no title to it\nbut the deed which a like-minded neighbor or legislature gave him --\nhim who thought only of its money value; whose presence perchance\ncursed all the shores; who exhausted the land around it, and would\nfain have exhausted the waters within it; who regretted only that it\nwas not English hay or cranberry meadow -- there was nothing to\nredeem it, forsooth, in his eyes -- and would have drained and sold\nit for the mud at its bottom. It did not turn his mill, and it was\nno privilege to him to behold it. I respect not his labors, his\nfarm where everything has its price, who would carry the landscape,\nwho would carry his God, to market, if he could get anything for\nhim; who goes to market for his god as it is; on whose farm nothing\ngrows free, whose fields bear no crops, whose meadows no flowers,\nwhose trees no fruits, but dollars; who loves not the beauty of his\nfruits, whose fruits are not ripe for him till they are turned to\ndollars. Give me the poverty that enjoys true wealth. Farmers are\nrespectable and interesting to me in proportion as they are poor --\npoor farmers. A model farm! where the house stands like a fungus in\na muckheap, chambers for men horses, oxen, and swine, cleansed and\nuncleansed, all contiguous to one another! Stocked with men! A\ngreat grease-spot, redolent of manures and buttermilk! Under a high\nstate of cultivation, being manured with the hearts and brains of\nmen! As if you were to raise your potatoes in the churchyard! Such\nis a model farm.\n\nNo, no; if the fairest features of the landscape are to be named\nafter men, let them be the noblest and worthiest men alone. Let our\nlakes receive as true names at least as the Icarian Sea, where\n\"still the shore\" a \"brave attempt resounds.\"\n\nGoose Pond, of small extent, is on my way to Flint's; Fair\nHaven, an expansion of Concord River, said to contain some seventy\nacres, is a mile southwest; and White Pond, of about forty acres, is\na mile and a half beyond Fair Haven. This is my lake country.\nThese, with Concord River, are my water privileges; and night and\nday, year in year out, they grind such grist as I carry to them.\n\nSince the wood-cutters, and the railroad, and I myself have\nprofaned Walden, perhaps the most attractive, if not the most\nbeautiful, of all our lakes, the gem of the woods, is White Pond; --\na poor name from its commonness, whether derived from the remarkable\npurity of its waters or the color of its sands. In these as in\nother respects, however, it is a lesser twin of Walden. They are so\nmuch alike that you would say they must be connected under ground.\nIt has the same stony shore, and its waters are of the same hue. As\nat Walden, in sultry dog-day weather, looking down through the woods\non some of its bays which are not so deep but that the reflection\nfrom the bottom tinges them, its waters are of a misty bluish-green\nor glaucous color. Many years since I used to go there to collect\nthe sand by cartloads, to make sandpaper with, and I have continued\nto visit it ever since. One who frequents it proposes to call it\nVirid Lake. Perhaps it might be called Yellow Pine Lake, from the\nfollowing circumstance. About fifteen years ago you could see the\ntop of a pitch pine, of the kind called yellow pine hereabouts,\nthough it is not a distinct species, projecting above the surface in\ndeep water, many rods from the shore. It was even supposed by some\nthat the pond had sunk, and this was one of the primitive forest\nthat formerly stood there. I find that even so long ago as 1792, in\na \"Topographical Description of the Town of Concord,\" by one of its\ncitizens, in the Collections of the Massachusetts Historical\nSociety, the author, after speaking of Walden and White Ponds, adds,\n\"In the middle of the latter may be seen, when the water is very\nlow, a tree which appears as if it grew in the place where it now\nstands, although the roots are fifty feet below the surface of the\nwater; the top of this tree is broken off, and at that place\nmeasures fourteen inches in diameter.\" In the spring of '49 I\ntalked with the man who lives nearest the pond in Sudbury, who told\nme that it was he who got out this tree ten or fifteen years before.\nAs near as he could remember, it stood twelve or fifteen rods from\nthe shore, where the water was thirty or forty feet deep. It was in\nthe winter, and he had been getting out ice in the forenoon, and had\nresolved that in the afternoon, with the aid of his neighbors, he\nwould take out the old yellow pine. He sawed a channel in the ice\ntoward the shore, and hauled it over and along and out on to the ice\nwith oxen; but, before he had gone far in his work, he was surprised\nto find that it was wrong end upward, with the stumps of the\nbranches pointing down, and the small end firmly fastened in the\nsandy bottom. It was about a foot in diameter at the big end, and\nhe had expected to get a good saw-log, but it was so rotten as to be\nfit only for fuel, if for that. He had some of it in his shed then.\nThere were marks of an axe and of woodpeckers on the butt. He\nthought that it might have been a dead tree on the shore, but was\nfinally blown over into the pond, and after the top had become\nwater-logged, while the butt-end was still dry and light, had\ndrifted out and sunk wrong end up. His father, eighty years old,\ncould not remember when it was not there. Several pretty large logs\nmay still be seen lying on the bottom, where, owing to the\nundulation of the surface, they look like huge water snakes in\nmotion.\n\nThis pond has rarely been profaned by a boat, for there is\nlittle in it to tempt a fisherman. Instead of the white lily, which\nrequires mud, or the common sweet flag, the blue flag (Iris\nversicolor) grows thinly in the pure water, rising from the stony\nbottom all around the shore, where it is visited by hummingbirds in\nJune; and the color both of its bluish blades and its flowers and\nespecially their reflections, is in singular harmony with the\nglaucous water.\n\nWhite Pond and Walden are great crystals on the surface of the\nearth, Lakes of Light. If they were permanently congealed, and\nsmall enough to be clutched, they would, perchance, be carried off\nby slaves, like precious stones, to adorn the heads of emperors; but\nbeing liquid, and ample, and secured to us and our successors\nforever, we disregard them, and run after the diamond of Kohinoor.\nThey are too pure to have a market value; they contain no muck. How\nmuch more beautiful than our lives, how much more transparent than\nour characters, are they! We never learned meanness of them. How\nmuch fairer than the pool before the farmers door, in which his\nducks swim! Hither the clean wild ducks come. Nature has no human\ninhabitant who appreciates her. The birds with their plumage and\ntheir notes are in harmony with the flowers, but what youth or\nmaiden conspires with the wild luxuriant beauty of Nature? She\nflourishes most alone, far from the towns where they reside. Talk\nof heaven! ye disgrace earth.","title":"Walden (1893) Thoreau/Chapter IX","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":9199}