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 cowboy 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.
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 coenobites. 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 hillside.
in warm evenings i frequently sat in the boat playing the flute, and saw the perch, which i seem 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.
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.
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 southeast 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 hilltop 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 hilltop, 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 sandbank, 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.
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 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.
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.
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 hillside, 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.
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.
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.
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.
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 65x or 70x some of the time, owing partly to the sun on the roof, was 42x, 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 45x, 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.
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 mussels 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) "teeter" along its stony shores all summer. i have sometimes disturbed a fish hawk sitting on a white pine over the water; but i doubt if it is ever profaned by the wind of a gull, like fair haven. at most, it tolerates one annual loon. these are all the animals of consequence which frequent it 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.
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.
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.
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 hilltop 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!
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.
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.
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 fun 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.
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.
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 land 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?
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?
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?
it is no dream of mine,
to ornament a line;
i cannot come nearer to god and heaven
than i live to walden even.
i am its stony shore,
and the breeze that passes o'er;
in the hollow of my hand
are its water and its sand,
and its deepest resort
lies high in my thought.
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."
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?
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 seashore, 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 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 bony 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 shores; 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 everything has its price, who would carry the landscape, who would carry his god, to market, if he could get anything 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 muckheap, 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 churchyard! 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."
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 southwest; 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.
since the wood-cutters, 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 cartloads, to make sandpaper 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 water-logged, 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.
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 hummingbirds in june; and the color both of its bluish blades and its flowers and especially their reflections, is in singular harmony with the glaucous 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 farmers 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.
有时，对人类社会及其言谈扯淡，对所有村中的友人们又都厌倦了，我便向西而漫游，越过了惯常起居的那些地方，跑到这乡镇的更无人迹的区域，来到“新的森林和新的牧场”上；或当夕阳西沉时，到美港山上，大嚼其越橘和浆果，再把它们拣拾起来，以备几天内的食用。水果可是不肯把它的色、香、味给购买它的人去享受的，也不肯给予为了出卖它而栽培它的商人去享受的。要享受那种色、香、味只有一个办法，然而很少人采用这个办法。如果你要知道越橘的色、香、味，你得请问牧童和鹧鸪。从来不采越橘的人，以为已经尝全了它的色、香、味，这是一个庸俗的谬见。从来没有一只越橘到过波士顿，它们虽然在波士顿的三座山上长满了，却没有进过城。水果的美味和它那本质的部分，在装上了车子运往市场去的时候，跟它的鲜丽一起给磨损了，它变成了仅仅是食品。只要永恒的正义还在统治宇宙，没有一只纯真的越橘能够从城外的山上运到城里来的。
在我干完了一天的锄地工作之后，偶尔我来到一个不耐烦的侣伴跟前，他从早晨起就在湖上钓鱼了，静静的，一动不动的，像一只鸭子，或一张漂浮的落叶，沉思着他的各种各样的哲学，而在我来到的时候，大致他已自认为是属于修道院僧中的古老派别了。有一个老年人，是个好渔夫，尤精于各种木工，他很高兴把我的屋子看作是为便利渔民而建筑的屋子，他坐在我的屋门口整理钓丝，我也同样高兴。我们偶尔一起泛舟湖上，他在船的这一头，我在船的另一头；我们并没有交换了多少话，因为他近年来耳朵聋了，偶尔他哼起一首圣诗来，这和我的哲学异常地和谐。我们的神交实在全部都是和谐的，回想起来真是美妙，比我们的谈话要有意思得多，我常是这样的，当找不到人谈话了，就用桨敲打我的船舷，寻求回声，使周围的森林被激起了一圈圈扩展着的声浪，像动物园中那管理群兽的人激动了兽群那样，每一个山林和青翠的峡谷最后都发出了咆哮之声。
在温和的黄昏中，我常坐在船里弄笛，看到鲈鱼游泳在我的四周，好似我的笛音迷住了它们一样，而月光旅行在肋骨似的水波上，那上面还零乱地散布着破碎的森林。很早以前，我一次次探险似的来到这个湖上，在一些夏天的黑夜里，跟一个同伴一起来；在水边生了一堆火，吸引鱼群，我们又在钧丝钩上放了虫子作鱼饵钓起了一条条鳘鱼；这样我们一直搞到夜深以后，才把火棒高高地抛掷到空中，它们像流星烟火一样，从空中落进湖里发出一些响亮的咝声，便熄灭了，于是我们就突然在完全的黑暗之中摸索。我用口哨吹着歌，穿过黑暗，又上路口到人类的集名处。可是现在我已经在湖岸上有了自己的家。
有时，在村中一个客厅里待到他们一家子都要休息时，我就回到了森林里；那时，多少是为了明天的伙食，我把子夜的时辰消耗在月光之下的垂钓之上，坐在一条船里，听枭鸟和狐狸唱它们的小夜曲，时时我还听到附近的不知名的鸟雀发出尖厉的啸声。这一些经验对我是很值得国忆和很宝贵的，在水深四十英尺的地方抛了锚，离岸约二三杆之远，有时大约有几千条小鲈鱼和银鱼围绕着我，它们的尾巴给月光下的水面点出了无数的水涡；用了一根细长的麻绳，我和生活在四十英尺深的水底的一些神秘的夜间的鱼打交道了，有时我拖着长六十英尺的钓丝，听凭柔和的夜风把我的船儿在湖上漂荡，我时不时地感到了微弱的震动，说明有一个生命在钓丝的那一端徘徊，却又愚蠢地不能确定它对这盲目撞上的东西怎样办，还没有完全下决心呢。到后来，你一手又一手，慢慢地拉起钓丝，而一些长角的鳘鱼一边发出咯吱咯吱的声音，一边扭动着身子，给拉到了空中。特别在黑暗的夜间，当你的思想驰骋在广大宇宙的主题上的时候，而你却感到这微弱的震动，打断了你的梦想，又把你和大自然联结了起来，这是很奇怪的。我仿佛会接着把钓丝往上甩，甩到天空里去，正如我同时把钓丝垂人这密度未必更大的水的元素中去的情况一样。这样我像是用一只钓钩而捉住了两条鱼。
瓦尔登的风景是卑微的，虽然很美，却并不是宏伟的，不常去游玩的人，不住在它岸边的人未必能被它吸引住：但是这一个湖以深邃和清澈著称，值得给予突出的描写。这是一个明亮的深绿色的湖，半英里长，圆周约一英里又四分之三，面积约六十一英亩半；它是松树和橡树林中央的岁月悠久的老湖，除了雨和蒸发之外，还没有别的来龙去脉可寻。四周的山峰突然地从水上升起，到四十至八十英尺的高度，但在东南面高到一百英尺，而东边更高到一百五十英尺，其距离湖岸，不过四分之一英里及三分之一英里。山上全部都是森林。所有我们康科德地方的水波，至少有两种颜色，一种是站在远处望见的，另一种，更接近本来的颜色，是站在近处看见的。第一种更多地靠的是光，根据天色变化。在天气好的夏季里，从稍远的地方望去，它呈现了蔚蓝颜色，特别在水波荡漾的时候，但从很远的地方望去，却是一片深蓝。在风暴的天气下，有时它呈现出深石板色。海水的颜色则不然，据说它这天是蓝色的，另一天却又是绿色了，尽管天气连些微的可感知的变化也没有。我们这里的水系中，我看到当白雪覆盖这一片风景时，水和冰几乎都是草绿色的。有人认为，蓝色“乃是纯洁的水的颜色，无论那是流动的水，或凝结的水”。可是，直接从一条船上俯看近处湖水，它又有着非常之不同的色彩。甚至从同一个观察点，看瓦尔登是这会儿蓝，那忽儿绿。置身于天地之间，它分担了这两者的色素。从山顶上看，它反映天空的颜色，可是走近了看，在你能看到近岸的细砂的地方，水色先是黄澄澄的，然后是淡绿色的了，然后逐渐地加深起来，直到水波一律地呈现了全湖一致的深绿色。却在有些时候的光线下，便是从一个山顶望去，靠近湖岸的水色也是碧绿得异常生动的。有人说，这是绿原的反映；可是在铁路轨道这儿的黄沙地带的衬托下，也同样是碧绿的，而且，在春天，树叶还没有长大，这也许是太空中的蔚蓝，调和了黄沙以后形成的一个单纯的效果。这是它的虹色彩圈的色素。也是在这一个地方，春天一来，冰块给水底反射上来的太阳的热量，也给土地中传播的太阳的热量溶解了，这里首先溶解成一条狭窄的运河的样子，而中间还是冻冰。在晴朗的气候中，像我们其余的水波，激湍地流动时，波平面是在九十度的直角度里反映了天空的，或者因为太光亮了，从较远处望去，它比天空更蓝些；而在这种时候，泛舟湖上，四处眺望倒影，我发现了一种无可比拟、不能描述的淡蓝色，像浸水的或变色的丝绸，还像青锋宝剑，比之天空还更接近天蓝色，它和那波光的另一面原来的深绿色轮番地闪现，那深绿色与之相比便似乎很混浊了。这是一个玻璃似的带绿色的蓝色，照我所能记忆的，它仿佛是冬天里，日落以前，西方乌云中露出的一角晴天。可是你举起一玻璃杯水，放在空中看，它却毫无颜色，如同装了同样数量的一杯空气一样。众所周知，一大块厚玻璃板便呈现了微绿的颜色，据制造玻璃的人说，那是“体积”的关系，同样的玻璃，少了就不会有颜色了。瓦尔登湖应该有多少的水量才能泛出这样的绿色呢，我从来都无法证明。一个直接朝下望着我们的水色的人所见到的是黑的，或深棕色的，一个到河水中游泳的人，河水像所有的湖一样，会给他染上一种黄颜色；但是这个湖水却是这样地纯洁，游泳者会白得像大理石一样，而更奇怪的是，在这水中四肢给放大了，并且给扭曲了，形态非常夸张，值得让米开朗琪罗来作一番研究。
水是这样的透明，二十五至三十英尺下面的水底都可以很清楚地看到。赤脚踏水时，你看到在水面下许多英尺的地方有成群的鲈鱼和银鱼，大约只一英寸长，连前者的横行的花纹也能看得清清楚楚，你会觉得这种鱼也是不愿意沾染红尘，才到这里来生存的。有一次，在冬天里，好几年前了，为了钓梭鱼，我在冰上挖了几个洞，上岸之后，我把一柄斧头扔在冰上，可是好像有什么恶鬼故意要开玩笑似的，斧头在冰上滑过了四五杆远，刚好从一个窟窿中滑了下去，那里的水深二十五英尺，为了好奇，我躺在冰上，从那窟窿里望，我看到了那柄斧头，它偏在一边头向下直立着，那斧柄笔直向上，顺着湖水的脉动摇摇摆摆，要不是我后来又把它吊了起来，它可能就会这样直立下去，直到木柄烂掉为止。就在它的上面，用我带来的凿冰的凿子，我又凿了一个洞，又用我的刀，割下了我看到的附近最长的一条赤杨树枝，我做了一个活结的绳圈，放在树枝的一头，小心地放下去，用它套住了斧柄凸出的地方，然后用赤杨枝旁边的绳子一拉，这样就把那柄斧头吊了起来。
湖岸是由一长溜像铺路石那样的光滑的圆圆的白石组成的；除一两处小小的沙滩之外，它陡立着，纵身一跃便可以跳到一个人深的水中；要不是水波明净得出奇，你决不可能看到这个湖的底部，除非是它又在对岸升起。有人认为它深得没有底。它没有一处是泥泞的，偶尔观察的过客或许还会说，它里面连水草也没有一根；至于可以见到的水草，除了最近给上涨了的水淹没的、并不属于这个湖的草地以外，便是细心地查看也确实是看不到菖蒲和芦苇的，甚至没有水莲花，无论是黄色的或是白色的，最多只有一些心形叶子和河蓼草，也许还有一两张眼子菜；然而，游泳者也看不到它们；便是这些水草，也像它们生长在里面的水一样的明亮而无垢。岸石伸展入水，只一二杆远，水底已是纯粹的细沙，除了最深的部分，那里总不免有一点沉积物，也许是腐朽了的叶子，多少个秋天来，落叶被刮到湖上，另外还有一些光亮的绿色水苔，甚至在深冬时令拔起铁锚来的时候，它们也会跟着被拔上来的。
我们还有另一个这样的湖，在九亩角那里的白湖，在偏西两英里半之处；可是以这里为中心的十二英里半径的圆周之内，虽然还有许多的湖沼是我熟悉的，我却找不出第三个湖有这样的纯洁得如同井水的特性。大约历来的民族都饮用过这湖水，艳羡过它并测量过它的深度，而后他们一个个消逝了，湖水却依然澄清，发出绿色。一个春天也没有变化过！也许远在亚当和夏娃被逐出伊甸乐园时，那个春晨之前，瓦尔登湖已经存在了，甚至在那个时候，随着轻雾和一阵阵的南凤，飘下了一阵柔和的春雨，湖面不再平静了，成群的野鸭和天鹅在湖上游着，它们一点都没有知道逐出乐园这一回事，能有这样纯粹的湖水真够满足啦。就是在那时候，它已经又涨，又落，纯清了它的水，还染上了现在它所有的色泽，还专有了这一片天空，成了世界上唯一的一个瓦尔登湖，它是天上露珠的蒸馏器。谁知道，在多少篇再没人记得的民族诗篇中，这个湖曾被誉为喀斯泰里亚之泉？在黄金时代里，有多少山林水泽的精灵曾在这里居住？这是在康科德的冠冕上的第一滴水明珠。
第一个到这个湖边来的人们可能留下过他们的足迹。我曾经很惊异地发现，就在沿湖被砍伐了的一个浓密的森林那儿，峻削的山崖中，有一条绕湖一匝的狭窄的高架的小径，一会儿上，一忽儿下，一会儿接近湖，一忽儿又离远了一些，它或许和人类同年，土著的猎者，用脚步走出了这条路来，以后世世代代都有这片土地上的居住者不知不觉地用脚走过去。冬天，站在湖中央，看起来这就更加清楚，特别在下了一阵小雪之后，它就成了连绵起伏的一条白线，败草和枯枝都不能够掩蔽它，许多地点，在四分之一英里以外看起来还格外清楚，但是夏天里，便是走近去看，也还是看不出来。可以说，雪花用清楚的白色的浮雕又把它印刷出来了。但愿到了将来，人们在这里建造一些别墅的装饰庭园时，还能保留这一残迹。
湖水时涨时落，但是有没有规律，如有规律，又是怎样的周期，谁也不知道，虽然有不少人，照常要装作是知道的。冬天的水位通常要高一些，夏天的总低一些，但水位与天气的干燥潮湿却没有关系。我还记得，何时水退到比我住在那儿的时候低了一两英尺，何时又涨高了至少有五英尺。有一个狭长的沙洲伸展到湖中，它的一面是深水，离主岸约六杆，那大约是一八二四年，我曾在上面煮开过一壶杂烩，可是一连二十五年水淹没了它，我无法再去煮什么了；另一方面，当我告诉我的朋友们说，数年之后，我会经常垂钧在森林中的那个僻隐的山凹里，驾一叶扁舟，在离开他们现在看得见的湖岸约十五杆的地方，那里早已成为一片草地了，他们常常听得将信将疑。可是，两年来，湖一直在涨高，现在，一八五二年的夏天，比我居住那儿的时候已经高出五英尺，相当于三十年之前的高度，在那片草地上又可以垂钓了。从外表看，水位已涨了六七英尺，但是从周围的山上流下来的水量实际上不多，涨水一定是由于影响它深处泉源的一些原因。同一个夏天里水又退了。惊人的是这种涨落，不管它有否周期，却需要好几年才能够完成。我观察到一次涨，又部分地观察了两次退，我想在十二或十五年后，水位又要降落到我以前知道的地方。偏东一英里，茀灵特湖有泉水流入，又流水出去，是激荡涨落的，而一些介乎中间的较小的湖沼却和瓦尔登湖同进退，最近也涨到了它们的最高的水位，时间与后者相同。根据我的观察所及，白湖的情形也如此。
间隔很久的瓦尔登湖的涨落至少有这样一个作用：在最高的水位维持了一年左右，沿湖步行固然困难了，但自从上一次水涨以来，沿湖生长的灌木和苍松，白桦，桤木，白杨等树木都给冲刷掉了，等它水位退下
