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1Flint's, or Sandy Pond, in Lincoln, our greatest lake and inland sea, lies about a mile east of Walden. It is much
2larger, being said to contain one hundred and ninety-seven acres, and is more fertile in fish; but it is comparatively
3shallow, and not remarkably pure. A walk through the woods thither was often my recreation. It was worth the while, if
4only to feel the wind blow on your cheek freely, and see the waves run, and remember the life of mariners. I went
5a-chestnutting there in the fall, on windy days, when the nuts were dropping into the water and were washed to my feet;
6and one day, as I crept along its sedgy shore, the fresh spray blowing in my face, I came upon the mouldering wreck of a
7boat, the sides gone, and hardly more than the impression of its flat bottom left amid the rushes; yet its model was
8sharply defined, as if it were a large decayed pad, with its veins. It was as impressive a wreck as one could imagine on
9the sea-shore, and had as good a moral. It is by this time mere vegetable mould and undistinguishable pond shore,
10through which rushes and flags have pushed up. I used to admire the ripple marks on the sandy bottom, at the north end
11of this pond, made firm and hard to the feet of the wader by the pressure of the water, and the rushes which grew in
12Indian file, in waving lines, corresponding to these marks, rank behind rank, as if the waves had planted them. There
13also I have found, in considerable quantities, curious balls, composed apparently of fine grass or roots, of pipewort
14perhaps, from half an inch to four inches in diameter, and perfectly spherical. These wash back and forth in shallow
15water on a sandy bottom, and are sometimes cast on the shore. They are either solid grass, or have a little sand in the
16middle. At first you would say that they were formed by the action of the waves, like a pebble; yet the smallest are
17made of equally coarse materials, half an inch long, and they are produced only at one season of the year. Moreover, the
18waves, I suspect, do not so much construct as wear down a material which has already acquired consistency. They preserve
19their form when dry for an indefinite period. Flint's Pond! Such is the poverty of our nomenclature. What right had the
20unclean and stupid farmer, whose farm abutted on this sky water, whose shores he has ruthlessly laid bare, to give his
21name to it? Some skin-flint, who loved better the reflecting surface of a dollar, or a bright cent, in which he could
22see his own brazen face; who regarded even the wild ducks which settled in it as trespassers; his fingers grown into
23crooked and horny talons from the long habit of grasping harpy-like;--so it is not named for me. I go not there to see
24him nor to hear of him; who never saw it, who never bathed in it, who never loved it, who never protected it, who never
25spoke 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,
26the wild fowl or quadrupeds which frequent it, the wild flowers which grow by its shores, or some wild man or child the
27thread of whose history is interwoven with its own; not from him who could show no title to it but the deed which a
28like-minded neighbor or legislature gave him,--him who thought only of its money value; whose presence perchance cursed
29all the shore; who exhausted the land around it, and would fain have exhausted the waters within it; who regretted only
30that it was not English hay or cranberry meadow,--there was nothing to redeem it, forsooth, in his eyes,--and would have
31drained 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
32respect not his labors, his farm where every thing has its price; who would carry the landscape, who would carry his
33God, to market, if he could get any thing for him; who goes to market for his god as it is; on whose farm nothing grows
34free, whose fields bear no crops, whose meadows no flowers, whose trees no fruits, but dollars; who loves not the beauty
35of his fruits, whose fruits are not ripe for him till they are turned to dollars. Give me the poverty that enjoys true
36wealth. Farmers are respectable and interesting to me in proportion as they are poor,--poor farmers. A model farm! where
37the house stands like a fungus in a muck-heap, chambers for men, horses, oxen, and swine, cleansed and uncleansed, all
38contiguous to one another! Stocked with men! A great grease-spot, redolent of manures and buttermilk! Under a high state
39of cultivation, being manured with the hearts and brains of men! As if you were to raise your potatoes in the
40church-yard! Such is a model farm. No, no; if the fairest features of the landscape are to be named after men, let them
41be the noblest and worthiest men alone. Let our lakes receive as true names at least as the Icarian Sea, where "still
42the shore" a "brave attempt resounds." Goose Pond, of small extent, is on my way to Flint's; Fair-Haven, an expansion of
43Concord River, said to contain some seventy acres, is a mile south-west; and White Pond, of about forty acres, is a mile
44and a half beyond Fair-Haven. This is my lake country. These, with Concord River, are my water privileges; and night and
45day, year in year out, they grind such grist as I carry to them.
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