THE PONDS, 
205 
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 som¬ 
bre November colors of the surrounding hills. Though 
I passed over it as gently as possible, the slight undula¬ 
tions produced by my boat extended almost as far as I 
could see, and gave a ribbed appearance to the reflec¬ 
tions. 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 
