THE PONDS. 
213 
who would carry the landscape, who would carry his 
God, to market, if he could get any thing for him; who 
goes to market for his god as it is ; on whose farm noth¬ 
ing grows free, whose fields bear no crops, whose mead¬ 
ows 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 re¬ 
spectable and interesting to me in proportion as they are 
poor,—poor farmers. A model farm! where the house 
stands like a fungus in a muck-heap, chambers for men, 
horses, oxen, and swine, cleansed and uncleansed, all 
contiguous to one another! Stocked with men! A great 
grease-spot, redolent of manures and buttermilk! Un¬ 
der a high state of cultivation, being manured with the 
hearts and brains of men! As if you were to raise your 
potatoes in the church-yard! Such is a model farm. 
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 Flints’; 
Fair-Haven, an expansion of Concord Fiver, said to 
contain some seventy acres, is a mile south-west; and 
White Pond, of about forty acres, is a mile and a half 
beyond Fair-Haven. This is my lake country. These, 
with Concord Fiver, are my water privileges; and night 
and day, year in year out, they grind such grist as I 
carry to them. 
Since the woodcutters, and the railroad, and I myself 
