804 
WALDEN. 
to find it. Every winter the liquid and trembling 
surface of the pond, which was so sensitive to every 
breath, and reflected every light and shadow, becomes 
solid to the depth of a foot or a foot and a half, so that 
it will support the heaviest teams, and perchance the 
snow covers it to an equal depth, and it is not to be dis¬ 
tinguished from any level field. Like the marmots in 
the surrounding hills, it closes its eye-lids and becomes 
dormant for three months or more. Standing on the 
snow-covered plain, as if in a pasture amid the hills, I 
cut my way first through a foot of snow, and then a foot 
of ice, and open a window under my feet, where, kneel¬ 
ing to drink, I look down into the quiet parlor of the 
fishes, pervaded by a softened light as through a win¬ 
dow of ground glass, with its bright sanded floor the 
same as in summer; there a perennial waveless seren¬ 
ity reigns as in the amber twilight sky, corresponding 
to the cool and even temperament of the inhabitants. 
Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads. 
Early in the morning, while all things are crisp with 
frost, men come with fishing reels and slender lunch, 
and let down their fine lines through the snowy field to 
take pickerel and perch; wild men, who instinctively fol¬ 
low other fashions and trust other authorities than their 
townsmen, and by their goings and comings stitch towns 
together in parts where else they would be ripped. 
They sit and eat their luncheon in stout fear-naughts on 
the dry oak leaves on the shore, as wise in natural lore 
as the citizen is in artificial. They never consulted 
with books, and know and can tell much less than they 
have done. The things which they practise are said 
not yet to be known. Here is one fishing for pickerel 
with grown perch for bait. You look into his pail with 
