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 horny 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 greasespot,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.
