Oh the brave Fisher's life,
It is the best of any,
'Tis full of pleasure, void of read more

Oh the brave Fisher's life,
It is the best of any,
'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife,
And 'tis belov'd of many:
Other joys Are but toys;
Only this Lawful is,
For our skill Breeds no ill,
But content and pleasure.

And he saith unto them, Follow me, and I will make you fishers of
men.

And he saith unto them, Follow me, and I will make you fishers of
men.

Can the fish love the fisherman?
[Lat., Piscatorem piscis amare potest?]

Can the fish love the fisherman?
[Lat., Piscatorem piscis amare potest?]

He who holds the hook is aware in what waters many fish are
swimming.
[Lat., Qui sustinet hamos,
read more

He who holds the hook is aware in what waters many fish are
swimming.
[Lat., Qui sustinet hamos,
Novit, quae multo pisce natentur aquae.]

Three fishers went sailing away to the west,
Away to the west as the sun went down;
read more

Three fishers went sailing away to the west,
Away to the west as the sun went down;
Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town.

The fisherman could perhaps be bought for less than the fish.
[Lat., Potuit fortasse minoria
Piscator quam read more

The fisherman could perhaps be bought for less than the fish.
[Lat., Potuit fortasse minoria
Piscator quam piscis emi.]

The fisher droppeth his net in the stream,
And a hundred streams are the same as one;
read more

The fisher droppeth his net in the stream,
And a hundred streams are the same as one;
And the maiden dreameth her love-lit dream;
And what is it all, when all is done?
The net of the fisher the burden breaks,
And always the dreaming the dreamer wakes.

Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of
course I usually read more

Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of
course I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends
think I shouldn't. Like many fly fishermen in western Montana
where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not
start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic
half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my
soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a
four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.

Meek Walton's heavenly memory.

Meek Walton's heavenly memory.