Show SAINTS AND SINNERS during certain seasons of the year emerson Is one of our saints his idealism is too balmy for winter it has all the transparency of mountain altitudes and summer skies with the first breath of spring we overhaul our fishing tackle and get out the well worn volume of the concord seer those not in the secret may wonder at this strange conjunction and hastily conclude it to be paradoxical were they acquainted with that excellent work of divinity entitled the complete angler they could not fall fail to detect the unreasoned logic of our action indeed we might refer them to the new testament as a justification of our hooking a bunch h of tangled flies into the pages of nature the founders of the new religion were fishermen christianity did not begin with a revival in some stuffy temple it had its birth in the open air by the dancing waves of galilee Gal where honest hard bard handed men were at the loved task of mend kig their nets every fisherman knows what that means jesus happened on them at just the right time did he implore them to pray did he seek to have them converted did he preach to them on the necessity of getting religion read the chapter in matthew he simply asked them to come with him and he would show them better fishing only a passion mighty as that which jesus inspired could have caused them to throw down their nets and follow him it is curious to note how after the blasting of great hopes their hearts went back to their beloved galilee Gal 1 I go a fishing said peter and he put into words the yearning of the others we dwellers in the city who strive unto weariness and blasted hopes know only too well how poor peter felt these are the days when we long to go a we have looked over the old tackles with such loving care into every snarl were woven a score 0 of f rare memories we picked them out as we pulled at the worn fragments of fixture these hours of net mending are the hours of devotion to the born angler anglers are born as are poets the spirit of father walton bears us away at times from the roar of the great strife we enter a realm where only kindred souls are found the east wind never blows when we go a in our dreams the days are always golden and jeweled with such joys as only the fisherman appreciates at their true worth this day of dreams is too idyllic tor for prose description the evening draws on the night deepens and the stars come out one by one soon we will go to our slumber and dream of the morrow dream of clear skies soft breezes brooks and birds six sir ah the pain of it we too have been toiling all night and have taken nothing nothing but the memory of a dream that will haunt us ns through all the weary hours of our commonplace toll toil |