The Fisherman Piping

There was once a fisherman who was skilled in playing the flute. His notes were clear and pleasant, and he took some pride in them. One morning he went down to the seashore carrying both his flute and his nets. The waves struck the rocks below him, gulls cried in the distance, and now and then the silver backs of fish flashed beneath the water.

The fisherman placed his net below a jutting rock and said to himself, “If I play sweetly enough, surely the fish will be charmed. They will dance of their own accord into my net, and I shall have a fine catch without casting it.” So he lifted the flute and began to play.

Tune after tune floated over the water. Some were lively, some were soft, and some wound through the sea air like thin ribbons. But the fish did not obey his music. They swam where they pleased. A few came near, then turned away. None leaped into the waiting net.

At last the fisherman grew tired. The sun was climbing higher, the stone beneath his feet was warm, and hunger made his patience short. He laid aside the flute, took up his net, and cast it strongly into the sea. When he drew it back, it was filled with fish, all leaping and striking their tails against the mesh.

The fisherman looked at them and said, “Strange creatures! When I piped, you would not dance, but now that I have stopped, you dance merrily enough.” Yet he knew well what had changed. Music had not brought the catch; the cast net had.