The fisherman goes out at dawn when everyone's a bed, and from the bottom of the sea draws up his daily bread. His life is strange, half on the shore, and half upon the sea. Not quite a fish, and yet not quite the same as you and me. The fisherman has curious eyes, they make you feel so queer, as if they had seen many things of wonder and of fear. They're like the sea on foggy days, not grey nor yet quite blue. They're like the wonders tales he tells not quite yet maybe true. He knows so much of boats and tides of winds and clouds and sky, but when I tell of city things he sniffs and shuts one eye.