There once was a man who was standing by a large pond, with a fishing
rod and the line out in the water.  He always seemed to be at some
spot around the pond, sometimes walking, sometimes standing, sometimes
sitting in the shade.  Where people would walk by and ask him what he
was doing, he'd just smile at them kindly, shrug, and tell them he was
fishing.  And he certainly had the gear, as he had a pole, a bucket,
some worms, a line.  But he never seemed to have any fish, or if
perchance he might have one, it would only be a tiny little thing.  He
would always assert, though, that a big one was on the way, or that he
felt a tug on the line at just that instant, if someone asked him
about his luck.  Some people even suggested to him that he might try
another pond, but he insisted that he say there, as he knew the nooks
and crannies of the pond well and knew where "all the best spots" to
go fishing were.  When at long last he died of starvation, the
saddened people discovered why he had caught so few fish -- he had not
been using any hooks.