While my wife and I were reading on the deck-house this morning we observed the wee cook in transports of delight, the cause of which became apparent when he held up a fine bonito. We went down to look at it, and then perceived two men on the jib-boom end fishing for them, so we climbed up on the top-gallant forecastle-head to watch the sport. It was delightful up there, cool and breezy from the gush that whirled out of the curve of the foresail. We braced ourselves against the knight-heads and, looking down over the lofty, flaring bows, we could see dozens of bonitos darting swiftly about the cut-water as we swept grandly on through the blue, transparent sea. Far out on the tapering end of the spar were Charley and Olsen; the former with the line in his hand, the hook being concealed by that singular and universal deep-sea bait, a bit of white cotton cloth. Charley kept the hook just touching the surface, except when he jerked it sharply upward, in imitation of the flight of the flying-fish, which form the principal food of the voracious bonito. It would be all but impossible to conceive a more beautiful scene than that which fascinated us for half an hour. The fish themselves were of the most exquisite colors, some brilliant blue, some magenta, others of a rich purple; and as they flashed through the water with incredible speed, twisting and twirling about in pursuit of their prey, with now and then a gleam of silvery white from their under parts, they looked not unlike segments of a vivid rainbow. Presently one would shoot clear out of the water for the bait, straight and swift as a dart, and seize it in his toothless but greedy jaws. A great churning and splashing would follow, and then Charlie, almost hysterical with excitement, would haul up the lithe, handsome creature, quivering and vibrating as though galvanized. No sooner would he be hooked than perhaps a hundred flying-fish would break through the surface and sail gleaming away for a few rods, only to fall into the rapacious mouths of their enemies. The spectacle was one long to be cherished: the whizzing flight of the glittering little fish, the lustrous-hued bonitos, the tranquil surface of the ocean, broken here and there with foaming ripples, and the lofty tiers of canvas rearing themselves higher and higher toward the clouds.