Oh, unhappy day! Oh, joyless hour! We could not weather South America after all! Late yesterday afternoon when I had plotted the run off on our own chart, I sought the skipper and said to him, “Unless my chart is out, we’re not more than forty miles off the land.” “No,” he answered, quietly; “we’re just thirty miles from the beach, and I’m going to wear ship at six.” How bitter was his tone as he said this! Bitter and calm with despair, for that which he said in jest three weeks ago has truly come to pass. Far back in the North Atlantic one morning, when we were not far enough to the eastward for that latitude, I asked the captain if he weren’t generally farther east than we were then. But he made light of it, trusting to his star of luck, as he jocosely answered, “Oh, well, maybe we’ll have a chance to look at Brazil.” Prophetic utterance. No one knows until he has “been there” how it galls a skipper to be caught here, for it often puts two or three weeks on the length of a voyage. At any rate, when six o’clock came last evening we wore ship to a running and complicated accompaniment of boisterous profanity, and stood away east on the starboard tack. If the Trades were where the general average shows that they ought to be at this season, east-southeast instead of south-southeast as they are, we would have fetched by with two or three degrees to spare. The breeze was pretty strong when we turned in last night, and gave evidence of freshening considerably; but no one looked for any such wind as we had this morning. We were awakened by the loud voice of Captain Scruggs, “Haul up the crojjick, Mr. Rarx,” and five minutes afterwards, “Clew up the t’ga’nt-s’ls fore and aft,” while a sudden headlong dive showed that something more than a strong breeze was blowing. Dressing was difficult, and when we finally emerged from the companion-way, behold the ocean almost white with breaking seas and a moderate gale whistling from south-southeast. The seas were short and we plunged heavily into them with an unpleasant jerk; but it was a glorious sight to watch the billows as they came roaring at us, deep blue in the hollows and crested with hissing froth. We hadn’t been more than half an hour on deck when the captain sung out, “Haul down the maintop-mast stay-sail and clew up the main-sail,” which meant that we were going to wear again and stand in shore. We were nearly in the wind on the other tack, and the second mate had just roared out, “Head-yards now,” when crash! a tall sea fell over the weather side and full upon the wee Chinese cook, the meekest, jolliest little fellow imaginable. He was standing outside of the galley door when that sea claimed him. It slammed him first against the main hatch; washed him back into the scuppers; then aft nearly to the cabin bulkhead, and finally sat him fiercely down by the pumps, during which evolutions the frail little fellow could be perceived shooting about in the surging waters, his