There was no unfavorable change in the weather, and we cruised for three weeks without getting a whale, or even raising a spout. One morning, however, after a rather thick haze had cleared away somewhat, we found ourselves within half a mile of a pod of six or seven, which were lying on the surface, spouting lazily. They did not seem to be feeding, and I remember that I had heard a distant splash while it was still too thick to see them, and Peter, to whom I had turned inquiringly, had said that it was likely a whale breaching. Almost everybody on board had heard it, and the lookouts were doubled. They fully expected to sight whales, and they did sight them from the masthead before we could see them from the deck. No cry was given, but the men came down and reported. There was hardly a breath of wind, and sound would carry easily in that weather. Indeed, it was uncanny. There seemed to be streaks or columns in the air which reflected the sound in the strangest ways, or acted like a lens for sound, at one moment utterly cutting off sounds that originated but a short distance away, and at the next moment sending to us clearly faint noises made by the pod of whales at a half-mile distance. Boats were lowered with the utmost care not to make a noise, even being put into the water one end first, to avoid any splash. The men were cautioned not to talk, and they sat silent in their boats, cast off the falls quietly, and took to their paddles as soon as the boats were in the water. It was of no use, however. The whales were keeping tabs on us, and went down quietly when a boat was within quarter of a mile of them, coming up half a mile away. It was exasperating. There were whales almost at the side, more than we had taken {174} in six months, and we could not get near them; and after trying for hours, the boats were called back to the ship. I do not remember that I felt any disappointment, however. To tell the truth, I was rather hoping for a pampero. It is not a fish, but a wind. I had some vague recollection of the brief description in Warren’s Physical Geography as a cold southwest wind which originates in the Andes, and sweeps with great violence over the pampas of Buenos Ayres, and is felt for some leagues at sea. My only comment on this description is that I don’t believe it for a minute. We were cruising just south of the latitude of Buenos Ayres, three or four hundred miles from the coast. No wind whose origin is purely local, in mountains even as high as the Andes, is at all likely to be of the violence of the sample we had, after traversing the width of a continent—narrow as it is at this latitude—and four hundred miles of ocean. They must be fed from the pampas, be supplied with energy, at least; and it seems much more reasonable to me to believe that these winds originate over the pampas. They are of the nature of a thunder-squall, and very probably of similar origin. But Warren can hardly be considered a recent authority.