SOME SOUTH AMERICAN FISHES 



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could easily fill the boat, and the catch was always 

 welcomed on board, as the fish tasted like grey 

 mullet (which they resembled in appearance), and 

 a capital relish when pickled in vinegar made 

 with peppercorns. 



Catching rock-cod was capital sport, and there 

 was a constant demand for them by certain 

 skippers I knew, who, in return, used to provide 

 my ship with a turtle or turkey for cabin use. 



From the wooden piles of the lofty pier at 

 North Island, I used to gather as many mussels 

 as my little boat would hold, and before starting 

 off, used to open them and store the contents in 

 a large tin of salt water, and thus have them at 

 hand while fishing. 



With a fair wind the small craft would bound 

 over the wavelets, and carry me safely to the 

 lonely Middle and South Islands of the Chincha 

 group, where, in the channel between the two, 

 I would anchor in deep water alongside some big 

 rock, that stretched out from the precipitous shore. 

 I used to feel like Robinson Crusoe, for there was 

 no sign of humanity around me ; no living thing, 

 save birds above, and as I hoped fishes below, 

 neither was there a building on either of the 

 islands. 



The sun shone brightly, the sky was intensely 



