The next morning, as we were threading the narrow channels by which the inland passage is made from St. Mary’s to Savannah, we saw, from time to time, alligators basking on the banks.  Some of our fellow-passengers took rifles and shot at them as we went by.  The smaller ones were often killed, the larger generally took the rifle-balls upon their impenetrable backs, and walked, apparently unhurt, into the water.  One of these monstrous creatures I saw receive his death-wound, having been fired at twice, the balls probably entering at the eyes.  In his agony he dashed swiftly through the water for a little distance, and turning rushed with equal rapidity in the opposite direction, the strokes of his strong arms throwing half his length above the surface.  The next moment he had turned over and lay lifeless, with his great claws upward.  A sallow-complexioned man from Burke county, in Georgia, who spoke a kind of negro dialect, was one of the most active in this sport, and often said to the bystanders.  “I hit the ’gator that time, I did.”  We passed where two of these huge reptiles were lying on the bank among the rank sedges, one of them with his head towards us.  A rifle-ball from the steamer, struck the ground just before his face, and he immediately made for the water, dragging, with his awkward legs, a huge body of about fifteen feet in length.  A shower of balls fell about him as he reached the river, but he paddled along with as little apparent concern as the steamboat we were in.

The tail of the alligator is said to be no bad eating, and the negroes are fond of it.  I have heard, however, that the wife of a South Carolina cracker once declared her dislike of it in the following terms: 

“Coon and collards is pretty good fixins, but ’gator and turnips I can’t go, no how.”

Collards, you will understand, are a kind of cabbage.  In this country, you will often hear of long collards, a favorite dish of the planter.

Among the marksmen who were engaged in shooting alligators, were two or three expert chewers of the Indian weed—­frank and careless spitters—­who had never been disciplined by the fear of woman into any hypocritical concealment of their talent, or unmanly reserve in its exhibition.  I perceived, from a remark which one of them let fall, that somehow they connected this accomplishment with high breeding.  He was speaking of four negroes who were hanged in Georgia on a charge of murdering their owner.

“One of them,” said he, “was innocent.  They made no confession, but held up their heads, chawed their tobacco, and spit about like any gentlemen.”

You have here the last of my letters from the south.  Savannah, which I left wearing almost a wintry aspect, is now in the full verdure of summer.  The locust-trees are in blossom; the water-oaks, which were shedding their winter foliage, are now thick with young and glossy leaves; the Pride of India is ready to burst into flower, and the gardens are full of roses in bloom.