venison.  Nor, perhaps, can one imagine the universal doom overtaking a creature with less misery than in the case of the bird who, in the very moment of his triumphant soaring, is brought dead to the ground.  I should like to bargain for such a finis myself, amazingly, I know; and have always thought that the death I should prefer would be to break my neck off the back of my horse at a full gallop on a fine day.  Of course a bad shot should be hung—­a man who shatters his birds’ wings and legs; if I undertook the trade, I would learn of some Southern duellist, and always shoot my bird through the head or heart—­as an expert murderer knows how.  Besides these birds of which we make our prey, there are others that prey upon their own fraternity.  Hawks of every sort and size wheel their steady rounds above the rice-fields; and the great turkey buzzards—­those most unsightly carrion birds—­spread their broad black wings, and soar over the river like so many mock eagles.  I do not know that I ever saw any winged creature of so forbidding an aspect as these same turkey buzzards; their heavy flight, their awkward gait, their bald-looking head and neck, and their devotion to every species of foul and detestable food, render them almost abhorrent to me.  They abound in the South, and in Charleston are held in especial veneration for their scavenger-like propensities, killing one of them being, I believe, a fineable offence by the city police regulations.  Among the Brobdignagian sedges that in some parts of the island fringe the Altamaha, the nightshade (apparently the same as the European creeper) weaves a perfect matting of its poisonous garlands, and my remembrance of its prevalence in the woods and hedges of England did not reconcile me to its appearance here.  How much of this is mere association I cannot tell; but whether the wild duck makes its nest under its green arches, or the alligators and snakes of the Altamaha have their secret bowers there, it is an evil-looking weed, and I shall have every leaf of it cleared away.

I must inform you of a curious conversation which took place between my little girl and the woman who performs for us the offices of chambermaid here—­of course one of Mr. ——­’s slaves.  What suggested it to the child, or whence indeed she gathered her information, I know not; but children are made of eyes and ears, and nothing, however minute, escapes their microscopic observation.  She suddenly began addressing this woman.  ’Mary, some persons are free and some are not (the woman made no reply).  I am a free person (of a little more than three years old).  I say, I am a free person, Mary—­do you know that?’ ‘Yes, missis.’  ’Some persons are free and some are not—­do you know that, Mary?’ ‘Yes, missis, here,’ was the reply; ‘I know it is so here, in this world.’  Here my child’s white nurse, my dear Margery, who had hitherto been silent, interfered, saying, ’Oh, then you think it will not always be so?’ ‘Me hope not, missis.’  I am afraid, E——­,