There are plenty of wild fowl, but a scarcity of all such animal food as beef or mutton, in consequence of there being so little grazing land, and that little is of very poor quality; the cattle they do raise is of the most inferior order--Pharaoh’s lean kine; and as they are not able to satisfy their own appetites, are not qualified to gratify ours. The native meats are tough and flavourless. Private families get along very well with the articles of consumption enumerated above. The good sirloin or succulent saddle is rarely seen upon their tables, though the hotels import largely; indeed, throughout Georgia, Carolina, &c., the substantials are always supplied from the eastern states. Our bill of fare reads thus:--“Tennessee beef,” “Boston pork,” “New York mutton,” and even “New York lamb.” On a sunny morning we take our first ramble through the “forest city” of Savannah, and how well it deserves the name! It seems to have grown out of the very heart of the “forest primeval,” whose giant progeny still keep guard over the nest of human kind. Whichever way we turn, we look through long vistas of shady streets crossing each other at right angles; at each of these crossings, throughout the entire city, is an open space laid out as a pretty little pleasaunce or toy garden, carpeted with soft turf and tiny beds of bright flowers, and sometimes planted with green shrubberies, while the fine old forest trees, which time and civilisation have left standing, spread their wide branches for colonies of wild birds to build and sing in. These spaces are like slightly improved miniature editions of Paddington Green, but every one, though it be but twelve foot square, is dignified by the name of “park.” Some of the widest thoroughfares have four rows of trees planted the entire length, the branches here and there meeting overhead, forming a perfect archway, while the open street cars on the Central Avenue beneath seem to carry us along through primeval bowers of luxuriant green; we can hardly believe that anything so prosaic as “iron rails” supply part of the motive power. We find these open street cars a most convenient and pleasant mode of locomotion, and spend much time riding about the city in this democratic fashion, for the streets are ill-kept and dusty, and the roadways sometimes a foot deep with heavy sand, so that it is impossible either to walk or drive in a private vehicle with any comfort. Once we are attracted by big red letters painted on a car side “Concordia,” “Forsyth Park.” Everybody says we must go there; we take everybody’s advice, and, as usual, find “nothing in it.” Concordia is a fine name for a small tea-garden; Forsyth is a pretty shady spot, though it might be railed into a small corner of Kensington Gardens; but the warm southern breeze, and the oleander, orange, lemon, and magnolia--although the latter is not yet in bloom--have made our short expedition a most agreeable one.