The next morning, at the very break of day fixed for our deer hunt, the negro boys commenced tooting horns. As soon as I could see, I looked out of my windows and there saw four old lean, lank dogs, lifeless looking creatures, and four marsh tackeys, decorated, front and rear, with an abundance of burrs. Off we went, as sorry a looking company as one’s eye had ever seen, with a crowd of half-naked children following the procession. We were out eight hours, went through swamp after swamp, our tackeys up to their fetlocks in mud, and sorry a deer did we see. One wild turkey flew over us, which my host’s colored huntsman killed, the only man in the party who could shoot at all. Returning to Savannah, we went after quail. One morning, being some fourteen miles from the city, we felt famished, having provided no lunch basket. I asked a friend, who was shooting with us and acting as our guide, if there was a white man’s house within a mile or two where we could get a biscuit. He replied, “No, not one.” I pressed the matter, saying, “We must have a bite of something,” and urged him to think again. He reflected, and then said, as if to himself, “Oh, no use to go there, we will get nothing.” I took him up at once. “What do you refer to,” I said. “Oh,” he replied, “there is a white man who lives within a mile of us, but he is the meanest creature that lives and will have nothing to give us.” “Who is he?” I exclaimed. He gave me his name. “What,” said I, “Mr. Jones, who goes to Newport every summer?” “The same,” said he; “do you know him?” “Know him?” I answered, “why, man, I know no one else. He has for years asked me to visit his plantation. He lives like a prince. I saw him at a great fête at Ochre Point, Newport, several years ago. He turned up his nose at everything there, saying to me, ‘Why, my dear fellow, these people don’t know how to live. This fête is nothing to what I can do, at my place. Why, sir, I have so much silver I dare not keep it in my house. The vaults of the State Bank of Georgia are filled with my silver. This fête may be well enough here, but come to me at the South, come to my plantation, and I will show you what a fête is. I will show you how to live.’” My friend listened to all this with astonishment. “Well,” said he, “I have nothing to say. That is ‘big’ talk. Go on to your friend’s place and see what you will find.” On we moved, four as hungry men as you could well see. We reached the plantation, on which we found a one-story log cabin, with a front piazza, one large center room, and two shed rooms. There was a small yard, inclosed with pine palings to keep out the pigs, who were ranging about and ineffectually trying to gain an entrance. We entered the house, and, seeing an old colored man, my Southern friend opened on the old darkey with: “Where is your master?” “In Savannah, sir.” “When does he dine?” “At six o’clock, sir.” “What have you got for his dinner, old man?” “Pea pie.”