it would be useless to attempt to specify them: and besides, everybody knows who they are. We would begin with the Politicians, and end with the Brokers. And then the Millennium would begin, "sure pop."

---

TROUBLE FOR THE RISING GENERATION.

Mr. PUNCHINELLO has often thought with what melancholy feelings the naughty boys must gaze upon a fine grove of growing birches; but what pangs would a knowing child experience upon finding himself in Randolph county, Illinois, where they raise twelve bushels of castor-oil beans to the acre! Of what depths of juvenile wretchedness and precocious misanthropy is that crop suggestive! We see it all—the anxious parent—the solemn doctor—the writhing patient—the glass—the spoon! Howls like those of a battle-field, only less so, fill the air. The wretched victim of pharmacy, conquered at last, gives one desperate gulp to save himself from strangulation, and all is over! Ye who remember your boyhood's home! tell us if there was any joke in all this!

---

THE GREAT MODERN O MISSION.—The English Mission.

---

"THE HARPY."

[1]

      A famous foreign writer offered us £500 to print this Pearl
Street, but we wouldn't do it for double the money.—[ED.]

---

WEAPONS THAT TAMMANY HALL CAN NEVER BE TAKEN BY.—SHARPE'S Rifles.

---

HIRAM GREEN AT THE BROOKLYN NAVY-YARD.

Bread and Butter vs. Old Cheese.

I hadent got but a little ways into the Navy-Yard, when a soljer steps up before me, and pintin his bagonet at my throack, said:

"Pass."

I stepped tother side of him to obey his orders, when he agin pinted his gun at me and said:

"Pass."

Thinkin I was on the rong side of him, I undertook to pass into the middle of the road, when he vociferated in louder tones:

"Pass!"

"Well," says I, by this time considerably riled at sich skanderlous treatment at the hands of this goverment, "if you'l stop rammin your bagonet into my hash digester and let me pass, ile be hily tickled."

I was madder than if I had been a candidate for offis, and dident get elected.

"See here, Mister hard-tack Cowpenner," said I, addressin him, "how dare you stop me in this ere outragous manner? You say 'pass,' and when I try to pass, you jab at my innards with that mustick in a rather oncomfortable manner. What do you mean?"

"I mean, sir," said he, sholderin his shootin iron, "that if you want to go further, you must get a pass from the offis across the way."

"Oho! that's a gooseberry pie of a different flavor," said I, coolin off; "why dident you say so before?" and I pinted for the offis to get the pass.

After bein put through a course of red tape, such as feelin of my pultz, lookin down my throte, and soundin me on my Spread Eagleism, I got the pass.

While on my tower of observashuns, a mechanikle lookin individual approched me, and says:

"Good mornin, Congressman WEBSTER."

I turned in cirprise, as several other men dropped their tools and rushed out and surrounded me.

"God bless you, Mister WEBSTER!" said one.

"Make way for the noble and good WEBSTER," said another.

"Let me kiss the hand of the great statesman," says a third, fallin to and gettin my thumb in his mouth.

"Mister WEBSTER, take care of me, I am yours to command," says a 4th, who jumped wildly for an old tobacker cud I had just throde away.

On all sides, men was fallin down to worship me, just as if I was the Golden Calf, spoken of in scripters, or else some great poletikle Mogul, with a pocket full of blank commissions, ready to be filled out for good fat offises.

All of a sudden, it popped into my mind that these 8 hour sons of toil hadent heard that DANIEL WEBSTER was dead, or else dident see the joak, when DAN said: "I aint dead," and supposed from my likeness to him that I was D. WEBSTER.

I couldent blame 'em for makin such a mistake, when I reccolected the time I was introjuced to the great man. It was when I was Gustise of the Peace.

As our hands clasped each other, we was both revitted to the spot, and the rivets was clinched tite.

"What! it can't be possible!" said Mr. WEBSTER, the first to break the silence. "Well if you haint another WEBSTER, you'l pass for D. WEBSTER'S bust, any day."

"And," said I, wishin to return the compliment, "if you haint Green, you can pass any time for GREEN on a bust."

This was one of my witcisms, and it made DANIEL blurt with lafter.

But, Mister PUNCHINELLO, me and WEBSTER looked so much alike, that if his tailor had sent him a soot of clothes at that time, I believe, in the confusion, that just as like as not, I should have thought I was WEBSTER, and wore off the clothes.

But, to "retrace my tale," as the canine said, when a flee was suckin the heart's blood from his cordil appendige—

"Well, my friends," said I, humerin these men in their mistake, "what can I do for you down to Washington?"

"Do for us? thou great and mitey!" said they all to once, "keep us into offis—we 'go' you, Nov. 8th."

"Well," said I, "my good men, my word is law down to Washington. Everybody respects the great DANIL WEBSTER."

"Eh!—who—what," exclaimed several.

"I say that I, DANIL WEBSTER, is great guns with the goverment," was my reply.

"DANIEL WEBSTER be d—d," said the ring-leader. "No, Sir! ED WEBSTER, the nominee for Congress, and Wet Nurse pro tem. over Unkle Sam's family in this 'ere nursery, is the man we're after. Haint you that man?"

"You don't mean the chap who was U.S. Assessor, agin whom I heard them Wall street brokers and scalpers cussin and swearin like a lot of Rocky Mountin savages chock full of fluid pirotecknicks, because he made them pay a goverment tax?"

"The same! the same!" they all hollered.

"Well! sweet wooers of the bread and butter brigade," said I, "speakin after the manner of men, you've got ontop the rong hencoop this time. As Shakspeer, who is now dead and gone, says:—

They left me, yes, they left me. I wasent the man, but some awdacious retch had sot 'em on tellin 'em I was the man.

Surgeon GOODBLOOD, of the man o' war Vermont, then took me under his charge. I found him one of them noble docters, under whose perscriptions a man could enjoy 'kickin the bucket.'

He took me to see the soljers drill.

"Thems the Marines," said he, pintin to the bloo cotes.

"Sho! you don't say?" says I. "Are them those obligin gentlemen who are allways ready to listen to what is told 'em?"

"Yes," says the Dr.; "anything nobody else believes, we tell to the Marines."

I mite okepy your hul paper tellin all about the war vessels, pattent torpedoes, monitors, and sich, which I saw, but will close with the remark:

That old rats never pile livlier onto roasted cheese, than a bread and butter patriot does onto candidates who has the cuttin of a good fat loaf. That's wisdom which will wash.

Ewers,

HIRAM GREEN, Esq.,

Lait Gustise of the Peece.

---

SIMILE USED UP.

We regret to state, that in consequence of a late discovery by one BÉCHAMP, of living things in chalk (he has actually seen 'em wriggle!) we are no longer at liberty to say, "As different as Chalk and Cheese." The difference is gone! If it is not, we would ask, where is it?

It is true, chalk is not in so general use, as an article of diet, as cheese, except in boarding-schools; but the difference is plainly one of degree rather than of kind. We have heard of "prepared chalk." It has been whispered that gentle spinsters use it for a beautifyer. We rather incline to the belief that it is prepared for the inside rather than the outside of humanity.

At any rate, the two articles now agree in their most prominent characteristics—which they did not, till M. BÉCHAMP looked into the matter with his microscope.

'Tis thus, alas! our cherished similes are going. One by one are they Bé-champ-ed (or chawed up) by the voracious creatures who hunger and thirst after novelty. Why, we expect to be told, ere long,—and have it proved to us,—that the Moon after all is actually and truly made of Green Cheese. And there will go another fond comparison! Nay, more;—perhaps Cheese itself is but Chalk, in its incipient stages of development,—with the tenantry already secured, however, that make it so lively inside.—Si sic Omnes.

---

To Our Youthful Friends.

We wish to do all in our power to keep the world cheerful. If there is a youth of our acquaintance who despairs of ever raising a fine moustache, we would remind him of that comforting apothegm of the Spanish: "Un cabello haze sombra"—"The least hair makes a shadow." Courage, lad! and do not cast that shadow from thy lip. If there is a single hair already there, it is a manly and noble thing!

---

"Done Brown."

"TOM BROWN" is not looked upon as a sheepish person, and yet, the English of his name is ewes ('ughes).

---

---

POEMS OF THE CRADLE.

CANTO X.

Some people have a very curious way of doing things. Nowadays when the world has advanced by prodigious strides almost to the limit of civilization, and having no further to go, is debating within itself whether it shall lie down and take a rest, a man don't go to so much trouble to have his eyes out. The age is a fast one, you know; so, when the man feels like having his glims doused, he just jumps into the midst of a crowd of real b'hoys, runs his head, good-naturedly, you know, against a pair of knuckles, and the business is settled with "neatness and despatch," as the job-printers say.

How different our poet's description. He must have been a man of wonderful experience; and foresight, let us add, since from his simple yet wonderfully powerful sketches there is gained an insight into all the mysterious workings of humanity, from the lulling of the babe in the cradle, the ruthless disruption of the apron-string that he is led with, because some naughty little boys laughed at him, to the tolling of the bell by the old sexton over another dead.

Well, there is no use in moralizing. The tale is before us, graphically drawn; and to the reader is left naught but the pleasure of contemplating its beauties. In his pithy way the poet describes a man who, though possessed of some good qualities, evidently did not know how to use them. Though the poet has never yet touched upon politics, yet the careful reader will find that the hero of the sketch must have been a young Democrat, since he is made to appear very nimble, and has a fondness, partial to himself, of getting into rather thorny places. What led him into those dangerous places we have very little chance of knowing. "He was wondrous wise," saith the poet, and forsooth he jumps into a bramble-bush, the last place in the world where a wise man is to be found. But then, perhaps, a tincture of irony flew from our poet's pen; the hero was wise in his own esteem, perhaps; or was wise in the opinion of his friends, whose wisdom seemed to be consummated in doing something ridiculous.

It is very fortunate for the social welfare of community that all its actions should not be sublime. Mankind would become too serious and morose and cynical, and life would be a burden. The ridiculous makes it enjoyable, but at the expense of those who cause the ridicule. Man must laugh, no matter what the cost to the object laughed at.

Ordinary intelligence would have decided the fate of the wise individual who found no other use for his eyes but to scratch them out in a bramble-bush. But our poet dealeth otherwise with his portraits. He shows us the fate of an overwrought, badly instilled wisdom; yet when that wisdom has been deserted by its cause, the promptings of a heart, pure at the core, hold up to contempt the mad teachings of the sophist.

continues the poet, in a sense not entirely literal, for reasons which are not necessary to be explained, this man of wondrous wisdom saw that he had been made a dupe. Cunning as a fox were his would-be friends; but having got him to the bush, there they let him gambol as he would, ensnaring him to his own almost utter ruin.

A new light flashes upon his brain; his folly appears plainly to his mind; he had ruthlessly deserted