* *

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 su