In a far distant land, beyond the sea, there dwelt an Orange Lily.  Separated from it by a very absurd and useless ditch, a Green Shamrock spread its trefoil leafage to the sun, and grew greener every day.  Now, in course of time, a very ill feeling sprang up between the Lily and the Shamrock, on account of color, the former despising the latter because it was green, and the latter hating the former because it was orange—­as if both colors hadn’t lived together in the rainbow ever since the aquatic excursion of old Mr. NOAH, without ever falling out of it or with each other.  In time they both crossed the sea, and took root in a far-away land, where they became acquainted with a very remarkable animal called the American Beaver.

The industry of this creature urged the Lily to toil and spin, contrary to its usual habits, while the Shamrock converted its trifoliated leaves into shovels, and took a contract for excavating the hemisphere.  And so they might have jogged on very well together, but for their stupid way of showing their colors when there was no occasion for it.  This greatly disgusted their friend, the American Beaver, who didn’t care a pinch of snuff about color, (black is not a color, you know,) but who went in for faithful and persistent work.  One beautiful Twelfth of July, the Lily arose very early in the morning, and, shaking out her orange leaves, defied the Shamrock to “come on.”  The Shamrock came on.  There was a vegetable howl, and clash, and clangor in the air, and the Lily, having knocked off several of the Shamrocks’ greenest leaves, went to its friend, the American Beaver, for comfort and support.  But the American Beaver, instead of countenancing the Lily, said:  “Look here, Lily, I guess you are about the greatest fool I ever did see, except, perhaps, the Shamrock.  As long as you two stick to your work, instead of sticking out your colors and sticking your knives into each other, I am very glad to have you for neighbors, but now that you have shown yourselves to be jack-asses instead of vegetables, I would not give an American Beaver dam for the two of you.”

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CONDENSED CONGRESS.

SENATE.

A pleasant philosopher tells us that blessings brighten as they take their flight.  The flight of Congress may be regarded as a blessing.  But Congressmen do not brighten.  PUNCHINELLO listens in vain for the swan song of SUMNER, and looks longingly, without being gratified by the spectacle of the oratorical funeral pyre of NYE.  Almost the only gleam of humor he discerns in his weekly wading through the watery and windy wastes of the Congressional Globe is a comic coruscation by Mr. CAMERON.