"Let the man play," said the good King Cole, "And give us a taste of his art,

'Neath a velvet coat oft lurks a craven soul,
While old rags hide a noble heart."

Humbly the fiddler bowed and played
Such a weird and woeful strain,

'Twas like the cry of a swooning, dying maid,
Or a soul in mortal pain.

Then so tender and sad, before the throne,
Did the sweet sounds fall and rise,

That the pitying tear-drops brightly snone
In the monarch's kindly eyes.

"Now hark," said the king, with voice so low,

'There's a story in that for me,

Of sorrow and suffering, of want and woe.

In my kingdom can such things be?"

"Nay, 'tis but a romance drawn out from his brain To show us his music's power.

A pest on such dolor, a livelier strain

Best befitted a festival hour."

So spake up the knights, but the king raised his hand And beckoned the fiddler near;

"Take my ring, honest man, but now I command The tune that you played to make clear."

"O king, dost thou know,” the fiddler said,
"How the tax has been laid upon flour,

And the price that the poor man paid for bread
Has been raised till it's double or more?

"The fathers in battle bleed and fall,
While the starving children cry;
The women toil, but their pay is small,
And the bread is very high."

The jolly old king was angry then,

"Whose work is this?" quoth he.

"He that takes the bread from the working men, For his greed shall answer to me."

"The truth is what kings do seldom hear,"

Said the player in tones so low,

"But as man to man, I'll tell without fear, The cause of the poor man's woe.

""Tis the grandeur of court and camp to maintain,

To pay for the armies all,

And the cost of the battles where blood flows like rain,
That the tax upon bread doth fall."

The knights and the courtiers started and stared,

And whispered of dungeons drear

As the fittest place for one who dared
Tell such truths in the royal ear.

But, "O player so wise," said old King Cole,

"Your debtor I ever shall be,

For your music and words have wakened my soul
To my people's misery.

"I will call back the armies who fight for naught
Save honor's empty show,

And we'll have no splendor so dearly bought,
No hollow pomp and show.

"And now for reward this night you shall take

The news to the people forsooth,

That the tax has been lifted from bread for your sake
Because you dared tell me the truth."

WIPED OUT.

What is that?

Look closer and you will see that it is a gaunt, grim wolf, creeping out of the little grove of cottonwoods towards a buffalo calf gamboling about its mother.

Raise your eyes a little more, and you will see that the prairie beyond is alive with buffalo. Count them! You might as well try to count the leaves on a giant maple! They are moving foot by foot as they crop the juicy grass, and living waves rise and fall as the herd slowly sweeps on. Afar out to the right and left, mere specks on the plain, are the flankers,-brave old buffaloes which catch a bite of grass and then sniff the air and scan the horizon for intimation of danger. They are the sentinels of the herd, and right well can they be trusted. The wolf creeps nearer!

All the afternoon the herd has fed in peace, and as it

now moves toward the distant river it is all unconscious that danger is near. Look you well and watch the wolf for you are going to see such a sight as not one man in ten thousand has ever beheld.

Creep-crawl-skulk-now behind a knoll, now drawing himself over the grass, now raising his head above a thistle to mark the locality of his victim. It is a lone, shambling, skulking wolf, lame and spiteful and treacherous. Wounded or ailing, he has been left alone to get on as best he may, and his green eyes light up with fiercer blaze as he draws nearer and nearer to his unconscious prey.

There! No, he is yet too far away. Creep, creep, creep! Now he is twenty feet away-now fifteen-now ten. He hugs the earth, gathers his feet under him, then leaps through the air as if shot from a gun. He is rolling the calf over and over on the grass in three seconds after he springs.

Now watch!

A cry of pain from the calf-a furious bellow from the mother as she wheels and charges the wolf-a startled movement from a dozen of the nearest animals, and a rush begins. The one wolf is magnified into a hundred, the hundred into a thousand. Short, sharp bellows, snorts of alarm, a rush, and in fifty seconds after the wolf has wet his fangs with blood that living mass is in motion to get away from an unknown terror. The waves rise higher and higher as the confusion spreads. One instant it seems as if ten thousand solid acres of prairie were moving bodily away; again waves rise and fall as the cowards behind rush upon those in front who wait to sniff the air and learn the danger. In one minute the alarm runs down the herd to the leaders-further than the eye can see, and the entire herd is off at a mad gallop, heads down, eyes rolling, and no thought but that of escape. If Lake Erie were to dash itself against a wall the shock would be no greater than the awful crash with which

this mass of rattling hoofs, sharp horns and hairy bodies would meet it. The clatter of hoofs and rattle of horns would drown the noise of a brigade of cavalry dashing over a stone-paved road.

Ride out on their trail. Here where the stampede. began the ground is torn and furrowed as if a thousand cannon had been firing solid shot at targets. Here and there are calves which have been gored or crushed, here and there older animals with broken legs and disabling wounds. Here, where the herd was fairly off, you might as well hunt for a gold dollar as a blade of grass. You look for three miles as you look across it. It is a trail of dirt and dust and ruts and furrows, where half an hour ago was a carpet of green grass and smiling flowers. The most dreadful cyclone known to man could not have left more horrible scars behind.

Miles away, on the bank of a winding, growling river, are three white-topped emigrant wagons. A camp-fire blazes up to boil the kettles; men, women and children stand about, peering over the setting sun at the distant mountains and glad that their journey is almost done. Butterflies come and go on lazy wing, the crickets chirp cheerily in the grass, and the eagles sailing in the blue evening air have no warning to give.

Hark! Is that thunder?

Men and women turn in their tracks as they look in vain for a cloud in the sky. That rumble comes again as they look into each other's faces. It grows louder as women turn pale and men reach for their trusty rifles. The ground trembles, and afar off comes a din which strikes terror to the heart. "Indians!" they whisper. No! A thousand times better for them if the savage Pawnee dared ride down where those long-barreled rifles could speak in defense of the peaceful camp.

"A stampede of buffaloes!" gasps one of the men as he catches sight of the advance guard under the awful cloud of dust. Rifles are held ready for a shot, and the

children climb up on the heavy wagon wheels to see the strange procession gallop past.

Here they come! Crack! crack! crack! from three rifles, and a shout as each bullet tells. Next instant a shaggy head, followed by a dust-covered body, rushes through the camp. Then another and another. The men shout and wave their hands; the women and children turn paler yet.

The roar and din shut out every other sound, and the wagons jar and tremble with the concussion. Now another shaggy head-another-half a dozen—a score--a hundred-a great living wave which sweeps along with the power of a tornado, followed by others more fierce and strong, and the camp is blotted off the face of the earth more completely than by any power of Heaven. Nothing to be seen, no shout to be heard. Wave followed wave across the spot, over the bank, into the stream and across, and when the last of the herd has passed, the keenest hunter can find on that spot nothing of wood or iron or cloth or bone or flesh to prove that a dozen men, women and children were there wiped out of existence and reduced to shred and dust.

-Detroit Free Press.

MILTIADES GETS THE BEST OF SANTA CLAUS. JOHN BROWNJOHN.

"Of course," said Miltiades Peterkin Paul,

On the day before Christmas, "I've no doubt at all
It is Santa Claus who, every Christmas eve, brings
The presents, and candy, and all the nice things
Which I find in my stocking; and, doubtless, 'tis true
That he drives six fleet reindeers and comes down the flue.
But I should like to see him! Perhaps, too, I might,
If I sat up and kept a sharp lookout to-night."

"But that never would do," explained John Henry Jack;
"He would turn straight around, and would never come

back.