He grew as a red-headed thistle
Might grow, a mere vagabond weed--
Little Frieder--as gay with his whistle
As water-wagtail on a reed--
Blithe that was indeed!
He had a little old fiddle,
A shabby and wonderful thing,
Patched at end, patched and glued in the middle
Oft lacking a key or a string,
But, oh, it could sing!
Barber's 'prentice was Frieder, but having
No sense of the true barber's art,
He cut every face in the shaving,
Pulled hair, and left gashes and smart,
Getting blows for his part.
Blows he liked not, and so off he started
One morning, his fortune to seek,
Comb and fiddle his all, yet light-hearted
As long as his fiddle could squeak,
Be it ever so weak.
Ran away! Highway rutted or dusty
Seemed velvety grass to his feet;
Sang the birds; his own stout legs were trusty;
To his hunger a black crust was sweet,
And life seemed complete.
Towards twilight he came to a meadow
Where a lovely green water, outlaid
Like a looking-glass, held in clear shadow
Low iris-grown shores--every blade
Its double had made.
Neck, the Nixie, lived under this water,
In a palace of glass, far below
Where fishes might swim, or the otter
Could dive, or a sunbeam could go,
Or a lily root grow.
And, lo, Frieder spied him that minute
In a little red coat, sitting there
By the pond, with his feet hanging in it,
And clawing his knotted green hair
In a comic despair.
Green hair, full of duck weed, and tangled
With snail shells, and moss and eel-grass
It was, and it straggled and dangled
Over forehead and shoulders--alas,
A wild hopeless mass.
"Good evening," hailed Frieder, "I know you,
Sir Neck, the Pond Nixie! I pray
You will come to the shore, and I'll show you
How hair should be combed, if I may,
The real barber's way."
Neck swam like a frog to him, grinning,
And Frieder attacked the green mane
That had neither end nor beginning!
Neck bore like a hero the strain
Of the pulling and pain.
Till at length, without whimper or whining
The task of the combing was done,
And each lock was as smooth and as shining
As long iris leaves in the sun--
Soft as silk that is spun.
Then Neck thrust his hand in the rushes
And pulled out his own violin,
And played--why, it seemed as if thrushes
Had song-perches under his chin,
So sweet was the din.
The barber boy's heart fell to throbbing;
"Herr Neck"--this was all he could say,
Between fits of laughing and sobbing--
"Herr Neck, oh, pray teach me to play
In that wonderful way!"
Neck glanced at the comb. "Will you give it
For this little fiddle?" he cried.
"My comb--why, of course you can have it,
And jacket and supper beside!"
Eager Frieder replied.
Neck flung down his fiddle, and catching
The comb at arm's length, dived below.
And Frieder, the instrument snatching
Across the weird strings drew the bow,
To and fro--to and fro!
Till out of the forest came springing
Roebuck and rabbit and deer;
Till the nightingale stopped in its singing
And the black flitter-mice crowded near,
The sweet music to hear.
* * * * *
Forth from that moment went Frieder
Far countries and kingdoms to roam,
Of all earth's musicians the leader,
King's castles and courts for a home,
But, alas, for his comb!
Gold he had, but a comb again, never!
And his hair in a wild disarray
Henceforth grew at random.--And ever
Musicians to this very day
Wear theirs the same way!
"ONWARD."
_A TALE OF THE S. E. RAILWAY_.