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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.


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