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"
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.


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