A FABLE FOR MUSICIANS.
BY CLARA DOTY BATES.
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.
ANONYMOUS.
No doubt you've 'eard the tale, sir. Thanks,—'arf o' stout and mild.
Of the man who did his dooty, though it might have killed his child.
He was only a railway porter, yet he earned undy'n' fame.
Well!—Mine's a similar story, though the end ain't quite the same.
I were pointsman on the South Eastern, with an only child—a girl
As got switched to a houtside porter, though fit to 'ave married a
pearl.
With a back as straight as a tunnel, and lovely carrotty 'air,
She used to bring me my dinner, sir, and couldn't she take her
share!—
One day she strayed on the metals, and fell asleep on the track;
I didn't 'appen to miss her, sir, or I should ha' called her back.
She'd gone quite out of earshot, and I daresen't leave my post,
For the lightnin' express was comin', but four hours late at the
most!
'Ave you ever seen the "lightnin'" thunder through New Cross?
Fourteen miles an hour, sir, with stoppages, of course.
And just in the track of the monster was where my darling slept.
I could hear the rattle already, as nearer the monster crept!
I might turn the train on the sidin', but I glanced at the loop line
and saw
That right on the outer metals was lyin' a bundle of straw;
And right in the track of the "lightnin'" was where my darlin' laid,
But the loop line 'ud smash up the engine, and there'd be no
dividend paid
I thought of the awful disaster, of the blood and the coroner's
'quest;
Of the verdict, "No blame to the pointsman, he did it all for the
best!"
And I thought of the compensation the Co. would 'ave to pay
If I turned the train on the sidin' where the 'eap of stubble lay.
So I switched her off on the main, sir, and she thundered by like a
snail,
And I didn't recover my senses till I'd drunk 'arf a gallon o' ale.
For though only a common pointsman, I've a father's feelings, too,
So I sank down in a faint, sir, as my Polly was 'id from view.
And now comes the strangest part, sir, my Polly was roused by the
sound.
You think she escaped the engine by lyin' flat on the ground?
No! always a good 'un to run, sir, by jove she must 'ave flown,
For she raced the "lightnin' express," sir, till the engine was
puffed and blown!!!
When next you see the boss, sir, tell him o' what I did,
How I nobly done my dooty, though it might a killed my kid;
And you may, if you like, spare a trifle for the agony I endured,
When I thought that my Polly was killed, sir, and I 'adn't got her
insured!