THE drummer's wife went into the church. She saw the new
altar with the painted pictures and the carved angels. Those
upon the canvas and in the glory over the altar were just as
beautiful as the carved ones; and they were painted and gilt
into the bargain. Their hair gleamed golden in the sunshine,
lovely to behold; but the real sunshine was more beautiful
still. It shone redder, clearer through the dark trees, when
the sun went down. It was lovely thus to look at the sunshine
of heaven. And she looked at the red sun, and she thought
about it so deeply, and thought of the little one whom the
stork was to bring, and the wife of the drummer was very
cheerful, and looked and looked, and wished that the child
might have a gleam of sunshine given to it, so that it might
at least become like one of the shining angels over the altar.

    And when she really had the little child in her arms, and
held it up to its father, then it was like one of the angels
in the church to behold, with hair like gold- the gleam of the
setting sun was upon it.

    "My golden treasure, my riches, my sunshine!" said the
mother; and she kissed the shining locks, and it sounded like
music and song in the room of the drummer; and there was joy,
and life, and movement. The drummer beat a roll- a roll of
joy. And the Drum said- the Fire-drum, that was beaten when
there was a fire in the town:

    "Red hair! the little fellow has red hair! Believe the
drum, and not what your mother says! Rub-a dub, rub-a dub!"

    And the town repeated what the Fire-drum had said.

    The boy was taken to church, the boy was christened. There
was nothing much to be said about his name; he was called
Peter. The whole town, and the Drum too, called him Peter the
drummer's boy with the red hair; but his mother kissed his red
hair, and called him her golden treasure.

    In the hollow way in the clayey bank, many had scratched
their names as a remembrance.

    "Celebrity is always something!" said the drummer; and so
he scratched his own name there, and his little son's name
likewise.

    And the swallows came. They had, on their long journey,
seen more durable characters engraven on rocks, and on the
walls of the temples in Hindostan, mighty deeds of great
kings, immortal names, so old that no one now could read or
speak them. Remarkable celebrity!

    In the clayey bank the martens built their nest. They
bored holes in the deep declivity, and the splashing rain and
the thin mist came and crumbled and washed the names away, and
the drummer's name also, and that of his little son.

    "Peter's name will last a full year and a half longer!"
said the father.

    "Fool!" thought the Fire-drum; but it only said, "Dub,
dub, dub, rub-a-dub!"

    He was a boy full of life and gladness, this drummer's son
with the red hair. He had a lovely voice. He could sing, and
he sang like a bird in the woodland. There was melody, and yet
no melody.

    "He must become a chorister boy," said his mother. "He
shall sing in the church, and stand among the beautiful gilded
angels who are like him!"

    "Fiery cat!" said some of the witty ones of the town.

    The Drum heard that from the neighbors' wives.

    "Don't go home, Peter," cried the street boys. "If you
sleep in the garret, there'll be a fire in the house, and the
fire-drum will have to be beaten."

    "Look out for the drumsticks," replied Peter; and, small
as he was, he ran up boldly, and gave the foremost such a
punch in the body with his fist, that the fellow lost his legs
and tumbled over, and the others took their legs off with
themselves very rapidly.

    The town musician was very genteel and fine. He was the
son of the royal plate-washer. He was very fond of Peter, and
would sometimes take him to his home; and he gave him a
violin, and taught him to play it. It seemed as if the whole
art lay in the boy's fingers; and he wanted to be more than a
drummer- he wanted to become musician to the town.

    "I'll be a soldier," said Peter; for he was still quite a
little lad, and it seemed to him the finest thing in the world
to carry a gun, and to be able to march one, two- one, two,
and to wear a uniform and a sword.

    "Ah, you learn to long for the drum-skin, drum, dum, dum!"
said the Drum.

    "Yes, if he could only march his way up to be a general!"
observed his father; "but before he can do that, there must be
war."

    "Heaven forbid!" said his mother.

    "We have nothing to lose," remarked the father.

    "Yes, we have my boy," she retorted.

    "But suppose he came back a general!" said the father.

    "Without arms and legs!" cried the mother. "No, I would
rather keep my golden treasure with me."

    "Drum, dum, dum!" The Fire-drum and all the other drums
were beating, for war had come. The soldiers all set out, and
the son of the drummer followed them. "Red-head. Golden
treasure!"

    The mother wept; the father in fancy saw him "famous;" the
town musician was of opinion that he ought not to go to war,
but should stay at home and learn music.

    "Red-head," said the soldiers, and little Peter laughed;
but when one of them sometimes said to another, "Foxey," he
would bite his teeth together and look another way- into the
wide world. He did not care for the nickname.

    The boy was active, pleasant of speech, and good-humored;
that is the best canteen, said his old comrades.

    And many a night he had to sleep under the open sky, wet
through with the driving rain or the falling mist; but his
good humor never forsook him. The drum-sticks sounded,
"Rub-a-dub, all up, all up!" Yes, he was certainly born to be
a drummer.

    The day of battle dawned. The sun had not yet risen, but
the morning was come. The air was cold, the battle was hot;
there was mist in the air, but still more gunpowder-smoke. The
bullets and shells flew over the soldiers' heads, and into
their heads- into their bodies and limbs; but still they
pressed forward. Here or there one or other of them would sink
on his knees, with bleeding temples and a face as white as
chalk. The little drummer still kept his healthy color; he had
suffered no damage; he looked cheerfully at the dog of the
regiment, which was jumping along as merrily as if the whole
thing had been got up for his amusement, and as if the bullets
were only flying about that he might have a game of play with
them.

    "March! Forward! March!" This, was the word of command for
the drum. The word had not yet been given to fall back, though
they might have done so, and perhaps there would have been
much sense in it; and now at last the word "Retire" was given;
but our little drummer beat "Forward! march!" for he had
understood the command thus, and the soldiers obeyed the sound
of the drum. That was a good roll, and proved the summons to
victory for the men, who had already begun to give way.

    Life and limb were lost in the battle. Bombshells tore
away the flesh in red strips; bombshells lit up into a
terrible glow the strawheaps to which the wounded had dragged
themselves, to lie untended for many hours, perhaps for all
the hours they had to live.

    It's no use thinking of it; and yet one cannot help
thinking of it, even far away in the peaceful town. The
drummer and his wife also thought of it, for Peter was at the
war.

    "Now, I'm tired of these complaints," said the Fire-drum.

    Again the day of battle dawned; the sun had not yet risen,
but it was morning. The drummer and his wife were asleep. They
had been talking about their son, as, indeed, they did almost
every night, for he was out yonder in God's hand. And the
father dreamt that the war was over, that the soldiers had
returned home, and that Peter wore a silver cross on his
breast. But the mother dreamt that she had gone into the
church, and had seen the painted pictures and the carved
angels with the gilded hair, and her own dear boy, the golden
treasure of her heart, who was standing among the angels in
white robes, singing so sweetly, as surely only the angels can
sing; and that he had soared up with them into the sunshine,
and nodded so kindly at his mother.

    "My golden treasure!" she cried out; and she awoke. "Now
the good God has taken him to Himself!" She folded her hands,
and hid her face in the cotton curtains of the bed, and wept.
"Where does he rest now? among the many in the big grave that
they have dug for the dead? Perhaps he's in the water in the
marsh! Nobody knows his grave; no holy words have been read
over it!" And the Lord's Prayer went inaudibly over her lips;
she bowed her head, and was so weary that she went to sleep.


    And the days went by, in life as in dreams!

    It was evening. Over the battle-field a rainbow spread,
which touched the forest and the deep marsh.

    It has been said, and is preserved in popular belief, that
where the rainbow touches the earth a treasure lies buried, a
golden treasure; and here there was one. No one but his mother
thought of the little drummer, and therefore she dreamt of
him.


    And the days went by, in life as in dreams!

    Not a hair of his head had been hurt, not a golden hair.

    "Drum-ma-rum! drum-ma-rum! there he is!" the Drum might
have said, and his mother might have sung, if she had seen or
dreamt it.

    With hurrah and song, adorned with green wreaths of
victory, they came home, as the war was at an end, and peace
had been signed. The dog of the regiment sprang on in front
with large bounds, and made the way three times as long for
himself as it really was.

    And days and weeks went by, and Peter came into his
parents' room. He was as brown as a wild man, and his eyes
were bright, and his face beamed like sunshine. And his mother
held him in her arms; she kissed his lips, his forehead, and
his red hair. She had her boy back again; he had not a silver
cross on his breast, as his father had dreamt, but he had
sound limbs, a thing the mother had not dreamt. And what a
rejoicing was there! They laughed and they wept; and Peter
embraced the old Fire-drum.

    "There stands the old skeleton still!" he said.

    And the father beat a roll upon it.

    "One would think that a great fire had broken out here,"
said the Fire-drum. "Bright day! fire in the heart! golden
treasure! skrat! skr-r-at! skr-r-r-r-at!"


    And what then? What then!- Ask the town musician.

    "Peter's far outgrowing the drum," he said. "Peter will be
greater than I."

    And yet he was the son of a royal plate-washer; but all
that he had learned in half a lifetime, Peter learned in half
a year.

    There was something so merry about him, something so truly
kind-hearted. His eyes gleamed, and his hair gleamed too-
there was no denying that!

    "He ought to have his hair dyed," said the neighbor's
wife. "That answered capitally with the policeman's daughter,
and she got a husband."

    "But her hair turned as green as duckweed, and was always
having to be colored up."

    "She knows how to manage for herself," said the neighbors,
"and so can Peter. He comes to the most genteel houses, even
to the burgomaster's where he gives Miss Charlotte piano-forte
lessons."

    He could play! He could play, fresh out of his heart, the
most charming pieces, that had never been put upon
music-paper. He played in the bright nights, and in the dark
nights, too. The neighbors declared it was unbearable, and the
Fire-drum was of the same opinion.

    He played until his thoughts soared up, and burst forth in
great plans for the future:

    "To be famous!"

    And burgomaster's Charlotte sat at the piano. Her delicate
fingers danced over the keys, and made them ring into Peter's
heart. It seemed too much for him to bear; and this happened
not once, but many times; and at last one day he seized the
delicate fingers and the white hand, and kissed it, and looked
into her great brown eyes. Heaven knows what he said; but we
may be allowed to guess at it. Charlotte blushed to guess at
it. She reddened from brow to neck, and answered not a single
word; and then strangers came into the room, and one of them
was the state councillor's son. He had a lofty white forehead,
and carried it so high that it seemed to go back into his
neck. And Peter sat by her a long time, and she looked at him
with gentle eyes.

    At home that evening he spoke of travel in the wide world,
and of the golden treasure that lay hidden for him in his
violin.

    "To be famous!"

    "Tum-me-lum, tum-me-lum, tum-me-lum!" said the Fire-drum.
"Peter has gone clear out of his wits. I think there must be a
fire in the house."

    Next day the mother went to market.

    "Shall I tell you news, Peter?" she asked when she came
home. "A capital piece of news. Burgomaster's Charlotte has
engaged herself to the state councillor's son; the betrothal
took place yesterday evening."

    "No!" cried Peter, and he sprang up from his chair. But
his mother persisted in saying "Yes." She had heard it from
the baker's wife, whose husband had it from the burgomaster's
own mouth

    And Peter became as pale as death, and sat down again.

    "Good Heaven! what's the matter with you?" asked his
mother.

    "Nothing, nothing; only leave me to myself," he answered
but the tears were running down his cheeks.

    "My sweet child, my golden treasure!" cried the mother,
and she wept; but the Fire-drum sang, not out loud, but
inwardly.

    "Charlotte's gone! Charlotte's gone! and now the song is
done."

    But the song was not done; there were many more verses in
it, long verses, the most beautiful verses, the golden
treasures of a life.


    "She behaves like a mad woman," said the neighbor's wife.
"All the world is to see the letters she gets from her golden
treasure, and to read the words that are written in the papers
about his violin playing. And he sends her money too, and
that's very useful to her since she has been a widow."

    "He plays before emperors and kings," said the town
musician. "I never had that fortune, but he's my pupil, and he
does not forget his old master."

    And his mother said,

    "His father dreamt that Peter came home from the war with
a silver cross. He did not gain one in the war, but it is
still more difficult to gain one in this way. Now he has the
cross of honor. If his father had only lived to see it!"

    "He's grown famous!" said the Fire-drum, and all his
native town said the same thing, for the drummer's son, Peter
with the red hair- Peter whom they had known as a little boy,
running about in wooden shoes, and then as a drummer, playing
for the dancers- was become famous!

    "He played at our house before he played in the presence
of kings," said the burgomaster's wife. "At that time he was
quite smitten with Charlotte. He was always of an aspiring
turn. At that time he was saucy and an enthusiast. My husband
laughed when he heard of the foolish affair, and now our
Charlotte is a state councillor's wife."

    A golden treasure had been hidden in the heart and soul of
the poor child, who had beaten the roll as a drummer- a roll
of victory for those who had been ready to retreat. There was
a golden treasure in his bosom, the power of sound; it burst
forth on his violin as if the instrument had been a complete
organ, and as if all the elves of a midsummer night were
dancing across the strings. In its sounds were heard the
piping of the thrush and the full clear note of the human
voice; therefore the sound brought rapture to every heart, and
carried his name triumphant through the land. That was a great
firebrand- the firebrand of inspiration.

    "And then he looks so splendid!" said the young ladies and
the old ladies too; and the oldest of all procured an album
for famous locks of hair, wholly and solely that she might beg
a lock of his rich splendid hair, that treasure, that golden
treasure.

    And the son came into the poor room of the drummer,
elegant as a prince, happier than a king. His eyes were as
clear and his face was as radiant as sunshine; and he held his
mother in his arms, and she kissed his mouth, and wept as
blissfully as any one can weep for joy; and he nodded at every
old piece of furniture in the room, at the cupboard with the
tea-cups, and at the flower-vase. He nodded at the
sleeping-bench, where he had slept as a little boy; but the
old Fire-drum he brought out, and dragged it into the middle
of the room, and said to it and to his mother:

    "My father would have beaten a famous roll this evening.
Now I must do it!"

    And he beat a thundering roll-call on the instrument, and
the Drum felt so highly honored that the parchment burst with
exultation.

    "He has a splendid touch!" said the Drum. "I've a
remembrance of him now that will last. I expect that the same
thing will happen to his mother, from pure joy over her golden
treasure."

    And this is the story of the Golden Treasure.


                            THE END