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"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.
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.
"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.
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!"
"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."
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.
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!"
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.
He rose and went towards the window, which commanded a very near view of the highroad, and he was followed by his guests. The drum advanced, beating no measured martial tune, but a kind of rub-a-dub-dub, like that with which the fire-drum startles the slumbering artizans of a Scotch burgh.
"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!
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