said the mother; andshe kissed the shining locks, and it sounded like music and song inthe 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- theFire-drum, that was beaten when there was a fire in the town:
  "Red hair! the little fellow has red hair! Believe the drum, andnot 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 wasnothing much to be said about his name; he was called Peter. The wholetown, and the Drum too, called him Peter the drummer's boy with thered hair; but his mother kissed his red hair, and called him hergolden treasure.
  In the hollow way in the clayey bank, many had scratched theirnames as a remembrance.
  "Celebrity is always something!" said the drummer; and so hescratched his own name there, and his little son's name likewise.
  And the swallows came. They had, on their long journey, seenmore durable characters engraven on rocks, and on the walls of thetemples 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 boredholes in the deep declivity, and the splashing rain and the thinmist came and crumbled and washed the names away, and the drummer'sname also, and that of his little son.
  "Peter's name will last a full year and a half longer!" said thefather.
  "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 withthe red hair. He had a lovely voice. He could sing, and he sang like abird in the woodland. There was melody, and yet no melody.
  "He must become a chorister boy," said his mother. "He shallsing in the church, and stand among the beautiful gilded angels whoare 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 inthe garret, there'll be a fire in the house, and the fire-drum willhave to be beaten."
  "Look out for the drumsticks," replied Peter; and, small as hewas, he ran up boldly, and gave the foremost such a punch in thebody 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 theroyal plate-washer. He was very fond of Peter, and would sometimestake him to his home; and he gave him a violin, and taught him to playit. It seemed as if the whole art lay in the boy's fingers; and hewanted to be more than a drummer- he wanted to become musician tothe town.
  "I'll be a soldier," said Peter; for he was still quite a littlelad, and it seemed to him the finest thing in the world to carry agun, and to be able to march one, two- one, two, and to wear a uniformand a sword.
  "Ah, you learn to long for the drum-skin, drum, dum, dum!" saidthe Drum.
  "Yes, if he could only march his way up to be a general!" observedhis 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 ratherkeep my golden treasure with me."
  "Drum, dum, dum!"