The Fire-drum and all the other drums werebeating, for war had come. The soldiers all set out, and the son ofthe drummer followed them. "Red-head. Golden treasure!"
  The mother wept; the father in fancy saw him "famous;" the townmusician was of opinion that he ought not to go to war, but shouldstay at home and learn music.
  "Red-head," said the soldiers, and little Peter laughed; butwhen one of them sometimes said to another, "Foxey," he would bite histeeth together and look another way- into the wide world. He did notcare for the nickname.
  The boy was active, pleasant of speech, and good-humored; thatis the best canteen, said his old comrades.
  And many a night he had to sleep under the open sky, wet throughwith the driving rain or the falling mist; but his good humor neverforsook 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 themorning was come. The air was cold, the battle was hot; there was mistin the air, but still more gunpowder-smoke. The bullets and shellsflew over the soldiers' heads, and into their heads- into their bodiesand limbs; but still they pressed forward. Here or there one orother of them would sink on his knees, with bleeding temples and aface as white as chalk. The little drummer still kept his healthycolor; he had suffered no damage; he looked cheerfully at the dog ofthe regiment, which was jumping along as merrily as if the whole thinghad been got up for his amusement, and as if the bullets were onlyflying about that he might have a game of play with them.
  "March! Forward! March!" This, was the word of command for thedrum. The word had not yet been given to fall back, though theymight have done so, and perhaps there would have been much sense init; and now at last the word "Retire" was given; but our littledrummer 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 begunto give way.
  Life and limb were lost in the battle. Bombshells tore away theflesh in red strips; bombshells lit up into a terrible glow thestrawheaps to which the wounded had dragged themselves, to lieuntended 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 ofit, even far away in the peaceful town. The drummer and his wifealso 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, butit was morning. The drummer and his wife were asleep. They had beentalking about their son, as, indeed, they did almost every night,for he was out yonder in God's hand. And the father dreamt that thewar was over, that the soldiers had returned home, and that Peter worea silver cross on his breast. But the mother dreamt that she hadgone into the church, and had seen the painted pictures and the carvedangels with the gilded hair, and her own dear boy, the golden treasureof her heart, who was standing among the angels in white robes,singing so sweetly, as surely only the angels can sing; and that hehad soared up with them into the sunshine, and nodded so kindly at hismother.
  "My golden treasure!" she cried out; and she awoke. "Now thegood God has taken him to Himself!" She folded her hands, and hidher face in the cotton curtains of the bed, and wept. "Where does herest now?