“What’s going on?” said the curious among the townspeople. The drum heard this from the neighbours.
“Don’t go home, Peter,” cried the street boys, for if you sleep under that roof a fire will break out in the upper story, and then the alarm drum will beat.
“Take care of yourselves, or the drum-stick will beat you,” said Peter, who although he was little was no coward, and he stood and faced the boys quite alone, as he spoke.
Many of them lost their courage at the sight of his fists, while the others hastily took to their heels.
The town musician approached. Oh, just fancy! such a noble and wellborn man! His father had been silversmith to the king!
He pounced upon Peter, took him to his house and kept him for a whole hour, gave him a violin, and showed him how it was played.
When he placed it in the little boy’s fingers, he who once wished to be a drummer, now only wanted to become a musician.
“I mean to be a soldier,” Peter had said when he was a little boy, for he thought nothing in the world could be more beautiful than to carry a gun, and to wear uniform and have a sword by his side, and then to march in time—one, two—one, two.
“You will have to learn to obey the drumbeats,” said the drum, “trommelom, trommelom.”
“Yes, till he is promoted to be general,” said the father, “but for that a war is necessary.
“Which may God prevent,” said the mother.
“We have nothing to lose,” said the father.
“Have we not our son?” she replied.
“And supposing he should come back a general,” said the father.
“Ah, yes, without an arm or a leg,” cried the mother, “and I would rather keep my golden treasure at home, with sound limbs.”
Trom, trom, trom! the alarm drum sounded, all the drums were beating the call to battle; war was declared. The soldiers started for the field and the drummer’s little son followed them.
“Red-head! my golden treasure!” sighed the mother, while the father’s imagination saw him already gloriously distinguished.
“Ah,” thought the town musician, he will not remain long at the seat of war, for already he appears as if he would rather stay and listen to the town music.”
“Red-head,” cried a soldier, but Peter laughed and quickly paid him back by exclaiming, saucily, “Foxy,” then grinding his teeth together and showing them, he ran off and was out of sight, almost as soon as the saucy word was out of his mouth.
“The boy is very bright and full of drollery, and a light heart is better than any canteen in the battle field,” said his comrade.
And it was quite true, for in rain or mist, and though wet through to the skin, he would persist in sleeping in the open air all night, but his happy temper he never lost. And when the drum beat to call to arms,
