“trommelom, trommelom,” you would have declared he was born to be a drummer boy.
The day on which the first fight in the battle field occurred, dawned, but the morning was grey, the air close, and the combat fierce. A mist lay over the battle field, and worse still the powder became damp, yet the shot and shells flew about over head, and were falling in every direction, maiming some and killing others, yet onward the soldiers marched, while here and there lay the wounded or dying, with faces deathly white. But the little drummer kept his rosy cheeks and met with no harm. He even whistled gaily to the dog of the regiment, who sprang upon him joyfully, wagged his tail, as if it was a splendid game, while the shots were falling around them in every direction.
“March! forward! march,” were the words of command from the drum, and these words did not imply a retreat, yet by some misunderstanding, the soldiers took the words to mean a retreat and were about to fly, when the drum beat again louder and correctly, “March forward, march!” Peter had understood and gave the right signal on the drum, which the soldiers then obeyed.
This was a glorious drum beating, for it prevented the soldiers from turing back, and won victory to the army.
Alas! many lives and limbs were lost on that terrible battle field, and for hours the wounded were obliged to lie without pity or aid, till the surgeons arrived, and then with many it was too late, yet death had released them from their sufferings.
These things are dreadful to think of, yet people will think of them even at a distance, or in the friendly town. No wonder, therefore, that the drummer and his wife should think about these honours, for still Peter was in the battle field.
“Now I am full of sorrow,” cried the alarm drum.
Another battle was expected at sunrise the next day, and the town drummer and his wife lay awake all night thinking of their son, of whom they had been talking, and who was still in the battle field, yet, as they knew, in God’s hands.
As morning dawned, however, they at last fell asleep and dreamed.
The father dreamt that the war was ended, and that the soldiers who had been healed of their wounds were entering the town, and that Peter, who was with them, wore a silver cross on his breast.
But the mother dreamed that she went into the church and was looking earnestly at the oil painting and the carved angel with the golden hair, when presently she saw her own heart’s darling standing under the angel. There he stood in a white surplice, singing beautifully with the angel, and then suddenly nodding to his mother with a loving smile, he flew away to heaven.
“My gold treasure!” cried the mother as she woke from her dream; “God has now called him to Himself,” and she folded her hands and wept as she spoke. “Is he resting now among a number in one large grave? which has been dug for the dead, very likely in slimy soil. No one will
