been sent to him, which was really necessary, for Peter’s mother is now a lonely widow.”
“He has played before emperors and kings,” said the town musician, “but I was not aware of this, and yet I fancied it would be so, and he will never forget his old teacher.”
His father’s dream came true, that Peter would return from the war with a silver cross on his breast. He did not obtain it at the war, there it is more difficult to keep; but they just gave him the Chevalier cross and made him a knight.
If his father had only lived to see this!
“Celebrated! glorious!” said the alarm drum; and in his native town people said, “Only imagine! the drummer’s son—red-haired Peter, the youngster who used to run about in wooden shoes.” And then the drum beat and performed a dance tune.—“Glorious!”
“He played before us ere he played before the king,” said the mayor’s wife; “he was at that time quite taken up with our Lottie; he would always look above himself, but she was saucy and would not listen. My husband laughed when he observed their childishness, and now Lottie is the wife of the councillor’s son.”
It was a “golden treasure” in the heart and soul of the daring child,— the little drummer boy, who beat on the drum, “March! forward! march!” a war cry of victory to those who were about to fly.
And in the breast of the “Golden Treasure” lay an inexhaustible richness of voice and musical power.
The sound of his violin was to him quite like the tones of an organ, to which the fairies dance on a summer night, and one could hear in them the notes of the thrush and the full tones of the human voice. Therefore the melody sank deep into the human heart like a sweet refreshing shower.
Music in him was a great passion—and in this was a true inspiration, which made his name known over land and sea.
“And through this he is so beautiful,” said the young ladies; and the old voices too, yes, even the oldest, would ask for a lock of his hair, and one and all wanted something written in their albums.
And sometimes they would accept a lock of hair that fell off, belonging to the young violinist—a “golden treasure,” for which they begged.
The widow’s son stepped into the humble house of the drummer, looking as fine as a prince, and as happy as a king. His eyes sparkled and his countenance was bright like sunshine. The mother held him in her arms, kissed him fondly, and wept over him tears of joy.
And then he nodded to the old furniture in the room, and to the old-fashioned bureau with the tea-cups and the flower-glass upon it; and also to the wooden bench on which he used to sleep when he was a little boy, to show that he remembered it all.
But the old alarm drum he pulled out of the corner in which it stood, and placing it in the middle of the room, he said to his mother, “My dear father would have beaten a tarantella on the drum to-day, and now I must do it;” and then he beat a rat-tan that was like a thunder storm.
