No More Learning

I thought of our cool mountain-home,
and the fresh water that flowed near it; my mother, too, longed
for if, and one evening we wandered towards home. How peaceful
and silent it was as we walked on through the thick, wild thyme,
still fragrant, though the sun had scorched the leaves. Not a
single herdsman did we meet, not a solitary hut did we pass;
everything appeared lonely and deserted--only a shooting star showed
that in the heavens there was yet life. I know not whether the
clear, blue atmosphere gleamed with its own light, or if the
radiance came from the stars; but we could distinguish quite plainly
the outline of the mountains. My mother lighted a fire, and roasted
some roots she had brought with her, and I and my little sister
slept among the bushes, without fear of the ugly smidraki, from
whose throat issues fire, or of the wolf and the jackal; for my mother
sat by us, and I considered her presence sufficient protection.

We reached our old home; but the cottage was in ruins, and we
had to build a new one. With the aid of some neighbors, chiefly women,
the walls were in a few days erected, and very soon covered with a
roof of olive-branches. My mother obtained a living by making
bottle-cases of bark and skins, and I kept the sheep belonging to
the priests, who were sometimes peasants, while I had for my
playfellows Anastasia and the turtles.

Once our beloved Aphtanides paid us a visit. He said he had been
longing to see us so much; and he remained with us two whole happy
days. A month afterwards he came again to wish us good-bye, and
brought with him a large fish for my mother. He told us he was going
in a ship to Corfu and Patras, and could relate a great many
stories, not only about the fishermen who lived near the gulf of
Lepanto, but also of kings and heroes who had once possessed Greece,
just as the Turks possess it now.

I have seen a bud on a rose-bush gradually, in the course of a few
weeks, unfold its leaves till it became a rose in all its beauty; and,
before I was aware of it, I beheld it blooming in rosy loveliness. The
same thing had happened to Anastasia. Unnoticed by me, she had
gradually become a beautiful maiden, and I was now also a stout,
strong youth. The wolf-skins that covered the bed in which my mother
and Anastasia slept, had been taken from wolves which I had myself
shot.

Years had gone by when, one evening, Aphtanides came in. He had
grown tall and slender as a reed, with strong limbs, and a dark, brown
skin. He kissed us all, and had so much to tell of what he had seen of
the great ocean, of the fortifications at Malta, and of the marvellous
sepulchres of Egypt, that I looked up to him with a kind of
veneration. His stories were as strange as the legends of the
priests of olden times.

"How much you know! " I exclaimed, "and what wonders you can
relate? "

"I think what you once told me, the finest of all," he replied;
"you told me of a thing that has never been out of my thoughts--of the
good old custom of 'the bond of friendship,'--a custom I should like
to follow. Brother, let you and I go to church, as your father and
Anastasia's father once did. Your sister Anastasia is the most
beautiful and most innocent of maidens, and she shall consecrate the
deed. No people have such grand old customs as we Greeks. "

Anastasia blushed like a young rose, and my mother kissed
Aphtanides.

At about two miles from our cottage, where the earth on the hill
is sheltered by a few scattered trees, stood the little church, with a
silver lamp hanging before the altar. I put on my best clothes, and
the white tunic fell in graceful folds over my hips. The red jacket
fitted tight and close, the tassel on my Fez cap was of silver, and in
my girdle glittered a knife and my pistols. Aphtanides was clad in the
blue dress worn by the Greek sailors; on his breast hung a silver
medal with the figure of the Virgin Mary, and his scarf was as
costly as those worn by rich lords. Every one could see that we were
about to perform a solemn ceremony. When we entered the little,
unpretending church, the evening sunlight streamed through the open
door on the burning lamp, and glittered on the golden picture
frames. We knelt down together on the altar steps, and Anastasia
drew near and stood beside us. A long, white garment fell in
graceful folds over her delicate form, and on her white neck and bosom
hung a chain entwined with old and new coins, forming a kind of
collar. Her black hair was fastened into a knot, and confined by a
headdress formed of gold and silver coins which had been found in an
ancient temple. No Greek girl had more beautiful ornaments than these.
Her countenance glowed, and her eyes were like two stars. We all three
offered a silent prayer, and then she said to us, "Will you be friends
in life and in death? "

"Yes," we replied.

"Will you each remember to say, whatever may happen, 'My brother
is a part of myself; his secret is my secret, my happiness is his;
self-sacrifice, patience, everything belongs to me as they do to
him? '"

And we again answered, "Yes. " Then she joined out hands and kissed
us on the forehead, and we again prayed silently. After this a
priest came through a door near the altar, and blessed us all three.
Then a song was sung by other holy men behind the altar-screen, and
the bond of eternal friendship was confirmed. When we arose, I saw
my mother standing by the church door, weeping.

How cheerful everything seemed now in our little cottage by the
Delphian springs! On the evening before his departure, Aphtanides
sat thoughtfully beside me on the slopes of the mountain. His arm
was flung around me, and mine was round his neck. We spoke of the
sorrows of Greece, and of the men of the country who could be trusted.
Every thought of our souls lay clear before us. Presently I seized his
hand: "Aphtanides," I exclaimed, "there is one thing still that you
must know,--one thing that till now has been a secret between myself
and Heaven. My whole soul is filled with love,--with a love stronger
than the love I bear to my mother and to thee.

"And whom do you love? " asked Aphtanides. And his face and neck
grew red as fire.

"I love Anastasia," I replied.

Then his hand trembled in mine, and he became pale as a corpse.
I saw it, I understood the cause, and I believe my hand trembled
too. I bent towards him, I kissed his forehead, and whispered, "I have
never spoken of this to her, and perhaps she does not love me.
Brother, think of this; I have seen her daily, she has grown up beside
me, and has become a part of my soul. "

"And she shall be thine," he exclaimed; "thine! I may not wrong
thee, nor will I do so. I also love her, but tomorrow I depart. In a
year we will see each other again, but then you will be married; shall
it not be so? I have a little gold of my own, it shall be yours. You
must and shall take it. "

We wandered silently homeward across the mountains. It was late in
the evening when we reached my mother's door. Anastasia held the
lamp as we entered; my mother was not there. She looked at
Aphtanides with a sweet but mournful expression on her face.
"To-morrow you are going to leave us," she said. "I am very sorry. "

"Sorry! " he exclaimed, and his voice was troubled with a grief
as deep as my own. I could not speak; but he seized her hand and said,
"Our brother yonder loves you, and is he not dear to you? His very
silence now proves his affection. "

Anastasia trembled, and burst into tears. Then I saw no one,
thought of none, but her. I threw my arms round her, and pressed my
lips to hers. As she flung her arms round my neck, the lamp fell to
the ground, and we were in darkness, dark as the heart of poor
Aphtanides.

Before daybreak he rose, kissed us all, and said "Farewell," and
went away. He had given all his money to my mother for us. Anastasia
was betrothed to me, and in a few days afterwards she became my wife.




THE GIRL WHO TROD ON THE LOAF

There was once a girl who trod on a loaf to avoid soiling her
shoes, and the misfortunes that happened to her in consequence are
well known. Her name was Inge; she was a poor child, but proud and
presuming, and with a bad and cruel disposition. When quite a little
child she would delight in catching flies, and tearing off their
wings, so as to make creeping things of them. When older, she would
take cockchafers and beetles, and stick pins through them. Then she
pushed a green leaf, or a little scrap of paper towards their feet,
and when the poor creatures would seize it and hold it fast, and
turn over and over in their struggles to get free from the pin, she
would say, "The cockchafer is reading; see how he turns over the
leaf. " She grew worse instead of better with years, and,
unfortunately, she was pretty, which caused her to be excused, when
she should have been sharply reproved.

"Your headstrong will requires severity to conquer it," her mother
often said to her. "As a little child you used to trample on my apron,
but one day I fear you will trample on my heart. " And, alas! this fear
was realized.

Inge was taken to the house of some rich people, who lived at a
distance, and who treated her as their own child, and dressed her so
fine that her pride and arrogance increased.

When she had been there about a year, her patroness said to her,
"You ought to go, for once, and see your parents, Inge. "

So Inge started to go and visit her parents; but she only wanted
to show herself in her native place, that the people might see how
fine she was. She reached the entrance of the village, and saw the
young laboring men and maidens standing together chatting, and her own
mother amongst them. Inge's mother was sitting on a stone to rest,
with a fagot of sticks lying before her, which she had picked up in
the wood. Then Inge turned back; she who was so finely dressed she
felt ashamed of her mother, a poorly clad woman, who picked up wood in
the forest. She did not turn back out of pity for her mother's
poverty, but from pride.

Another half-year went by, and her mistress said, "you ought to go
home again, and visit your parents, Inge, and I will give you a
large wheaten loaf to take to them, they will be glad to see you, I am
sure. "

So Inge put on her best clothes, and her new shoes, drew her dress
up around her, and set out, stepping very carefully, that she might be
clean and neat about the feet, and there was nothing wrong in doing
so. But when she came to the place where the footpath led across the
moor, she found small pools of water, and a great deal of mud, so
she threw the loaf into the mud, and trod upon it, that she might pass
without wetting her feet. But as she stood with one foot on the loaf
and the other lifted up to step forward, the loaf began to sink
under her, lower and lower, till she disappeared altogether, and
only a few bubbles on the surface of the muddy pool remained to show
where she had sunk. And this is the story.

But where did Inge go? She sank into the ground, and went down
to the Marsh Woman, who is always brewing there.

The Marsh Woman is related to the elf maidens, who are well-known,
for songs are sung and pictures painted about them. But of the Marsh
Woman nothing is known, excepting that when a mist arises from the
meadows, in summer time, it is because she is brewing beneath them. To
the Marsh Woman's brewery Inge sunk down to a place which no one can
endure for long. A heap of mud is a palace compared with the Marsh
Woman's brewery; and as Inge fell she shuddered in every limb, and
soon became cold and stiff as marble. Her foot was still fastened to
the loaf, which bowed her down as a golden ear of corn bends the stem.

An evil spirit soon took possession of Inge, and carried her to
a still worse place, in which she saw crowds of unhappy people,
waiting in a state of agony for the gates of mercy to be opened to
them, and in every heart was a miserable and eternal feeling of
unrest. It would take too much time to describe the various tortures
these people suffered, but Inge's punishment consisted in standing
there as a statue, with her foot fastened to the loaf. She could
move her eyes about, and see all the misery around her, but she
could not turn her head; and when she saw the people looking at her
she thought they were admiring her pretty face and fine clothes, for
she was still vain and proud. But she had forgotten how soiled her
clothes had become while in the Marsh Woman's brewery, and that they
were covered with mud; a snake had also fastened itself in her hair,
and hung down her back, while from each fold in her dress a great toad
peeped out and croaked like an asthmatic poodle. Worse than all was
the terrible hunger that tormented her, and she could not stoop to
break off a piece of the loaf on which she stood. No; her back was too
stiff, and her whole body like a pillar of stone. And then came
creeping over her face and eyes flies without wings; she winked and
blinked, but they could not fly away, for their wings had been
pulled off; this, added to the hunger she felt, was horrible torture.

"If this lasts much longer," she said, "I shall not be able to
bear it. " But it did last, and she had to bear it, without being
able to help herself.

A tear, followed by many scalding tears, fell upon her head, and
rolled over her face and neck, down to the loaf on which she stood.
Who could be weeping for Inge? She had a mother in the world still,
and the tears of sorrow which a mother sheds for her child will always
find their way to the child's heart, but they often increase the
torment instead of being a relief. And Inge could hear all that was
said about her in the world she had left, and every one seemed cruel
to her. The sin she had committed in treading on the loaf was known on
earth, for she had been seen by the cowherd from the hill, when she
was crossing the marsh and had disappeared.

When her mother wept and exclaimed, "Ah, Inge! what grief thou
hast caused thy mother" she would say, "Oh that I had never been born!
My mother's tears are useless now. "

And then the words of the kind people who had adopted her came
to her ears, when they said, "Inge was a sinful girl, who did not
value the gifts of God, but trampled them under her feet. "

"Ah," thought Inge, "they should have punished me, and driven
all my naughty tempers out of me. "

A song was made about "The girl who trod on a loaf to keep her
shoes from being soiled," and this song was sung everywhere. The story
of her sin was also told to the little children, and they called her
"wicked Inge," and said she was so naughty that she ought to be
punished. Inge heard all this, and her heart became hardened and
full of bitterness.

But one day, while hunger and grief were gnawing in her hollow
frame, she heard a little, innocent child, while listening to the tale
of the vain, haughty Inge, burst into tears and exclaim, "But will she
never come up again? "

And she heard the reply, "No, she will never come up again. "

"But if she were to say she was sorry, and ask pardon, and promise
never to do so again? " asked the little one.

"Yes, then she might come; but she will not beg pardon," was the
answer.

"Oh, I wish she would! " said the child, who was quite unhappy
about it. "I should be so glad. I would give up my doll and all my
playthings, if she could only come here again. Poor Inge! it is so
dreadful for her. "

These pitying words penetrated to Inge's inmost heart, and
seemed to do her good. It was the first time any one had said, "Poor
Inge! " without saying something about her faults. A little innocent
child was weeping, and praying for mercy for her. It made her feel
quite strange, and she would gladly have wept herself, and it added to
her torment to find she could not do so. And while she thus suffered
in a place where nothing changed, years passed away on earth, and
she heard her name less frequently mentioned. But one day a sigh
reached her ear, and the words, "Inge! Inge! what a grief thou hast
been to me! I said it would be so. " It was the last sigh of her
dying mother.

After this, Inge heard her kind mistress say, "Ah, poor Inge!
shall I ever see thee again? Perhaps I may, for we know not what may
happen in the future. " But Inge knew right well that her mistress
would never come to that dreadful place.

Time-passed--a long bitter time--then Inge heard her name
pronounced once more, and saw what seemed two bright stars shining
above her. They were two gentle eyes closing on earth. Many years
had passed since the little girl had lamented and wept about "poor
Inge. " That child was now an old woman, whom God was taking to
Himself. In the last hour of existence the events of a whole life
often appear before us; and this hour the old woman remembered how,
when a child, she had shed tears over the story of Inge, and she
prayed for her now. As the eyes of the old woman closed to earth,
the eyes of the soul opened upon the hidden things of eternity, and
then she, in whose last thoughts Inge had been so vividly present, saw
how deeply the poor girl had sunk. She burst into tears at the
sight, and in heaven, as she had done when a little child on earth,
she wept and prayed for poor Inge. Her tears and her prayers echoed
through the dark void that surrounded the tormented captive soul,
and the unexpected mercy was obtained for it through an angel's tears.
As in thought Inge seemed to act over again every sin she had
committed on earth, she trembled, and tears she had never yet been
able to weep rushed to her eyes. It seemed impossible that the gates
of mercy could ever be opened to her; but while she acknowledged
this in deep penitence, a beam of radiant light shot suddenly into the
depths upon her. More powerful than the sunbeam that dissolves the man
of snow which the children have raised, more quickly than the
snowflake melts and becomes a drop of water on the warm lips of a
child, was the stony form of Inge changed, and as a little bird she
soared, with the speed of lightning, upward to the world of mortals. A
bird that felt timid and shy to all things around it, that seemed to
shrink with shame from meeting any living creature, and hurriedly
sought to conceal itself in a dark corner of an old ruined wall; there
it sat cowering and unable to utter a sound, for it was voiceless. Yet
how quickly the little bird discovered the beauty of everything around
it. The sweet, fresh air; the soft radiance of the moon, as its
light spread over the earth; the fragrance which exhaled from bush and
tree, made it feel happy as it sat there clothed in its fresh,
bright plumage. All creation seemed to speak of beneficence and
love. The bird wanted to give utterance to thoughts that stirred in
his breast, as the cuckoo and the nightingale in the spring, but it
could not. Yet in heaven can be heard the song of praise, even from
a worm; and the notes trembling in the breast of the bird were as
audible to Heaven even as the psalms of David before they had
fashioned themselves into words and song.

Christmas-time drew near, and a peasant who dwelt close by the old
wall stuck up a pole with some ears of corn fastened to the top,
that the birds of heaven might have feast, and rejoice in the happy,
blessed time. And on Christmas morning the sun arose and shone upon
the ears of corn, which were quickly surrounded by a number of
twittering birds. Then, from a hole in the wall, gushed forth in
song the swelling thoughts of the bird as he issued from his hiding
place to perform his first good deed on earth,--and in heaven it was
well known who that bird was.

The winter was very hard; the ponds were covered with ice, and
there was very little food for either the beasts of the field or the
birds of the air. Our little bird flew away into the public roads, and
found here and there, in the ruts of the sledges, a grain of corn, and
at the halting places some crumbs. Of these he ate only a few, but
he called around him the other birds and the hungry sparrows, that
they too might have food. He flew into the towns, and looked about,
and wherever a kind hand had strewed bread on the window-sill for
the birds, he only ate a single crumb himself, and gave all the rest
to the rest of the other birds. In the course of the winter the bird
had in this way collected many crumbs and given them to other birds,
till they equalled the weight of the loaf on which Inge had trod to
keep her shoes clean; and when the last bread-crumb had been found and
given, the gray wings of the bird became white, and spread
themselves out for flight.

"See, yonder is a sea-gull! " cried the children, when they saw the
white bird, as it dived into the sea, and rose again into the clear
sunlight, white and glittering. But no one could tell whither it
went then although some declared it flew straight to the sun.




THE GOBLIN AND THE HUCKSTER

There was once a regular student, who lived in a garret, and had
no possessions. And there was also a regular huckster, to whom the
house belonged, and who occupied the ground floor. A goblin lived with
the huckster, because at Christmas he always had a large dish full
of jam, with a great piece of butter in the middle. The huckster could
afford this; and therefore the goblin remained with the huckster,
which was very cunning of him.

One evening the student came into the shop through the back door
to buy candles and cheese for himself, he had no one to send, and
therefore he came himself; he obtained what he wished, and then the
huckster and his wife nodded good evening to him, and she was a
woman who could do more than merely nod, for she had usually plenty to
say for herself. The student nodded in return as he turned to leave,
then suddenly stopped, and began reading the piece of paper in which
the cheese was wrapped. It was a leaf torn out of an old book, a
book that ought not to have been torn up, for it was full of poetry.

"Yonder lies some more of the same sort," said the huckster: "I
gave an old woman a few coffee berries for it; you shall have the rest
for sixpence, if you will. "

"Indeed I will," said the student; "give me the book instead of
the cheese; I can eat my bread and butter without cheese. It would
be a sin to tear up a book like this. You are a clever man; and a
practical man; but you understand no more about poetry than that
cask yonder.
"

This was a very rude speech, especially against the cask; but
the huckster and the student both laughed, for it was only said in
fun. But the goblin felt very angry that any man should venture to say
such things to a huckster who was a householder and sold the best
butter. As soon as it was night, and the shop closed, and every one in
bed except the student, the goblin stepped softly into the bedroom
where the huckster's wife slept, and took away her tongue, which of
course, she did not then want. Whatever object in the room he placed
his tongue upon immediately received voice and speech, and was able to
express its thoughts and feelings as readily as the lady herself could
do. It could only be used by one object at a time, which was a good
thing, as a number speaking at once would have caused great confusion.
The goblin laid the tongue upon the cask, in which lay a quantity of
old newspapers.

"Is it really true," he asked, "that you do not know what poetry
is? "

"Of course I know," replied the cask: "poetry is something that
always stand in the corner of a newspaper, and is sometimes cut out;
and I may venture to affirm that I have more of it in me than the
student has, and I am only a poor tub of the huckster's. "

Then the goblin placed the tongue on the coffee mill; and how it
did go to be sure! Then he put it on the butter tub and the cash
box, and they all expressed the same opinion as the waste-paper tub;
and a majority must always be respected.

"Now I shall go and tell the student," said the goblin; and with
these words he went quietly up the back stairs to the garret where the
student lived. He had a candle burning still, and the goblin peeped
through the keyhole and saw that he was reading in the torn book,
which he had brought out of the shop. But how light the room was! From
the book shot forth a ray of light which grew broad and full, like the
stem of a tree, from which bright rays spread upward and over the
student's head. Each leaf was fresh, and each flower was like a
beautiful female head; some with dark and sparkling eyes, and others
with eyes that were wonderfully blue and clear. The fruit gleamed like
stars, and the room was filled with sounds of beautiful music. The
little goblin had never imagined, much less seen or heard of, any
sight so glorious as this. He stood still on tiptoe, peeping in,
till the light went out in the garret. The student no doubt had
blown out his candle and gone to bed; but the little goblin remained
standing there nevertheless, and listening to the music which still
sounded on, soft and beautiful, a sweet cradle-song for the student,
who had lain down to rest.

"This is a wonderful place," said the goblin; "I never expected
such a thing. I should like to stay here with the student;" and the
little man thought it over, for he was a sensible little spirit. At
last he sighed, "but the student has no jam! " So he went down stairs
again into the huckster's shop, and it was a good thing he got back
when he did, for the cask had almost worn out the lady's tongue; he
had given a description of all that he contained on one side, and
was just about to turn himself over to the other side to describe what
was there, when the goblin entered and restored the tongue to the
lady. But from that time forward, the whole shop, from the cash box
down to the pinewood logs, formed their opinions from that of the
cask; and they all had such confidence in him, and treated him with so
much respect, that when the huckster read the criticisms on
theatricals and art of an evening, they fancied it must all come
from the cask.

But after what he had seen, the goblin could no longer sit and
listen quietly to the wisdom and understanding down stairs; so, as
soon as the evening light glimmered in the garret, he took courage,
for it seemed to him as if the rays of light were strong cables,
drawing him up, and obliging him to go and peep through the keyhole;
and, while there, a feeling of vastness came over him such as we
experience by the ever-moving sea, when the storm breaks forth; and it
brought tears into his eyes. He did not himself know why he wept,
yet a kind of pleasant feeling mingled with his tears. "How
wonderfully glorious it would be to sit with the student under such
a tree;" but that was out of the question, he must be content to
look through the keyhole, and be thankful for even that.

There he stood on the old landing, with the autumn wind blowing
down upon him through the trap-door. It was very cold; but the
little creature did not really feel it, till the light in the garret
went out, and the tones of music died away. Then how he shivered,
and crept down stairs again to his warm corner, where it felt
home-like and comfortable. And when Christmas came again, and
brought the dish of jam and the great lump of butter, he liked the
huckster best of all.

Soon after, in the middle of the night, the goblin was awoke by
a terrible noise and knocking against the window shutters and the
house doors, and by the sound of the watchman's horn; for a great fire
had broken out, and the whole street appeared full of flames. Was it
in their house, or a neighbor's? No one could tell, for terror had
seized upon all. The huckster's wife was so bewildered that she took
her gold ear-rings out of her ears and put them in her pocket, that
she might save something at least. The huckster ran to get his
business papers, and the servant resolved to save her blue silk
mantle, which she had managed to buy. Each wished to keep the best
things they had. The goblin had the same wish; for, with one spring,
he was up stairs and in the student's room, whom he found standing
by the open window, and looking quite calmly at the fire, which was
raging at the house of a neighbor opposite. The goblin caught up the
wonderful book which lay on the table, and popped it into his red cap,
which he held tightly with both hands. The greatest treasure in the
house was saved; and he ran away with it to the roof, and seated
himself on the chimney. The flames of the burning house opposite
illuminated him as he sat, both hands pressed tightly over his cap, in
which the treasure lay; and then he found out what feelings really
reigned in his heart, and knew exactly which way they tended. And yet,
when the fire was extinguished, and the goblin again began to reflect,
he hesitated, and said at last, "I must divide myself between the two;
I cannot quite give up the huckster, because of the jam. "

And this is a representation of human nature. We are like the
goblin; we all go to visit the huckster "because of the jam. "




THE GOLDEN TREASURE

The drummer's wife went into the church. She saw the new altar
with the painted pictures and the carved angels. Those upon the canvas
and in the glory over the altar were just as beautiful as the carved
ones; and they were painted and gilt into the bargain. Their hair
gleamed golden in the sunshine, lovely to behold; but the real
sunshine was more beautiful still. It shone redder, clearer through
the dark trees, when the sun went down. It was lovely thus to look
at the sunshine of heaven. And she looked at the red sun, and she
thought about it so deeply, and thought of the little one whom the
stork was to bring, and the wife of the drummer was very cheerful, and
looked and looked, and wished that the child might have a gleam of
sunshine given to it, so that it might at least become like one of the
shining angels over the altar.

And when she really had the little child in her arms, and held
it up to its father, then it was like one of the angels in the
church to behold, with hair like gold--the gleam of the setting sun
was upon it.

"My golden treasure, my riches, my sunshine! " said the mother; and
she kissed the shining locks, and it sounded like music and song in
the 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--the
Fire-drum, that was beaten when there was a fire in the town:

"Red hair! the little fellow has red hair! Believe the drum, and
not 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 was
nothing much to be said about his name; he was called Peter. The whole
town, and the Drum too, called him Peter the drummer's boy with the
red hair; but his mother kissed his red hair, and called him her
golden treasure.

In the hollow way in the clayey bank, many had scratched their
names as a remembrance.

"Celebrity is always something! " said the drummer; and so he
scratched his own name there, and his little son's name likewise.

And the swallows came. They had, on their long journey, seen
more durable characters engraven on rocks, and on the walls of the
temples 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 bored
holes in the deep declivity, and the splashing rain and the thin
mist came and crumbled and washed the names away, and the drummer's
name also, and that of his little son.

"Peter's name will last a full year and a half longer! " said the
father.

"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 with
the red hair. He had a lovely voice. He could sing, and he sang like a
bird in the woodland. There was melody, and yet no melody.

"He must become a chorister boy," said his mother. "He shall
sing in the church, and stand among the beautiful gilded angels who
are 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 in
the garret, there'll be a fire in the house, and the fire-drum will
have to be beaten. "

"Look out for the drumsticks," replied Peter; and, small as he
was, he ran up boldly, and gave the foremost such a punch in the
body 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 the
royal plate-washer. He was very fond of Peter, and would sometimes
take him to his home; and he gave him a violin, and taught him to play
it. It seemed as if the whole art lay in the boy's fingers; and he
wanted to be more than a drummer--he wanted to become musician to
the town.

"I'll be a soldier," said Peter; for he was still quite a little
lad, and it seemed to him the finest thing in the world to carry a
gun, and to be able to march one, two--one, two, and to wear a uniform
and a sword.

"Ah, you learn to long for the drum-skin, drum, dum, dum! " said
the Drum.

"Yes, if he could only march his way up to be a general! " observed
his 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 rather
keep my golden treasure with me. "

"Drum, dum, dum! " The Fire-drum and all the other drums were
beating, for war had come. The soldiers all set out, and the son of
the drummer followed them. "Red-head. Golden treasure! "

The mother wept; the father in fancy saw him "famous;" the town
musician was of opinion that he ought not to go to war, but should
stay at home and learn music.

"Red-head," said the soldiers, and little Peter laughed; but
when one of them sometimes said to another, "Foxey," he would bite his
teeth together and look another way--into the wide world. He did not
care for the nickname.

The boy was active, pleasant of speech, and good-humored; that
is the best canteen, said his old comrades.

And many a night he had to sleep under the open sky, wet through
with the driving rain or the falling mist; but his good humor never
forsook 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 the
morning was come. The air was cold, the battle was hot; there was mist
in the air, but still more gunpowder-smoke. The bullets and shells
flew over the soldiers' heads, and into their heads--into their bodies
and limbs; but still they pressed forward. Here or there one or
other of them would sink on his knees, with bleeding temples and a
face as white as chalk. The little drummer still kept his healthy
color; he had suffered no damage; he looked cheerfully at the dog of
the regiment, which was jumping along as merrily as if the whole thing
had been got up for his amusement, and as if the bullets were only
flying about that he might have a game of play with them.

"March! Forward! March! " This, was the word of command for the
drum. The word had not yet been given to fall back, though they
might have done so, and perhaps there would have been much sense in
it; and now at last the word "Retire" was given; but our little
drummer 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 begun
to give way.

Life and limb were lost in the battle. Bombshells tore away the
flesh in red strips; bombshells lit up into a terrible glow the
strawheaps to which the wounded had dragged themselves, to lie
untended 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 of
it, even far away in the peaceful town. The drummer and his wife
also 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, but
it was morning. The drummer and his wife were asleep. They had been
talking about their son, as, indeed, they did almost every night,
for he was out yonder in God's hand. And the father dreamt that the
war was over, that the soldiers had returned home, and that Peter wore
a silver cross on his breast. But the mother dreamt that she had
gone into the church, and had seen the painted pictures and the carved
angels with the gilded hair, and her own dear boy, the golden treasure
of her heart, who was standing among the angels in white robes,
singing so sweetly, as surely only the angels can sing; and that he
had soared up with them into the sunshine, and nodded so kindly at his
mother.

"My golden treasure! " she cried out; and she awoke. "Now the
good God has taken him to Himself! " She folded her hands, and hid
her face in the cotton curtains of the bed, and wept. "Where does he
rest now? among the many in the big grave that they have dug for the
dead? Perhaps he's in the water in the marsh! Nobody knows his
grave; no holy words have been read over it! " And the Lord's Prayer
went inaudibly over her lips; she bowed her head, and was so weary
that she went to sleep.


And the days went by, in life as in dreams!

It was evening. Over the battle-field a rainbow spread, which
touched the forest and the deep marsh.

It has been said, and is preserved in popular belief, that where
the rainbow touches the earth a treasure lies buried, a golden
treasure; and here there was one. No one but his mother thought of the
little drummer, and therefore she dreamt of him.


And the days went by, in life as in dreams!

Not a hair of his head had been hurt, not a golden hair.

"Drum-ma-rum! drum-ma-rum! there he is! " the Drum might have said,
and his mother might have sung, if she had seen or dreamt it.

With hurrah and song, adorned with green wreaths of victory,
they came home, as the war was at an end, and peace had been signed.
The dog of the regiment sprang on in front with large bounds, and made
the way three times as long for himself as it really was.

And days and weeks went by, and Peter came into his parents' room.
He was as brown as a wild man, and his eyes were bright, and his
face beamed like sunshine. And his mother held him in her arms; she
kissed his lips, his forehead, and his red hair. She had her boy
back again; he had not a silver cross on his breast, as his father had
dreamt, but he had sound limbs, a thing the mother had not dreamt. And
what a rejoicing was there! They laughed and they wept; and Peter
embraced the old Fire-drum.

"There stands the old skeleton still! " he said.

And the father beat a roll upon it.

"One would think that a great fire had broken out here," said
the Fire-drum. "Bright day! fire in the heart! golden treasure! skrat!
skr-r-at! skr-r-r-r-at! "


And what then? What then! --Ask the town musician.

"Peter's far outgrowing the drum," he said. "Peter will be greater
than I. "

And yet he was the son of a royal plate-washer; but all that he
had learned in half a lifetime, Peter learned in half a year.

There was something so merry about him, something so truly
kind-hearted. His eyes gleamed, and his hair gleamed too--there was no
denying that!

"He ought to have his hair dyed," said the neighbor's wife.
"That answered capitally with the policeman's daughter, and she got
a husband. "

"But her hair turned as green as duckweed, and was always having
to be colored up. "

"She knows how to manage for herself," said the neighbors, "and so
can Peter. He comes to the most genteel houses, even to the
burgomaster's where he gives Miss Charlotte piano-forte lessons. "

He could play! He could play, fresh out of his heart, the most
charming pieces, that had never been put upon music-paper. He played
in the bright nights, and in the dark nights, too. The neighbors
declared it was unbearable, and the Fire-drum was of the same opinion.

He played until his thoughts soared up, and burst forth in great
plans for the future:

"To be famous! "

And burgomaster's Charlotte sat at the piano. Her delicate fingers
danced over the keys, and made them ring into Peter's heart. It seemed
too much for him to bear; and this happened not once, but many
times; and at last one day he seized the delicate fingers and the
white hand, and kissed it, and looked into her great brown eyes.
Heaven knows what he said; but we may be allowed to guess at it.