No More Learning

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.
Charlotte blushed to guess at it. She reddened from brow to neck,
and answered not a single word; and then strangers came into the room,
and one of them was the state councillor's son. He had a lofty white
forehead, and carried it so high that it seemed to go back into his
neck. And Peter sat by her a long time, and she looked at him with
gentle eyes.

At home that evening he spoke of travel in the wide world, and
of the golden treasure that lay hidden for him in his violin.

"To be famous! "

"Tum-me-lum, tum-me-lum, tum-me-lum! " said the Fire-drum. "Peter
has gone clear out of his wits. I think there must be a fire in the
house. "

Next day the mother went to market.

"Shall I tell you news, Peter? " she asked when she came home. "A
capital piece of news. Burgomaster's Charlotte has engaged herself
to the state councillor's son; the betrothal took place yesterday
evening. "

"No! " cried Peter, and he sprang up from his chair. But his mother
persisted in saying "Yes. " She had heard it from the baker's wife,
whose husband had it from the burgomaster's own mouth.

And Peter became as pale as death, and sat down again.

"Good Heaven! what's the matter with you? " asked his mother.

"Nothing, nothing; only leave me to myself," he answered but the
tears were running down his cheeks.

"My sweet child, my golden treasure! " cried the mother, and she
wept; but the Fire-drum sang, not out loud, but inwardly.

"Charlotte's gone! Charlotte's gone! and now the song is done. "

But the song was not done; there were many more verses in it, long
verses, the most beautiful verses, the golden treasures of a life.


"She behaves like a mad woman," said the neighbor's wife. "All the
world is to see the letters she gets from her golden treasure, and
to read the words that are written in the papers about his violin
playing. And he sends her money too, and that's very useful to her
since she has been a widow. "

"He plays before emperors and kings," said the town musician. "I
never had that fortune, but he's my pupil, and he does not forget
his old master. "

And his mother said,

"His father dreamt that Peter came home from the war with a silver
cross. He did not gain one in the war, but it is still more
difficult to gain one in this way. Now he has the cross of honor. If
his father had only lived to see it! "

"He's grown famous! " said the Fire-drum, and all his native town
said the same thing, for the drummer's son, Peter with the red
hair--Peter whom they had known as a little boy, running about in
wooden shoes, and then as a drummer, playing for the dancers--was
become famous!

"He played at our house before he played in the presence of
kings," said the burgomaster's wife. "At that time he was quite
smitten with Charlotte. He was always of an aspiring turn. At that
time he was saucy and an enthusiast. My husband laughed when he
heard of the foolish affair, and now our Charlotte is a state
councillor's wife. "

A golden treasure had been hidden in the heart and soul of the
poor child, who had beaten the roll as a drummer--a roll of victory
for those who had been ready to retreat. There was a golden treasure
in his bosom, the power of sound; it burst forth on his violin as if
the instrument had been a complete organ, and as if all the elves of a
midsummer night were dancing across the strings. In its sounds were
heard the piping of the thrush and the full clear note of the human
voice; therefore the sound brought rapture to every heart, and carried
his name triumphant through the land. That was a great firebrand--the
firebrand of inspiration.

"And then he looks so splendid! " said the young ladies and the old
ladies too; and the oldest of all procured an album for famous locks
of hair, wholly and solely that she might beg a lock of his rich
splendid hair, that treasure, that golden treasure.

And the son came into the poor room of the drummer, elegant as a
prince, happier than a king. His eyes were as clear and his face was
as radiant as sunshine; and he held his mother in his arms, and she
kissed his mouth, and wept as blissfully as any one can weep for
joy; and he nodded at every old piece of furniture in the room, at the
cupboard with the tea-cups, and at the flower-vase. He nodded at the
sleeping-bench, where he had slept as a little boy; but the old
Fire-drum he brought out, and dragged it into the middle of the
room, and said to it and to his mother:

"My father would have beaten a famous roll this evening. Now I
must do it! "

And he beat a thundering roll-call on the instrument, and the Drum
felt so highly honored that the parchment burst with exultation.

"He has a splendid touch! " said the Drum. "I've a remembrance of
him now that will last. I expect that the same thing will happen to
his mother, from pure joy over her golden treasure. "

And this is the story of the Golden Treasure.




THE GOLOSHES OF FORTUNE

A BEGINNING

In a house in Copenhagen, not far from the king's new market, a
very large party had assembled, the host and his family expecting,
no doubt, to receive invitations in return. One half of the company
were already seated at the card-tables, the other half seemed to be
waiting the result of their hostess's question, "Well, how shall we
amuse ourselves? "

Conversation followed, which, after a while, began to prove very
entertaining. Among other subjects, it turned upon the events of the
middle ages, which some persons maintained were more full of
interest than our own times. Counsellor Knapp defended this opinion so
warmly that the lady of the house immediately went over to his side,
and both exclaimed against Oersted's Essays on Ancient and Modern
Times, in which the preference is given to our own. The counsellor
considered the times of the Danish king, Hans, as the noblest and
happiest.

The conversation on this topic was only interrupted for a moment
by the arrival of a newspaper, which did not, however, contain much
worth reading, and while it is still going on we will pay a visit to
the ante-room, in which cloaks, sticks, and goloshes were carefully
placed. Here sat two maidens, one young, and the other old, as if they
had come and were waiting to accompany their mistresses home; but on
looking at them more closely, it could easily be seen that they were
no common servants. Their shapes were too graceful, their
complexions too delicate, and the cut of their dresses much too
elegant. They were two fairies. The younger was not Fortune herself,
but the chambermaid of one of Fortune's attendants, who carries
about her more trifling gifts. The elder one, who was named Care,
looked rather gloomy; she always goes about to perform her own
business in person; for then she knows it is properly done. They
were telling each other where they had been during the day. The
messenger of Fortune had only transacted a few unimportant matters;
for instance, she had preserved a new bonnet from a shower of rain,
and obtained for an honest man a bow from a titled nobody, and so
on; but she had something extraordinary to relate, after all.

"I must tell you," said she, "that to-day is my birthday; and in
honor of it I have been intrusted with a pair of goloshes, to
introduce amongst mankind.
These goloshes have the property of
making every one who puts them on imagine himself in any place he
wishes, or that he exists at any period. Every wish is fulfilled at
the moment it is expressed, so that for once mankind have the chance
of being happy. "

"No," replied Care; "you may depend upon it that whoever puts on
those goloshes will be very unhappy, and bless the moment in which
he can get rid of them. "

"What are you thinking of? " replied the other. "Now see; I will
place them by the door; some one will take them instead of his own,
and he will be the happy man. "

This was the end of their conversation.


WHAT HAPPENED TO THE COUNSELLOR

It was late when Counsellor Knapp, lost in thought about the times
of King Hans, desired to return home; and fate so ordered it that he
put on the goloshes of Fortune instead of his own, and walked out into
the East Street. Through the magic power of the goloshes, he was at
once carried back three hundred years, to the times of King Hans,
for which he had been longing when he put them on. Therefore he
immediately set his foot into the mud and mire of the street, which in
those days possessed no pavement.

"Why, this is horrible; how dreadfully dirty it is! " said the
counsellor; "and the whole pavement has vanished, and the lamps are all
out. "

The moon had not yet risen high enough to penetrate the thick
foggy air, and all the objects around him were confused together in
the darkness. At the nearest corner, a lamp hung before a picture of
the Madonna; but the light it gave was almost useless, for he only
perceived it when he came quite close and his eyes fell on the painted
figures of the Mother and Child.

"That is most likely a museum of art," thought he, "and they
have forgotten to take down the sign. "

Two men, in the dress of olden times, passed by him.

"What odd figures! " thought he; "they must be returning from
some masquerade. "

Suddenly he heard the sound of a drum and fifes, and then a
blazing light from torches shone upon him. The counsellor stared
with astonishment as he beheld a most strange procession pass before
him. First came a whole troop of drummers, beating their drums very
cleverly; they were followed by life-guards, with longbows and
crossbows. The principal person in the procession was a
clerical-looking gentleman. The astonished counsellor asked what it
all meant, and who the gentleman might be.

"That is the bishop of Zealand. "

"Good gracious! " he exclaimed; "what in the world has happened
to the bishop? what can he be thinking about? " Then he shook his
head and said, "It cannot possibly be the bishop himself. "

While musing on this strange affair, and without looking to the
right or left, he walked on through East Street and over Highbridge
Place. The bridge, which he supposed led to Palace Square, was nowhere
to be found; but instead, he saw a bank and some shallow water, and
two people, who sat in a boat.

"Does the gentleman wish to be ferried over the Holm? " asked one.

"To the Holm! " exclaimed the counsellor, not knowing in what age
he was now existing; "I want to go to Christian's Haven, in Little
Turf Street. " The men stared at him. "Pray tell me where the bridge
is! " said he. "It is shameful that the lamps are not lighted here, and
it is as muddy as if one were walking in a marsh. " But the more he
talked with the boatmen the less they could understand each other.

"I don't understand your outlandish talk," he cried at last,
angrily turning his back upon them. He could not, however, find the
bridge nor any railings.

"What a scandalous condition this place is in," said he; never,
certainly, had he found his own times so miserable as on this evening.
"I think it will be better for me to take a coach; but where are
they? " There was not one to be seen! "I shall be obliged to go back to
the king's new market," said he, "where there are plenty of
carriages standing, or I shall never reach Christian's Haven. " Then he
went towards East Street, and had nearly passed through it, when the
moon burst forth from a cloud.

"Dear me, what have they been erecting here? " he cried, as he
caught sight of the East gate, which in olden times used to stand at
the end of East Street. However, he found an opening through which
he passed, and came out upon where he expected to find the new market.
Nothing was to be seen but an open meadow, surrounded by a few bushes,
through which ran a broad canal or stream. A few miserable-looking
wooden booths, for the accommodation of Dutch watermen, stood on the
opposite shore.

"Either I behold a fata morgana, or I must be tipsy," groaned
the counsellor. "What can it be? What is the matter with me? " He
turned back in the full conviction that he must be ill. In walking
through the street this time, he examined the houses more closely;
he found that most of them were built of lath and plaster, and many
had only a thatched roof.

"I am certainly all wrong," said he, with a sigh; "and yet I only
drank one glass of punch. But I cannot bear even that, and it was very
foolish to give us punch and hot salmon; I shall speak about it to our
hostess, the agent's lady. Suppose I were to go back now and say how
ill I feel, I fear it would look so ridiculous, and it is not very
likely that I should find any one up. " Then he looked for the house,
but it was not in existence.

"This is really frightful; I cannot even recognize East Street.
Not a shop to be seen; nothing but old, wretched, tumble-down
houses, just as if I were at Roeskilde or Ringstedt. Oh, I really must
be ill! It is no use to stand upon ceremony. But where in the world is
the agent's house. There is a house, but it is not his; and people
still up in it, I can hear. Oh dear! I certainly am very queer. " As he
reached the half-open door, he saw a light and went in. It was a
tavern of the olden times, and seemed a kind of beershop. The room had
the appearance of a Dutch interior. A number of people, consisting
of seamen, Copenhagen citizens, and a few scholars, sat in deep
conversation over their mugs, and took very little notice of the new
comer.

"Pardon me," said the counsellor, addressing the landlady, "I do
not feel quite well, and I should be much obliged if you will send for
a fly to take me to Christian's Haven. " The woman stared at him and
shook her head. Then she spoke to him in German. The counsellor
supposed from this that she did not understand Danish; he therefore
repeated his request in German. This, as well as his singular dress,
convinced the woman that he was a foreigner. She soon understood,
however, that he did not find himself quite well, and therefore
brought him a mug of water. It had something of the taste of seawater,
certainly, although it had been drawn from the well outside. Then
the counsellor leaned his head on his hand, drew a deep breath, and
pondered over all the strange things that had happened to him.

"Is that to-day's number of the Day? " he asked, quite
mechanically, as he saw the woman putting by a large piece of paper.
She did not understand what he meant, but she handed him the sheet; it
was a woodcut, representing a meteor, which had appeared in the town
of Cologne.

"That is very old," said the counsellor, becoming quite cheerful
at the sight of this antique drawing. "Where did you get this singular
sheet? It is very interesting, although the whole affair is a fable.
Meteors are easily explained in these days; they are northern
lights, which are often seen, and are no doubt caused by electricity. "

Those who sat near him, and heard what he said, looked at him in
great astonishment, and one of them rose, took off his hat
respectfully, and said in a very serious manner, "You must certainly
be a very learned man, monsieur. "

"Oh no," replied the counsellor; "I can only discourse on topics
which every one should understand. "

"Modestia is a beautiful virtue," said the man. "Moreover, I
must add to your speech mihi secus videtur; yet in this case I would
suspend my judicium. "

"May I ask to whom I have the pleasure of speaking? "

"I am a Bachelor of Divinity," said the man. This answer satisfied
the counsellor. The title agreed with the dress.

"This is surely," thought he, "an old village schoolmaster, a
perfect original, such as one meets with sometimes even in Jutland. "

"This is not certainly a locus docendi," began the man; "still I
must beg you to continue the conversation. You must be well read in
ancient lore. "

"Oh yes," replied the counsellor; "I am very fond of reading
useful old books, and modern ones as well, with the exception of
every-day stories, of which we really have more than enough.

"Every-day stories? " asked the bachelor.

"Yes, I mean the new novels that we have at the present day. "

"Oh," replied the man, with a smile; "and yet they are very witty,
and are much read at Court. The king likes especially the romance of
Messeurs Iffven and Gaudian, which describes King Arthur and his
knights of the round table. He has joked about it with the gentlemen
of his Court. "

"Well, I have certainly not read that," replied the counsellor. "I
suppose it is quite new, and published by Heiberg. "

"No," answered the man, "it is not by Heiberg; Godfred von
Gehman brought it out. "

"Oh, is he the publisher? That is a very old name," said the
counsellor; "was it not the name of the first publisher in Denmark? "

"Yes; and he is our first printer and publisher now," replied
the scholar.

So far all had passed off very well; but now one of the citizens
began to speak of a terrible pestilence which had been raging a few
years before, meaning the plague of 1484. The counsellor thought he
referred to the cholera, and they could discuss this without finding
out the mistake. The war in 1490 was spoken of as quite recent. The
English pirates had taken some ships in the Channel in 1801, and the
counsellor, supposing they referred to these, agreed with them in
finding fault with the English. The rest of the talk, however, was not
so agreeable; every moment one contradicted the other. The good
bachelor appeared very ignorant, for the simplest remark of the
counsellor seemed to him either too bold or too fantastic. They stared
at each other, and when it became worse the bachelor spoke in Latin,
in the hope of being better understood; but it was all useless.

"How are you now? " asked the landlady, pulling the counsellor's
sleeve.

Then his recollection returned to him. In the course of
conversation he had forgotten all that had happened previously.

"Goodness me! where am I? " said he. It bewildered him as he
thought of it.

"We will have some claret, or mead, or Bremen beer," said one of
the guests; "will you drink with us? "

Two maids came in. One of them had a cap on her head of two
colors. They poured out the wine, bowed their heads, and withdrew.

The counsellor felt a cold shiver run all over him. "What is this?
what does it mean? " said he; but he was obliged to drink with them,
for they overpowered the good man with their politeness. He became
at last desperate; and when one of them said he was tipsy, he did
not doubt the man's word in the least--only begged them to get a
droschky; and then they thought he was speaking the Muscovite
language. Never before had he been in such rough and vulgar company.
"One might believe that the country was going back to heathenism,"
he observed. "This is the most terrible moment of my life. "

Just then it came into his mind that he would stoop under the
table, and so creep to the door. He tried it; but before he reached
the entry, the rest discovered what he was about, and seized him by
the feet, when, luckily for him, off came the goloshes, and with
them vanished the whole enchantment. The counsellor now saw quite
plainly a lamp, and a large building behind it; everything looked
familiar and beautiful. He was in East Street, as it now appears; he
lay with his legs turned towards a porch, and just by him sat the
watchman asleep.

"Is it possible that I have been lying here in the street
dreaming? " said he. "Yes, this is East Street; how beautifully
bright and gay it looks! It is quite shocking that one glass of
punch should have upset me like this. "

Two minutes afterwards he sat in a droschky, which was to drive
him to Christian's Haven. He thought of all the terror and anxiety
which he had undergone, and felt thankful from his heart for the
reality and comfort of modern times, which, with all their errors,
were far better than those in which he so lately found himself.


THE WATCHMAN'S ADVENTURES

"Well, I declare, there lies a pair of goloshes," said the
watchman. "No doubt, they belong to the lieutenant who lives up
stairs. They are lying just by his door. " Gladly would the honest
man have rung, and given them in, for a light was still burning, but
he did not wish to disturb the other people in the house; so he let
them lie. "These things must keep the feet very warm," said he;
"they are of such nice soft leather. " Then he tried them on, and
they fitted his feet exactly. "Now," said he, "how droll things are in
this world! There's that man can lie down in his warm bed, but he does
not do so. There he goes pacing up and down the room. He ought to be a
happy man. He has neither wife nor children, and he goes out into
company every evening. Oh, I wish I were he; then I should be a
happy man. "

As he uttered this wish, the goloshes which he had put on took
effect, and the watchman at once became the lieutenant. There he stood
in his room, holding a little piece of pink paper between his fingers,
on which was a poem,--a poem written by the lieutenant himself. Who
has not had, for once in his life, a moment of poetic inspiration? and
at such a moment, if the thoughts are written down, they flow in
poetry. The following verses were written on the pink paper:--

"OH WERE I RICH!

"Oh were I rich! How oft, in youth's bright hour,
When youthful pleasures banish every care,
I longed for riches but to gain a power,
The sword and plume and uniform to wear!
The riches and the honor came for me;
Yet still my greatest wealth was poverty:
Ah, help and pity me!

"Once in my youthful hours, when gay and free,
A maiden loved me; and her gentle kiss,
Rich in its tender love and purity,
Taught me, alas! too much of earthly bliss.
Dear child! She only thought of youthful glee;
She loved no wealth, but fairy tales and me.
Thou knowest: ah, pity me!

"Oh were I rich! again is all my prayer:
That child is now a woman, fair and free,
As good and beautiful as angels are.
Oh, were I rich in lovers' poetry,
To tell my fairy tale, love's richest lore!
But no; I must be silent--I am poor.
Ah, wilt thou pity me?

"Oh were I rich in truth and peace below,
I need not then my poverty bewail.
To thee I dedicate these lines of woe;
Wilt thou not understand the mournful tale?
A leaf on which my sorrows I relate--
Dark story of a darker night of fate.
Ah, bless and pity me! "


"Well, yes; people write poems when they are in love, but a wise
man will not print them. A lieutenant in love, and poor. This is a
triangle, or more properly speaking, the half of the broken die of
fortune. " The lieutenant felt this very keenly, and therefore leaned
his head against the window-frame, and sighed deeply. "The poor
watchman in the street," said he, "is far happier than I am. He
knows not what I call poverty. He has a home, a wife and children, who
weep at his sorrow and rejoice at his joy. Oh, how much happier I
should be could I change my being and position with him, and pass
through life with his humble expectations and hopes! Yes, he is indeed
happier than I am. "

At this moment the watchman again became a watchman; for having,
through the goloshes of Fortune, passed into the existence of the
lieutenant, and found himself less contented than he expected, he
had preferred his former condition, and wished himself again a
watchman. "That was an ugly dream," said he, "but droll enough. It
seemed to me as if I were the lieutenant up yonder, but there was no
happiness for me. I missed my wife and the little ones, who are always
ready to smother me with kisses. " He sat down again and nodded, but he
could not get the dream out of his thoughts, and he still had the
goloshes on his feet. A falling star gleamed across the sky. "There
goes one! " cried he. "However, there are quite enough left; I should
very much like to examine these a little nearer, especially the
moon, for that could not slip away under one's hands. The student, for
whom my wife washes, says that when we die we shall fly from one
star to another.