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,