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