know his grave. No words of God’s book will be read upon his tombstone.”
At last the words of the Lord’s prayer fell silently from her lips; then she rested her head on the pillow in her sorrow, and a light slumber took her in its arms.
Time flies as swiftly in our waking hours as it does in dreams.
It was the evening hour. A rainbow arched itself over the battle field and rested at each edge on the forest and on the deep moor.
Some people believe, and the saying has been preserved, that wherever the edge of the rainbow rests on the ground, there lies buried a treasure a golden treasure—and here was one in reality.
No one had thought of the little drummer boy—yes, one had—his mother thought of him, and from this came her dream.
And time flies as swiftly in life as in dreams. “Peter is coming home!” Not a hair of his head had been ruffled, not a golden hair, as the drummer and his mother could have sung had they seen it or dreamt it.
With jubilee and song, and adorned with the laurels of victory, the soldiers returned gladly to the friendly shelter of home. The dog of the regiment rushed round them in great circles as if he would make the way longer.
Days and weeks had passed before the arrival of the men from the war, and at last Peter stepped suddenly into the room where his parents were seated. He was as brown as a berry, his eyes glistened and his face beamed like sunshine when his mother took him in her arms, kissed his eyes and his lips and his red hair, She had her heart’s darling with her again at last. He had no cross on his breast as his father had dreamed. He had, however, sound limbs, which his mother had not dreamed of, and this was a great joy. She laughed and wept in turns, while Peter embraced the old alarm drum.
“There it is still, and the old parchment is as good as ever,” he said, while his father took up the drum and beat a rat-tan upon it.
“People will think that a great fire has broken out,” said the alarm drum; “Fire in the roof! fire in the heart! Gold Treasure is come home. Rattan, rat-tan, rat-tan!”
“And now,—yes,—what now?” said the town musician, when he heard of his return. “Peter is getting too old for a drummer boy,” he said; “Peter will become as great as I am.” And yet he was the son of the royal silversmith. But what had taken him a whole life to acquire, Peter learnt in half a year.
‘That there was in him something so bright and so truthful, even with his brilliant eyes and his blazing hair, no one could deny. “Never mind the colour of his hair,” said the neighbours, “he must have it dyed. The daughter of the police inspector would be an excellent match for him, and he would be sure to succeed with her.”
“But if his hair is dyed it will become as green as duckweed, and require to be dyed again frequently,” they said.
“Well, she has plenty of means,” said the neighbours. “And so has
