THE GOLDEN TREASURE [0]
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
THE GOLDEN TREASURE
by Hans Christian Andersen
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
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
THE GOLDEN TREASURE
by Hans Christian Andersen
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