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.