小学英语英语故事（童话故事）GoldenTreasure金黄的宝贝

Golden Treasure金黄的宝贝The drummer*s wifewent to church andsaw thenew altarwith paintedpictures andcarved angels.The angelswere verybeautiful,both thosepainted oncloth,in all their colors and glory,andthose carvedin wood,painted andgilded.Their hair shone likegold andsunshine and was beautifultolook at.But Godssunshine was still morebeautiful;it glowedbright andred betweenthe darktreesas the sun wassetting.And as the womangazed on the descendingsun,her innermostthoughtswere about the1i ttlechi Idthe storkwas bringingher.She wasradian11y happyas shegazed,and shewished mostfervently that her childmight be as brightas asunbeam,or at least looklikeone of the shiningangels onthe altarpiece.And whenshe actuallylifted upher childin herarms to show herhusband,it seemed to herthatthe infantreally didresemble oneof the angels in the church;atleastit hadgolden hair,hairthat hadcaught thereflection ofthat settingsun.“My Golden Treasure,my wealth,my sunshine!”said themother asshe kissedthe brightlocks;and thissounded likemusic and song in the drummer1s home;there wasjoy,and lotsof life,and celebrating.The drummerbeat a whirlwind on his drum,awhirlwindof happiness;the drum,the fire drum shouted,“Red hair!The youngone hasred hair!Listen,believe the drum and not themother!Dr-rum-a-lum!Dr-rum-a-1um!”And allthe townagreed withwhat the fire drumsaid.The boywas takentochurch and waschristened.There was nothing unusualaboutthename givenhim;hewas calledPeter.Everybodyintown calledhim“Peter,thedrummersred-hairedboy,“buthis motherkissed thatred hairand calledhim“Golden Treasure.In theclayey embankmentalong the hollow road,many peoplehad scratchedtheir namesto beremembered.Fame,“said the drummer.Thats alwaysimportant.So he,too,scratched hisnamethere and that of his little son.And in the springthe swallowscame;in theirlong travelstheyhad seenmany characterscut intorock cliffs,and onthe templewalls ofIndia,telling of thegreat deedsof mightykings,immortal namesso oldthat noone couldeven readthem now.Name value!Fame!The swallowsbuilt theirnests in thehollowroad,in holesin theembankment.Rain crumbledit andwashed awayallthenames,the drummersand hislittleson*s with them.However,Petersname stayedthere fora yearand ahalf,“said the father.“Fool!”thought thefire drum,but itonly said,^Dr-rum,dr-rum,dr-rum!Dr-rum-a-1um!”“The drummers son with the redhair was a1ively andhigh-spirited boy.He hada lovelyvoice;he couldsing,and singhe did,as doesthe birdin theforest:all melodyandnotune.He oughtto be achoirboy,“said his mother,“and singin thechurch,standing under the prettygildedangels whomhe lookslike.“Fire cat!”said thetown wits.The drumheard it from the neighbors.“Dont gohome,Peter,“cried thestreet boys.If theymake yousleep in the atticyour hairwillset thethatch on fire,and thatwill startthefire drum.”“Look outfor the drumsticks!retorted Peter;although he was onlya littlefellow,he wascourageous,and threwhis fistright into the stomachof theboy nearesthim,knocking hislegsfrom underhim;and theothers tookto theirlegs-their ownlegs!The state musician wasproudand haughty;he was the sonof aroyal servant.He IikedPeter and took himhome with him forhoursat atime,gave him a violinand taughthim to play;it seemedtoshowin theboys fingersthathe wou1d becomemore thana drummer,that hewould becomea statemusician.“I wanttobea soldier,“said Peter,for he was stilla verysmall fellowand thoughtit wou1dbe thefinest thinginthewor1dtoshoulder agun andto march-One,two!One,two!”-andto weara uniformand carrya saber.“Youlllearntoobeythe drum!Dr-rum-a-lum!“Yes,youCome,come!*said thedrum,said themaymarch aheadto becomea general,is awar.father,“but onlyif there“God saveus fromthat!”said themother.“Wc havenothing tolose!”said thedrununcr.〃Yes,we havemy boy!”said she.“But when he couldcome homea general!*said“Withoutany armsor legs!”said themother.No,Treasurethe father.whole!”“Dr-rum!Dr-rum!Dr-rum!”beat thefire drum,thank you,Id ratherkeep myGoldenand al1thedrumsjoined in.War reallydid come;thesoldiers marchedout,and the drummer*s boymarched withthem.“Red-top!”Golden Treasure!z，The motherwept;thefatherimagined himcoming homefamous;thestate musicianthought hewould havebeen betteroff stayinghome andstudying music.“Red-lop!”the soldierssaid,and Peterlaughed,but whensome of them calledhim Foxyhismouth tightenedand helooked straightahead,as ifthat namedid notconcern him.The boywassmart,carefree,andgood-humored,andthatmadehimafavorite withhisoldercomrades.Manynightshe hadto sleepundertheopen sky,in rainand mist,wet to the skin;but hisgood humorneverfailed.His drumsticksbeat,^Dr-rum-a-lum!Everybody up!”Yes,he wascertainly aborn drummerboy.It was a dayof battle;the sunwas notyet up,but itwas morning;the airwas coldand thefightwas hot;the morningwas foggy,but there wasastill heavierfog fromgunpowder.Bullets andgrenadesflew overheadand intoheads,bodies,and limbs;sti11the commandwas“Forward!”Oneafter anothersank to his kneeswith bleedingtemple andpale whiteface.The little drummer boyscolorwasstillhealthy;he wasnJt hurtat all.With flashingeyes hewatched the regimental dogrunningbefore him,and theanimal wasreally happy,as ifthe wholething werein funand theywerefiring thebullets onlytoplaywithhim.“March!Forward,march!”wasthecommand giventhe drummers;but sometimesorders haveto bechanged,with goodreason,and nowthe wordwas,“Retreat!”But the littledrummerboy stillsounded,“March forward!not understandingthat theorders had been changed.The soldiersobeyedthe drum,and itwas luckythey did,for themistake resultedin victory.Lives andlimbs worelost inthe battle.The grenadetears awaythe fleshin bleedingfragments;the grenadesets fireto thestraw heapwhere the poor woundedhas draggedhimself,to lieforsakenfor manyhours,forsaken perhapsuntil dead.It doesn*t helpto thinkabout it,and yetpeopledo thinkabout it evenfar awayinthepeaceful townat home.There thedrummer and his wifethoughtof it,for,of course,Peter wasinthe war.It wasthe dayof battle;thesunwas notyet up,but itwas morning.After asleepless nightspentin talkingabout theirboy,thedrummerand his wife hadfinally fallenasleep,for theyknew thatwhereverhe wasGods handwas protectinghim.And thefather dreamedthat thewar was over,thatthe soldierscame home,and Peterwas wearinga siIver cross onhisbreast;but themother dreamedthatshe walkedinto thechurchandlooked atthe paintedpictures and the carvedangels withthegilded hairand thather owndear boy,her heart*s Golden Treasure,stood amongtheangelscladin white,and sangas sweetlyas surelyonly thecingels cansing,andwascarried upinto thesunshinewiththem,nodding tenderlytohis mother.“My GoldenTreasure!she cried,and awokeinthesame instant.Now Iknow thatour Lordhas takenhim!”Then shefolded herhands,leaned her head againstthe cottonbed curtain,and wept.Wherehas hefound restIn thewide commongrave theydig forso manyof thebrave dead,or inthe deepwatersof themarsh No one willknow hisgrave!No holywords willbe readover it!”Silentlythe Lord,s Prayerpassed over her lips;herheaddrooped infatigue,and shefell asleep.Days passby,in wakefulhours andin dreams.It wastoward evening,and arainbow archedover thebattlefield;it touchedthe edgeof thewoodand thedeep marsh.There is an oldsaying thatwhere therainbow touchesthe eartha treasureliesburied,a goldentreasure.And herewas one.Noonethought aboutthelittledrummer excepthis mother,andthat*s whyshe haddreamed of him.Not ahair ofhis headhadbeeninjured,nota singlegolden hair.^Dr-rum-a-lum,dr-rum-a-lum!There heis,there heis!”would thedrum havesaid,and hismother would have sung,had sheseen ordreamed this.With songand hurrah,and wearingthe greenleaves ofvictory,theregimentmarched home,whenthe warwasoverand peacehad come.The regimentaldog jumpedand ranin widecircles,as thoughtryingto makethe journeythree limeslonger.Days passedand weekspassed,and atlast Peterentered hisparents*room;he wasas brownas ahermit,his eyesbright,and his face asradiant asthe sunshine.His motherheld himin herarmsand kissedhis lips,his eyes,his redhair.She hadher boyhome again;he hadno silverdecorationon hisbreast,as hisfatherhad dreamed,but thenhewasunharmed,which hismotherhad notdreamed.And therewas greatjoy;they laughedand theywept.And Peterembraced theold fire drum.Theold thingis sti11standing here!”he said.And hisfather beata tattooon it.“Theres asmuchfuss asthough therewere abig firein town!”said thedrum toitself.Fire inthe roof,firein thehearts!GoldenTreasure!Dr-rum,dr-rum,dr-rum!And thenYes,what thenJust askthe statemusician.Peter hasoutgrown thedrum,“he said.He11beabigger manthan I.And rememberhewasthe sonof aroyal servant!But whathad takenhimalifetime tolearn,Peter hadlearned inhalf ayear.There wassomethingcheerful about him;his eyessparkled,and his hairshone-that cannotbe denied.“He oughtto dyehishair,“said theirnext-door neighbor.The policemans daughter did,andlook whatit didfor her;she wasengaged atonce!”“Yes,but alittle laterher hairturned asgreen asduckweed,and shehas todye itagain andagain!”“Well,she canafford to,“said theneighbor woman,“andsocan Peter.Doesn*thego intothebest houses,even themayors,to teachMiss Lottethe harpsichord”Yes,play hecould,playright outofhis heart,the mostcharming piecesthat hadnever beenwritten downin notes.Heplayedon moonlitnights andstormy onesas well.It wasdifficult toput upwith,said theneighborsand thefire drum.He playeduntil histhoughts soaredstrongly upward,and greatplans forthefuture tookshape beforehim.Fame!The mayor,sdaughter,Lotte,sat atthe harpsichord,and asher delicatefingers dancedover thechordsthey vibratedin Peter*sheart,until itseemed as if itwere growingtoo bigfor hisbody.This happenednot once,but manytimes,until oneday heseized herdelicate hand,kissed it,andgazed intoher largebrown eyes.Our Lordknows whathe said;we othersmay guessit.Lotte blushedcrimson,face andneck,and answerednot aword,and justthen theywere interruptedby strangers,among themthe councilor,s son,with hishigh,smooth forehead.But Peterdid notgo,and Lotte*s kindestglances werefor him.At homethat eveninghe talkedof goingabrocid andof thegoldentreasure thathis violinwould bringhim.Fame!^Dr-rum-a-lum!Dr-rum-a-lum!Dr-rum-a-lum!said thefiredrum.Now somethingis surelywrong withPeter;I thinkthe housemust beonfire!”Themotherwenttomarketthenextday.Haveyouheardthenews,Peter”shesaid,whenshereturned.Such wonderfulnews!The mayorsdaughter,Lotte,was betrothedtothecouncilor*sson;ithappened lastevening!”No!said Peter,and sprangup fromhis chair.But hismother saidyes;she hadlearned it fromthe barber*s wife,and thebarber haditfrom the lipsofthemayor himself.And Petergrew aspaleas deathand satdown again.“Lord God!How doyou feel”said hismother.“Fine,fine.Just letme alone!”he said,but thetears wererolling downhis cheeks.“My sweetchild!My GoldenTreasure!”said themother,and cried.But thefiredrumgrumbled toitself,“Lotte isdead!Lotte isdead!Yes,that songis overnow!”The songwas notover;it stillhadmany unsungverses,long verses,the mostbeautiful,about alife*s goldentreasure.What afussshe makes!”said thenext-door neighbor.The wholeworld hasto readthe lettersshe getsfromher GoldenTreasure,and hearwhat thenewspapers sayabouthimandhis violin playing.He sendshermoney,too,for sheneeds that,now thatshes awidow!“He playsbefore kingsand emperors,“said thestatemusician.Thal wasnever mygood luck,but atleast hewas mypupil,and hehasn*t forgottenhis oldmaster.“My husbanddreamed,z，said hismother,“that Petercame homefromthewar witha silvercrossonhis chest.Well,hedoes weara crossnow,but it*snota decorationearned inthewar;it*sanorder ofknighthood.If hisfather hadonly livedto seeit!〃“Famous!”said thefiredrum,and everybodyin hishome townsaid thesame.Peter,the red-hairedboy ofthedrummer-Peter,whom theyhad seenwearing woodenshoes asa youngster,and seenasa drummerboy playingat dances-was nowfamous.“He playedto usbefore heplayed beforethe kings,“said themayors wife.Once upona timehewas crazyabout ourLotte;he alwaysaimed high!How myhusband laughedwhenhelearned thatnonsense!Now Lotteisacouncilor,swife.”Yes,therewasa goldentreasure hiddenintheheart andsoul ofthepoorchi Idwho asa littledrummerboy hadbeaten“Forward!”to troopssupposed toretreat;in hisbreast wasa goldentreasureindeed,the giftof music.11resounded fromhisviolinasifan organwere inside,asif allthe elvesof MidsummerEve dancedalong itsstrings,and onecould hearthe songof thethrostleand thehuman voicetogether;his playingenraptured people*s hearts,and carriedhisname throughoutall lands,like agreat fire,a fireof inspiration.And hesso handsome,too!”said theyoung ladiesand theold onesas well.Yes,the oldestlady boughtherself analbum forthelocks ofcelebrities,just soshe couldbeg fora tressfromtheyoung violinist,s abundantandbeautiful hair-a treasure,a goldentreasure.And theson returnedtothedrummer*s humbledwelling,as handsomeasaprince,happier thanaking,his eyesbright,hisfacelike sunshine.He heldhismotherin hisarms,and shekissed hiswarmmouth andwept asheippily asone canweep withjoy.He greetedevery oldpiece offurniturein theroom,the chestof drawerswiththeteacups andflower vaseson itand thelittle cotwherehe hadslept asa child.But hedragged theold firedrum intothe middleoftheroom andsaid,both tohismotherandtothedrum,“Father wou1dhavebeaten awe1come onyou today;now1must doit instead!”So hethundered aregular tempestonthedrum,andtheold drumfelt itselfso honoredthat theskinofthedrumhead burst.“He certainlyhas afine fist!”said thedrum.Now I11always havea souvenirofhim.I expectthathismother,too,will burstfrom joyoverherGoldenTreasure!”That*sthestory ofGoldenTreasure.。