Yes, there was a golden treasure hidden in the heart and soul of the poor child who as a little drummer boy had beaten "Forward!" to troops supposed to retreat; in his breast was a golden treasure indeed, the gift of music. It resounded from his violin as if an organ were inside, as if all the elves of Midsummer Eve danced along its strings, and one could hear the song of the throstle and the human voice together; his playing enraptured people's hearts, and carried his name throughout all lands, like a great fire, a fire of inspiration. "And he's so handsome, too!" said the young ladies and the old ones as well. Yes, the oldest lady bought herself an album for the locks of celebrities, just so she could beg for a tress from the young violinist's abundant and beautiful hair - a treasure, a golden treasure.
And the son returned to the drummer's humble dwelling, as handsome as a prince, happier than a king, his eyes bright, his face like sunshine. He held his mother in his arms, and she kissed his warm mouth and wept as happily as one can weep with joy. He greeted every old piece of furniture in the room, the chest of drawers with the teacups and flower vases on it and the little cot where he had slept as a child. But he dragged the old fire drum into the middle of the room and said, both to his mother and to the drum, "Father would have beaten a welcome on you today; now I must do it instead!"
So he thundered a regular tempest on the drum, and the old drum felt itself so honored that the skin of the drumhead burst.
"He certainly has a fine fist!" said the drum. "Now I'll always have a souvenir of him. I expect that his mother, too, will burst from joy over her Golden Treasure!"
That's the story of Golden Treasure.