When Peter was born, his mother had just returned from church. That day, the sunlight was especially beautiful, streaming through the stained-glass windows and illuminating the altar paintings of angels. Their hair shone golden, as if kissed by the sun.
Standing by the window, watching the setting sun, his mother thought: “When my child is born, I hope he too will carry such light.”
And when the baby arrived, he truly had a head of golden hair—no, to be precise, it was a fiery red, like a little flame. When the sunlight touched it, his entire little head seemed to glow.
“My golden baby! My little sun!” His mother held him close, kissing him again and again. She felt this child was a gift from God.
Dad, a drummer, was so overjoyed he started banging on his drum right then and there: “Boom boom boom! Boom boom boom!” The drumbeat danced with pure joy.
But the drum itself grumbled inwardly: “It’s clearly red hair, yet she calls him ‘golden baby’? Mom’s lying! Boom boom boom—red hair! Red hair!”
Soon the whole town knew: “The drummer’s family had a red-haired boy named Peter.” People greeted each other with smiles, saying, “Hey, have you seen ‘the drummer’s redhead’ today?”
Only his mother, each time she held him, still whispered softly: “My golden-haired baby.”
Names carved into muddy slopes, but washed away by the first rain
Pete grew up lively and cheerful, with a voice as natural as a bird’s song. His mother said, “He could sing in church someday, standing beneath the angel paintings—it would be perfect!”
But the neighborhood kids didn’t agree. They chased him, shouting, “Redhead! Redhead!”Some even scared him: “Watch out sleeping in the attic—the roof might catch fire! The alarm drum will start beating!”
But Peter wasn’t afraid. He clenched his little fist, charged forward, and shoved the ringleader to the ground. The others scattered in fright.
Dad thought his son could become a general someday, but Mom worried: “Soldiers lose limbs. I just want my child whole and healthy.”
And Peter himself? His biggest childhood dream was—to wear a military uniform, carry a rifle, and march in step! “One-two! One-two!” he marched, shouting, utterly proud.
The drum beat again: “Dum-dum-dum—Being a soldier is great! Being a soldier is wonderful!”
But the town’s music teacher thought he should study music. The teacher, son of an official overseeing the royal silverware, was highly learned. He taught Peter to play the violin, and to his surprise, the boy took to it as if born with the skill. His fingers barely touched the strings before music flowed out on its own.
Peter said, “I want to be a musician.”
Dad said, “Being a general is more prestigious!”
Mom said, “Just come home safely.”
The drum boomed: “Drum-drum-drum—all follow my beat!”
He went to war, where the drumbeat became his command
Then war came.
Though young, Peter marched with the troops. His mother wept, clutching him: “My golden boy…” But his father stood tall, envisioning his son returning victorious, medals gleaming on his chest.
On the battlefield, bullets whizzed past his ears, shells exploded beside him. Men fell, faces covered in blood; others lay moaning in the mud, limbs severed. Yet Peter, the red-haired little drummer boy, remained utterly unscathed.
He drummed and laughed. The regiment’s military dogs leaped around him, as if war were a game.
“Charge! Forward!” The drumbeat sounded, and even when soldiers could barely stand, they had to push forward—the drumbeat was an order, retreat was forbidden.
That day, many fell. Some were blown to pieces, others collapsed beside haystacks, never to rise again. Bide’s drumbeat sent them toward death, and also toward victory.
His parents, far away at home, lay awake all night.Mother dreamed of her son singing among angels, then soaring toward the sun. Awaking in tears, she cried, “God has taken him… In which grave does he lie now? Has anyone said prayers for him?”
Father dreamed of his son returning adorned with silver medals.
The drum sat silently in the corner, thinking: “All this crying day after day—it’s driving me crazy.”
Days passed, blown away like wind.
Treasure Lies Beneath the Rainbow—He Was That Treasure
As the war neared its end, a rainbow appeared over the battlefield, stretching from the forest to the marshlands. The elders said where the rainbow touched the earth, “golden treasure” lay buried.
No one knew what that treasure was.
Only Bide’s mother saw it in her dream—what she dreamed of was her son.
The war finally ended. Soldiers wore green wreaths, singing as they returned home. Military dogs scampered back and forth, so excited they seemed to stretch the road three times longer.
Peter came back.
His skin was sun-darkened, his eyes shone like stars, and his hair remained fiery red. His mother embraced him tightly, kissing his face, his eyes, his hair, crying and laughing, laughing and crying.
“My golden boy! You’ve come back whole!”
Peter hugged his mother, then turned and embraced the old fire alarm drum in the house: “Old pal, you’re still here!”
Father happily began beating the drum: “Dong dong dong! Dong long dong!”
The drum’s heart burst with joy: “The roof is on fire! My heart is on fire! My golden boy is back! Let it burn!”
When he played his violin, the whole world fell silent
Peter didn’t become a general, nor did he stay in the army. He picked up his violin.
When he played, the music didn’t come from the strings—it flowed from his heart. Within that music were birdsong, the whisper of wind, the beat of a heart, and an indescribable blend of tenderness and strength. He played by day and by night. The neighbors couldn’t sleep, and the fire alarm drum grew anxious: “This boy has gone mad! The house is about to burn down!”
He met Lottie, the mayor’s daughter. Her slender fingers made her look like a painting when she sat at the piano. Peter played for her, never taking his eyes off her. One day, he couldn’t resist and kissed her finger.
Lottie blushed, her face turning crimson all the way to her neck. She said nothing.
Not long after, Mother returned from the market and said, “I have news—Miss Lottie is engaged to the son of the Senior Advisor.”
Peter’s face drained white as paper. He said nothing, but tears fell one by one.
His mother embraced him: “My darling, don’t be sad…”
The drum sang silently within him: “Lottie is dead… The song is over…”
But the song, in truth, had not ended.
He Became the Brightest Star in the Nation
Years later, Peter’s name spread across the country. He played the violin for kings and performed for emperors. Newspapers wrote about him, people talked about him, calling him a “genius,” a “miracle.”
He sent money home, because his mother was now a ‘widow’—his father was gone. His mother tucked the money away and whispered, “Your father dreamed of you wearing a silver medal… Now you’ve earned an even greater honor. If only he could see this.“
The neighborhood ladies crowded into his home just to see the letters he sent back and read the newspaper articles about him. The oldest lady even prepared a special ”Celebrity Hair Memorial Album,“ hoping to ask Peter for a lock of his hair to add— ”That would be golden treasure!”
One day, Peter returned.
Dressed in fine clothes, he looked as handsome as a prince, his smile as warm as sunshine. He entered the old house where he’d lived as a child, nodding to each piece of furniture—the cupboard, the rocking chair, the broom in the corner… Finally, he dragged the old fire alarm drum into the center of the room.
“Today,” he said, “it’s my turn to beat it.”
“Dong-dong! Dong-dong-dong!” The drum thundered so loudly the sheepskin split with joy.
Deep inside, the drum thought happily: “He’s a natural at drumming! His mother must be laughing her guts out!”
The Truth Behind the Story
On the surface, this story follows a red-haired boy’s journey—from being called “Redhead” to becoming a nationally renowned musician. But at its core, it explores the tension between “how others see you” and “how you see yourself.”
His mother called him “Golden Boy” because she saw the light within him, not just the color of his hair. Neighbors mocked him as “Redhead” because they only saw the surface.During the war, the drumbeat drove men forward, but inside Bide, there was music. Lottie chose a young master from a matching social class, but within Bide’s music lay a world greater than love.
That “treasure beneath the rainbow” wasn’t gold, wasn’t a treasure—it was Bide himself: the child who wasn’t understood, wasn’t favored, yet always shone.
The drum kept “complaining,” representing the voices of the world: You should enlist, you should obey, your hair is too red, you shouldn’t dream… But Piete didn’t listen. He heard the melody within his own heart.
What lesson does this story teach us?
You don’t need to meet others’ expectations to be a “treasure.”
Got red hair? No problem.
Coming from a poor family?No problem.
People laugh at you? No problem.
Dream too big? No problem.
As long as you carry light within, passion in your heart, and perseverance in your soul, you are the “Golden Treasure”—not because others label you, but because you live as your brightest self.
Peter’s mother ‘saw’ the light within him from the very beginning. Even when the whole world called him “Redhead,” she still called him “Golden Treasure.”Why? Because she loved him not for conforming to standards, but for who he truly was.
So—
If you feel different from others, don’t be afraid.
If no one understands your dreams, don’t stop.
If someone mocks you, just smile.
Because a true “precious one” is never a title bestowed by others, but the life you live.
You are your own golden treasure.
