The Old Street Lamp

								
Did you ever hear the story of the old street lamp? It is not
remarkably interesting, but for once in a way you may as well listen
to it. It was a most respectable old lamp, which had seen many, many
years of service, and now was to retire with a pension. It was this
evening at its post for the last time, giving light to the street. His
feelings were something like those of an old dancer at the theatre,
who is dancing for the last time, and knows that on the morrow she
will be in her garret, alone and forgotten. The lamp had very great
anxiety about the next day, for he knew that he had to appear for
the first time at the town hall, to be inspected by the mayor and
the council, who were to decide if he were fit for further service
or not;--whether the lamp was good enough to be used to light the
inhabitants of one of the suburbs, or in the country, at some factory;
and if not, it would be sent at once to an iron foundry, to be
melted down. In this latter case it might be turned into anything, and
he wondered very much whether he would then be able to remember that
he had once been a street lamp, and it troubled him exceedingly.
Whatever might happen, one thing seemed certain, that he would be
separated from the watchman and his wife, whose family he looked
upon as his own. The lamp had first been hung up on that very
evening that the watchman, then a robust young man, had entered upon
the duties of his office. Ah, well, it was a very long time since
one became a lamp and the other a watchman. His wife had a little
pride in those days; she seldom condescended to glance at the lamp,
excepting when she passed by in the evening, never in the daytime. But
in later years, when all these,--the watchman, the wife, and the
lamp--had grown old, she had attended to it, cleaned it, and supplied it
with oil. The old people were thoroughly honest, they had never
cheated the lamp of a single drop of the oil provided for it.

This was the lamp's last night in the street, and to-morrow he
must go to the town-hall,--two very dark things to think of. No wonder
he did not burn brightly. Many other thoughts also passed through
his mind. How many persons he had lighted on their way, and how much
he had seen; as much, very likely, as the mayor and corporation
themselves! None of these thoughts were uttered aloud, however; for he
was a good, honorable old lamp, who would not willingly do harm to any
one, especially to those in authority. As many things were recalled to
his mind, the light would flash up with sudden brightness; he had,
at such moments, a conviction that he would be remembered. "There
was a handsome young man once," thought he; "it is certainly a long
while ago, but I remember he had a little note, written on pink
paper with a gold edge; the writing was elegant, evidently a lady's
hand: twice he read it through, and kissed it, and then looked up at
me, with eyes that said quite plainly, 'I am the happiest of men!'
Only he and I know what was written on this his first letter from
his lady-love. Ah, yes, and there was another pair of eyes that I
remember,--it is really wonderful how the thoughts jump from one thing
to another! A funeral passed through the street; a young and beautiful
woman lay on a bier, decked with garlands of flowers, and attended
by torches, which quite overpowered my light. All along the street
stood the people from the houses, in crowds, ready to join the
procession. But when the torches had passed from before me, and I
could look round, I saw one person alone, standing, leaning against my
post, and weeping. Never shall I forget the sorrowful eyes that looked
up at me." These and similar reflections occupied the old street lamp,
on this the last time that his light would shine. The sentry, when
he is relieved from his post, knows at least who will succeed him, and
may whisper a few words to him, but the lamp did not know his
successor, or he could have given him a few hints respecting rain,
or mist, and could have informed him how far the moon's rays would
rest on the pavement, and from which side the wind generally blew, and
so on.

On the bridge over the canal stood three persons, who wished to
recommend themselves to the lamp, for they thought he could give the
office to whomsoever he chose. The first was a herring's head, which
could emit light in the darkness. He remarked that it would be a great
saving of oil if they placed him on the lamp-post. Number two was a
piece of rotten wood, which also shines in the dark. He considered
himself descended from an old stem, once the pride of the forest.
The third was a glow-worm, and how he found his way there the lamp
could not imagine, yet there he was, and could really give light as
well as the others. But the rotten wood and the herring's head
declared most solemnly, by all they held sacred, that the glow-worm
only gave light at certain times, and must not be allowed to compete
with themselves. The old lamp assured them that not one of them
could give sufficient light to fill the position of a street lamp; but
they would believe nothing he said. And when they discovered that he
had not the power of naming his successor, they said they were very
glad to hear it, for the lamp was too old and worn-out to make a
proper choice.

At this moment the wind came rushing round the corner of the
street, and through the air-holes of the old lamp. "What is this I
hear?" said he; "that you are going away to-morrow? Is this evening
the last time we shall meet? Then I must present you with a farewell
gift. I will blow into your brain, so that in future you shall not
only be able to remember all that you have seen or heard in the
past, but your light within shall be so bright, that you shall be able
to understand all that is said or done in your presence."

"Oh, that is really a very, very great gift," said the old lamp;
"I thank you most heartily. I only hope I shall not be melted down."

"That is not likely to happen yet," said the wind; "and I will

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