The Old Street Lamp

On the corner of a quiet town stood an old street lamp. It had shone there every evening for many years, throwing a friendly circle of light on the cobblestones. The lamplighter, who was also the night watchman, came with his ladder and his oil can at dusk and again at dawn. He was kind, and his wife always polished the lamp’s glass until it gleamed.

One evening the lamplighter climbed up as usual, but his voice was softer than before. “This is your last night,” he whispered. “Tomorrow a new lamp will take your place. The town council will decide what’s to become of you.” He patted the iron frame, and the lamp felt the pat like a warm handshake.

The old street lamp flickered very steadily. It tried to shine its best, though its heart—if lamps have hearts—felt heavy. What would become of it? Would it be sent to the junk heap and melted down? Would it be left in a dark shed and forgotten?

The wind slid down the street and rustled in the lamp’s cap. “Off you go!” it hummed. “Travel with me! I can set you spinning!”

“No, thank you,” thought the lamp. “I was made to stand and shine.”

The moon looked through a gap in the clouds. “You have given light faithfully,” she said. “Hold your glow tonight. You may yet be useful.”

Neighbors had their opinions too. The rain spout clinked, “Become a watering can!” The gate creaked, “Be my latch!” The wall muttered, “I could use a nail for a picture.” The old lamp listened politely, but it wished more than anything to go on giving light.

Inside the houses, people moved about, and the lamp remembered so many evenings: a baby first carried out in a blanket, a soldier marching away and later coming home, a lost key found under its glow, two children whispering secrets in its circle of shine. It had seen so much, but it had never gossiped. A good lamp keeps what it sees to itself.

Midnight neared. The streets grew quiet. Then, softly—so softly the lamp’s flame hardly trembled—an old figure came down the street. He was wrapped in a cloak of fog and carried a bundle of withered leaves that rustled like pages. It was the Old Year, walking away.

“Old friend,” said the Old Year, looking up. “You have stood your post well.” He took one dry page from his bundle. “I cannot give you more oil or more years in the street, but I will give you a small gift. If ever a good, honest light burns in you again—even a little candle-end—you shall be able to give those beneath you a clearer mind and a kinder heart. They will see their work more plainly, their lessons more truly, and their own hearts more gently. Your gift will work only while you are lit, and only for those who truly try.”

The Old Year slipped the dry page into the lamp—no one saw where—and was gone, and the clock struck twelve. The lamp burned on in the cold air, filled with a quiet hope it hardly understood.

Morning came, and the lamplighter took the lamp down from its post. It rattled a little on the ladder; the old bolts creaked; but he held it as carefully as a baby. At the town hall, the council talked. The mayor said, “This lamp has served well.” People nodded. “Let it be given to the lamplighter and his wife in thanks,” they decided. “They may keep it.”

So the lamp went to a tiny cottage near the guardhouse. It was hung by the window where a geranium grew. “You’re home with us now,” the lamplighter’s wife said, polishing the glass one more time. The lamp would have blushed if a lamp could.

But there was a problem: oil cost money, and the couple were poor. A neighbor brought a bottle of thick, sour oil. “It’s cheap,” she said. They tried it, but the smell filled the room until their eyes watered. They hurried to put the flame out and opened the window to the winter air. After that, the lamp hung dark and silent. Its place was cozy, but its wick was cold, and that made it sad.

Snow fell. The river froze. The lamplighter still walked his rounds at night, but without the old ladder, for the new lamps lit themselves. One evening a young student knocked at the door. He needed a cheap bed and a quiet corner to study. “You may have both,” said the lamplighter’s wife, and the student moved into a tiny room with a small desk beneath the old lamp.

“I have candle-ends,” the student told them, emptying a pocket full of stubs. “May I put one in the old lamp? Its glass will help the light.”

“By all means!” said the lamplighter, smiling.

They placed a stub in a little holder inside the lamp, and the student struck a match. The old street lamp felt the spark like a heartbeat. Light spread through its glass, soft and clean. At once the Old Year’s gift awakened. The glow seemed to settle gently on the student’s books. The letters on the page stood out clearly, rows and rows of tidy soldiers. The student bent closer. His tired eyes felt rested. His thoughts lined up like the letters. Ideas that had been misty grew bright. He read, he understood, and he remembered.

Night after night, the same thing happened. The student would come home, share his supper with the couple, and then sit under the lamp. He read lessons, copied lines, did sums, and the light smoothed the way. When he grew impatient, the shining reminded him to be kind to himself and try again. Sometimes he looked up and spoke aloud, as if to a friend. “Thank you,” he would whisper to no one in particular, and go on.

The old lamp was happier than it had ever been at the street corner. It could feel its light doing good—quietly, properly, without fuss. The lamplighter and his wife also felt it. The student began reading their letters for them and writing replies in a neat hand. He mended the lamplighter’s coat and fixed the loose latch on the door. He passed his examinations. On the day the news arrived, he placed a fresh candle in the lamp and lit it in celebration.

“There now,” said the lamplighter’s wife, laughing and wiping a joyful tear. “Our old lamp is shining like a festival!”

Spring came. The geranium bloomed red at the window. On soft evenings they hung the lamp in the little garden. Neighbors came by to talk under its glow. Children spelled out words in their primers. A seamstress threaded her needle on the first try. People left a little steadier and a little kinder than they had been when they stepped into the light.

Years went by. The iron frame grew dull, and the glass was not so clear as before. But whenever a honest flame was set within it, the gift woke and the light did what it could. The old street lamp no longer stood by the town’s busy corner. It no longer watched soldiers march or saw keys found on the cobblestones. Yet it had found a new corner to brighten: a small room, a small garden, and the faces that came there.

And that was enough for the old street lamp. It had been made to give light. It was still giving it.