The sun had gone down behind the willows on the river-bank. The
night-clouds still carried the crimson-and-purple of the late twilight;
and the deep, still waters of the channel gave back the colors and the
gleam of the first stars that heralded the night ..... The martins
chattered under the eaves, scolding some belated member of the clan who
pushed noisily for a lodging-place for the night. The black bat and the
darting nighthawk were a-wing, grim spectres of the dusk. The
whip-poor-will was crying along the river, and far up-stream the loon
called weirdly across the water.....
A small boy was sitting on grandfather's front steps, his elbows on his
knees, his chin in his palms, seeing familiar objects disappear in the
gathering dusk, and watching the stars come out. He was safe, very safe
for grandfather had not gone to the dining-room yet, and his arms could
be reached for shelter in two or three bounds, if need be. So it was
very pleasant to sit on the steps and see the little old town fold-up
its affairs and settle down for the night.
And more particularly to watch for Jimmy, the Lamplighter.
Far up the street, in the almost-dark place, about where Schmidt's
shoestore ought to be, a point of light flashed suddenly, flickered,
and then burned steadily--and in a moment another, across the street
.... Then a space of black, and two more points appeared. Down the
street they came in pairs, closely following the retreating day.
And the Little Boy on the Steps knew that it was Jimmy, the
Lamplighter, working his way swiftly and silently. If only the supper
bell would delay awhile The Boy would see old Jimmy light the lamp on
grandfather's corner, as he had seen him countless times before.
Then, just as the red glow faded in the West and Night settled down, he
came swinging sturdily across the street, his ladder hung on his right
shoulder, his wax taper in his left hand. Quickly, unerringly he placed
the ladder against the iron post that sent its metallic ring into the
clear night air as the ladder struck, and was three rounds up almost
before it settled into position. Then a quick opening of the glass; a
struggle with the matches in the wind, a hurried closing of the door,
one quick look upward; an arm through the ladder and a swing to the
shoulder--and Jimmy the Lamplighter was busily off to his next corner.
Once, in the later years, he came with his new lighter--a splendid
brass affair, with smooth wood handle, holding a wax taper that
flickered fitfully down the street and marked old Jimmy's pathway
through the dusk. Although he could reach up and turn on the gas with
the key-slot at the end of the scepter and light it with the taper, all
at one time, he ever carried the ladder--for none could tell when or
where a burner might need fixing, or there would be other need to climb
the post as in the days of the lamp and sulphur-match.
Short of stature, firm of build, was old Jimmy. The night storms of
innumerable years had bronzed his skin and furrowed his face.
Innumerable years, yes--for so faithful a servant as old Jimmy the
Lamplighter was not to be cast away by every caprice of the public mind
which changed the political aspect of the town council. So Jimmy stayed
on through the years and changing administrations--in the sultry heat
of the summer nights, or breasting his way through winter's huge
snow-drifts, fronting the wind-driven sleet, or dripping through the
spring-time rain, his taper hugged tight beneath his thick rubber coat,
his matches safe in the depths of an inside pocket.
And tonight, as the Boy still watches, in memory, old Jimmy on his
rounds, they are a bit odd, these queer old street lamps that just seem
to belong to the night, after the garish blaze of electric signs and
the great arc-lights in the shop windows. Yet it shines through the
years, this simple lamp of the Long Ago, as it shone through the night
of old--a friendly beacon only, the modest servant of an humble
race.....
Jimmy's boy Ted, who carried his father's ladder and taper when the
good old man laid them down, now nods in his chimney-corner o' nights.
But his boy, old Jimmy's grandson, is still a lamplighter--still
illuminating the streets of his town, still turning on its lamps when
the loon calls weirdly across the river in the gathering dusk.
He bears no ladder nor fitful taper--he dreads no sultry summer
heat--he breasts no snowdrifts--he battles against no wind-driven sleet
and rain.
There he sits, inside yonder great brick building, his chair tipped
back against the wall, reading the evening paper while the giant wheels
of the dynamo purr softly and steadily. He lowers his paper--looks at
the clock--then out into the early twilight .... then slowly turns to
the wall, pushes a bit of a button, takes up his paper again, and goes
on with his reading--while a thousand lights burn white through the
city! ....
Ah, Jimmy, Jimmy! the world is all awry, man! Your son's son lights his
thousand lamps in a flash that's no more than the puff of wind that
used to blow your match out when you stood on your ladder and lighted
one!