the Old Street Lamp老路燈

　　“What was that？” cried the herring's head. “Did not a star fall？ I really believe it went into the lamp. Certainly， when such high-born personages try for the office， we may as well say 'Good-night，' and go home.”

　　And so they did， all three， while the old lamp threw a wonderfully strong light all around him.

　　“This is a glorious gift，” said he； “the bright stars have always been a joy to me， and have always shone more brilliantly than I ever could shine， though I have tried with my whole might； and now they have noticed me， a poor old lamp， and have sent me a gift that will enable me to see clearly everything that I remember， as if it still stood before me， and to be seen by all those who love me. And herein lies the truest pleasure， for joy which we cannot share with others is only half enjoyed.”

　　“That sentiment does you honor，” said the wind； “but for this purpose wax lights will be necessary. If these are not lighted in you， your particular faculties will not benefit others in the least. The stars have not thought of this； they suppose that you and every other light must be a wax taper： but I must go down now.” So he laid himself to rest.

　　“Wax tapers， indeed！” said the lamp， “I have never yet had these， nor is it likely I ever shall. If I could only be sure of not being melted down！”

　　the next day. Well， perhaps we had better pass over the next day. The evening had come， and the lamp was resting in a grandfather's chair， and guess where！ Why， at the old watchman's house. He had begged， as a favor， that the mayor and corporation would allow him to keep the street lamp， in consideration of his long and faithful service， as he had himself hung it up and lit it on the day he first commenced his duties， four-and-twenty years ago. He looked upon it almost as his own child； he had no children， so the lamp was given to him. There it lay in the GREat arm-chair near to the warm stove. It seemed almost as if it had grown larger， for it appeared quite to fill the chair. The old people sat at their supper， casting friendly glances at the old lamp， whom they would willingly have admitted to a place at the table. It is quite true that they dwelt in a cellar， two yards deep in the earth， and they had to cross a stone passage to get to their room， but within it was warm and comfortable and strips of list had been nailed round the door. The bed and the little window had curtains， and everything looked clean and neat. On the window seat stood two curious flower-pots which a sailor， named Christian， had brought over from the East or West Indies. They were of clay， and in the form of two elephants， with open backs； they were hollow and filled with earth， and through the open space flowers bloomed. In one grew some very fine chives or leeks； this was the kitchen garden. The other elephant， which contained a beautiful geranium， they called their flower garden. On the wall hung a large colored print， representing the congress of Vienna， and all the kings and emperors at once. A clock， with heavy weights， hung on the wall and went “tick， tick，” steadily enough； yet it was always rather too fast， which， however， the old people said was better than being too slow. They were now eating their supper， while the old street lamp， as we have heard， lay in the grandfather's arm-chair near the stove. It seemed to the lamp as if the whole world had turned round； but after a while the old watchman looked at the lamp， and spoke of what they had both gone through together，—in rain and in fog； during the short bright nights of summer， or in the long winter nights， through the drifting snow-storms， when he longed to be at home in the cellar. Then the lamp felt it was all right again. He saw everything that had happened quite clearly， as if it were passing before him. Surely the wind had given him an excellent gift. The old people were very active and industrious， they were never idle for even a single hour. On Sunday afternoons they would bring out some books， generally a book of travels which they were very fond of. The old man would read aloud about Africa， with its great forests and the wild elephants， while his wife would listen attentively， stealing a glance now and then at the clay elephants， which served as flower-pots.

　　“I can almost imagine I am seeing it all，” she said； and then how the lamp wished for a wax taper to be lighted in him， for then the old woman would have seen the smallest detail as clearly as he did himself. The lofty trees， with their thickly entwined branches， the naked negroes on horseback， and whole herds of elephants treading down bamboo thickets with their broad， heavy feet.

　　“What is the use of all my capabilities，” sighed the old lamp， “when I cannot obtain any wax lights； they have only oil and tallow here， and these will not do.” One day a GREat heap of wax-candle ends found their way into the cellar. The larger pieces were burnt， and the smaller ones the old woman kept for waxing her thread. So there were now candles enough， but it never occurred to any one to put a little piece in the lamp.

　　“Here I am now with my rare powers，” thought the lamp， “I have faculties within me， but I cannot share them； they do not know that I could cover these white walls with beautiful tapestry， or change them into noble forests， or， indeed， to anything else they might wish for.” The lamp， however， was always kept clean and shining in a corner where it attracted all eyes. Strangers looked upon it as lumber， but the old people did not care for that； they loved the lamp. One day—it was the watchman's birthday—the old woman approached the lamp， smiling to herself， and said， “I will have an illumination to-day in honor of my old man.” And the lamp rattled in his metal frame， for he thought， “Now at last I shall have a light within me，” but after all no wax light was placed in the lamp， but oil as usual. The lamp burned through the whole evening， and began to perceive too clearly that the gift of the stars would remain a hidden treasure all his life. Then he had a dream； for， to one with his faculties， dreaming was no difficulty. It appeared to him that the old people were dead， and that he had been taken to the iron foundry to be melted down. It caused him quite as much anxiety as on the day when he had been called upon to appear before the mayor and the council at the town-hall. But though he had been endowed with the power of falling into decay from rust when he pleased， he did not make use of it. He was therefore put into the melting-furnace and changed into as elegant an iron candlestick as you could wish to see， one intended to hold a wax taper. The candlestick was in the form of an angel holding a nosegay， in the centre of which the wax taper was to be placed. It was to stand on a GREen writing table， in a very pleasant room； many books were scattered about， and splendid paintings hung on the walls. The owner of the room was a poet， and a man of intellect； everything he thought or wrote was pictured around him. Nature showed herself to him sometimes in the dark forests， at others in cheerful meadows where the storks were strutting about， or on the deck of a ship sailing across the foaming sea with the clear， blue sky above， or at night the glittering stars. “What powers I possess！” said the lamp， awaking from his dream； “I could almost wish to be melted down； but no， that must not be while the old people live. They love me for myself alone， they keep me bright， and supply me with oil. I am as well off as the picture of the congress， in which they take so much pleasure.” And from that time he felt at rest in himself， and not more so than such an honorable old lamp really deserved to be.