a decent old
street-lamp, that had done its duty for many, many years, but now it
was to be condemned. It was the last evening,--it sat there on the
post and lighted the street; and it was in just such a humor as an old
figurante in a ballet, who dances for the last evening, and knows that
she is to be put on the shelf to-morrow. The lamp had such a fear of
the coming day, for it knew that it should then be carried to the
town-hall for the first time, and examined by the authorities of the
city, who should decide if it could be used or not. It would then be
determined whether it should be sent out to one of the suburbs, or in
to the country to a manufactory; perhaps it would be sent direct to
the ironfounder's and be re-cast; in that case it could certainly be
all sorts of things: but it pained it not to know whether it would
then retain the remembrance of its having been a street-lamp.

However it might be, whether it went into the country or not, it would
be separated from the watchman and his wife, whom it regarded as its
family. It became a street-lamp when he became watchman. His wife was
a very fine woman at that time; it was only in the evening when she
went past the lamp that she looked at it, but never in the daytime.
Now, on the contrary, of late years, as they had all three grown
old,--the watchman, his wife, and the lamp,--the wife had always
attended to it, polished it up, and put oil in it. They were honest
folks that married couple, they had not cheated the lamp of a single
drop. It was its last evening in the street, and to-morrow it was to
be taken to the town-hall; these were two dark thoughts in the lamp,
and so one can know how it burnt. But other thoughts also passed
through it; there was so much it had seen, so much it had a desire
for, perhaps just as much as the whole of the city authorities; but it
didn't say so, for it was a well-behaved old lamp--it would not insult
any one, least of all its superiors. It remembered so much, and now
and then the flames within it blazed up,--it was as if it had a
feeling of--yes, they will also remember me! There was now that
handsome young man--but that is many years since,--he came with a
letter, it was on rose-colored paper; so fine--so fine! and with a
gilt edge; it was so neatly written, it was a lady's hand; he read it
twice, and he kissed it, and he looked up to me with his two bright
eyes--they said, "I am the happiest of men!" Yes, only he and I knew