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.