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!



Flies



Come to think of it, the Old Folks never made such a fuss about flies as
we make nowadays. You cannot pick up a magazine without running plump
into an article on the deadly housefly - with pictures of him magnified
until he looks like the old million-toed, barrel-eyed, spike-tailed