Every evening, just as the sun touched the edge of the sea, Mr. Brennan climbed the one hundred and twelve steps of the old lighthouse. He carried a small can of oil, a clean cloth, and a box of matches in his coat pocket. He had made the climb every single day for thirty-seven years, and he knew each creaky stair by heart.
The lamp at the top was made of brass and glass. When Mr. Brennan polished it carefully with his cloth, he could see his own face reflected back at him, stretched and a little funny-looking. He would chuckle softly and say, "Good evening to you, sir."
The lamp was his most important job. Ships passing through the rocky bay needed its bright beam to steer safely around the jagged stones that lay just below the waves. Without it, sailors might lose their way in the dark and crash on the rocks. Mr. Brennan knew this, and so he never missed a night.
One stormy evening, the wind howled so fiercely that the windows of the lighthouse rattled in their frames. Rain hammered on the glass like a thousand tiny drums. Out in the bay, a young fisherman named Tom was steering his small boat home through the wild weather. He could not see the shore at all, and the waves pushed his boat from side to side.
Then, through the curtain of water, a steady golden light appeared. It blinked, paused, and blinked again — the friendly signal of Mr. Brennan's lamp.
Tom turned his wheel and followed the light. Slowly, the light grew brighter, and the shape of the harbor appeared in the mist. When he finally tied up his boat, soaked to the bone and shivering, he looked up at the lighthouse and whispered, "Thank you, old friend."
High above, in the warm round room at the top, Mr. Brennan was already polishing the lamp for tomorrow. He hummed an old sailor's song. Down in the harbor below, more boats were arriving safely. The lamp had done its job again, just as it had every night for nearly forty years.