Produced by Nicole Apostola, Juliet Sutherland, Charles
Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
From "Yanko the Musician and other Stories." Translated by Jeremiah
Curtin. Published by Little, Brown & Co.
Copyright, 1893, by Little, Brown & Co.
On a time it happened that the light-house keeper in Aspinwall, not farfrom Panama, disappeared without a trace. Since he disappeared during astorm, it was supposed that the ill-fated man went to the very edge ofthe small, rocky island on which the light-house stood, and was sweptout by a wave. This supposition seemed the more likely as his boat wasnot found next day in its rocky niche. The place of light-house keeperhad become vacant. It was necessary to fill this place at the earliestmoment possible, since the light-house had no small significance forthe local movement as well as for vessels going from New York toPanama. Mosquito Bay abounds in sandbars and banks. Among thesenavigation, even in the daytime, is difficult; but at night, especiallywith the fogs which are so frequent on those waters warmed by the sunof the tropics, it is nearly impossible. The only guide at that timefor the numerous vessels is the light-house.
The task of finding a new keeper fell to the United States consulliving in Panama, and this task was no small one: first, because it wasabsolutely necessary to find the man within twelve hours; second, theman must be unusually conscientious,—it was not possible, of course,to take the first comer at random; finally, there was an utter lack ofcandidates. Life on a tower is uncommonly difficult, and by no meansenticing to people of the South, who love idleness and the freedom of avagrant life. That light-house keeper is almost a prisoner. He cannotleave his rocky island except on Sundays. A boat from Aspinwall bringshim provisions and water once a day, and returns immediately; on thewhole island, one acre in area, there is no inhabitant. The keeperlives in the light-house; he keeps it in order. During the day he givessignals by displaying flags of various colors to indicate changes ofthe barometer; in the evening he lights the lantern. This would be nogreat labor were it not that to reach the lantern at the summit of thetower he must pass over more than four hundred steep and very highsteps; sometimes he must make this journey repeatedly during the day.In general, it is the life of a monk, and indeed more than that,—thelife of a hermit. It was not wonderful, therefore, that Mr. IsaacFalconbridge was in no small anxiety as to where he should find apermanent successor to the recent keeper; and it is easy to understandhis joy when a successor announced himself most unexpectedly on thatvery day. He was a man already old, seventy years or more, but fresh,erect, with the movements and bearing of a soldier. His hair wasperfectly white, his face as dark as that of a Creole; but, judgingfrom his blue eyes, he did not belong to a people of the South. Hisface was somewhat downcast and sad, but honest.