The Lantern at the Little Station

At the edge of the hills there was a railway station so small that it had only one bench, one bell and one lantern.

The lantern hung from a hook near the bench. All day it slept. But when the sky turned the colour of ripe plums, the old stationmaster would strike a match and say, "Wake up, little one. The night train needs you."

The lantern would glow, soft and yellow.

It watched the hills go blue, then grey, then black. It watched the first star come out, and then so many that it stopped counting. Moths came to say good evening. A frog sat under the bench and sang the same song it sang every night.

"I am only a small light," the lantern sometimes thought. "The stars are so many, and the moon is so big."

But far away, on the dark track, the night train was coming. Its driver had passed forests and tunnels and long, lonely fields. He was tired. And then, around the last bend, he saw it: one small, steady, yellow glow.

"There you are," the driver said softly, as he did every night. "Nearly home."

The train slowed down. Chhuk... chhuk... chhuk. One sleepy passenger stepped off, carrying a sleepy child. The stationmaster rang the bell, once, very gently.

Then the train rolled on into the dark, and its red tail light grew smaller and smaller, and was gone.

The frog finished its song. The moths went home. The stationmaster yawned.

And the little lantern glowed on, quietly, keeping watch, while the hills and the bench and the whole wide night went to sleep.