A third， it may be， of a more sensitive and delicate textureof being， glances shyly thitherward， cautious not to exciteexpectations of a purchaser， while yet undeterminedwhether to buy. But there appears to be no need of sucha scrupulous regard to our old friend’s feelings. True， he isconscious of the remote possibility of selling a cake or anapple， but innumerable disappointments have renderedhim so far a philosopher， that， even if the purchased articleshould be returned， he will consider it altogether in theordinary train of events. He speaks to none， and makesno sign of offering his wares to the public； not that he isdeterred by pride， but by the certain conviction that suchdemonstrations would not increase his custom. Besides，this activity in business would require an energy that nevercould have been a characteristic of his almost passivedisposition， even in youth. Whenever an actual customerappears， the old man looks up with a patient eye； if theprice and the article are approved， he is ready to makechange； otherwise， his eyelids droop again， sadly enough，but with no heavier despondency than before. He shivers，perhaps， folds his lean arms around his lean body， andresumes the life-long， frozen patience， in which consistshis strength. Once in a while， a schoolboy comes hastilyup， places a cent or two upon the board， and takes up acake or a stick of candy， or a measure of walnuts， or anapple as red checked as himself. There are no words as tothe price， that being as well known to the buyer as to theseller. The old apple-dealer never speaks an unnecessaryword； not that he is sullen and morose； but there is noneof the cheeriness and briskness in him， that stirs up peopleto talk.
Not seldom， he is greeted by some old neighbor， a manwell-to-do in the world， who makes a civil， patronizingobservation about the weather； and then， by way ofperforming a charitable deed， begins to chaffer for anapple. Our friend presumes not on any past acquaintance；he makes the briefest possible response to all generalremarks， and shrinks quietly into himself again. Afterevery diminution of his stock， he takes care to producefrom the basket another cake， another stick of candy，another apple， or another measure of walnuts， to supplythe place of the article sold. Two or three attempts—or，perchance， half a dozen—are requisite， before the boardcan be re-arranged to his satisfaction. If he have received asilver coin， he waits till the purchaser is out of sight， thenexamines it closely， and tries to bend it with his finger andthumb； finally， he puts it into his waistcoat pocket， withseemingly a gentle sigh. This sigh， so faint as to be hardlyperceptible， and not expressive of any definite emotion， isthe accompaniment and conclusion of all his actions. It isthe symbol of the chillness and torpid melancholy of hisold age， which only make themselves felt sensibly， whenhis repose is slightly disturbed.
Our man of gingerbread and apples is not a specimenof the “needy man who has seen better days.” Doubtless，there have been better and brighter days in the far-off timeof his youth； but none with so much sunshine of prosperityin them， that the chill， the depression， the narrowness ofmeans， in his declining years， can have come upon him bysurprise. His life has all been of a piece. His subdued andnerveless boyhood prefigured his abortive prime， which，likewise， contained within itself the prophecy and imageof his lean and torpid age. He was perhaps a mechanic，who never came to be a master in his craft， or a pettytradesman， rubbing onward between passably-to-do andpoverty. Possibly， he may look back to some brilliantepoch of his career， when there were a hundred or two ofdollars to his credit， in the Savings Bank. Such must havebeen the extent of his better fortune—his little measureof this world’s triumphs—all that he has known of success.
A meek， downcast， humble， uncomplaining creature， heprobably has never felt himself entitled to more than somuch of the gifts of Providence. Is it not still something，that he has never held out his hand for charity， nor has yetbeen driven to that sad home and household of Earth’sforlorn and broken-spirited children， the alms-house？ Hecherishes no quarrel， therefore， with his destiny， nor withthe Author of it. All is as it should be.
