“糖葫芦——”蓦地,一声悠长的吆喝开启了我心中通往童年的火车。“酸里面它裹着甜,甜里面它透着酸……新蘸的冰糖葫芦哟!”像是魔音,蛊惑着街道两侧嬉戏得正开心的孩子们。来换糖葫芦的又是那个老倌儿,看样子应该已过知天命之年。他戴着一顶破破烂烂的旧草帽,略显浑浊的眼睛仿佛是镂刻在黝黑苍老的脸上的,半白的胡须遮掩着嘴角叼着的烟斗。他那双褪色的黑布鞋在石板路上踩着节奏,嘴里哼着小曲儿,彳亍而来,皲裂的手里提着个竹篮,一根根穿满滴溜儿圆的山楂的小 “Sugar calabash - ” suddenly, a long shout opened the train to my childhood. “Sour inside it wrapped in sweet, sweet inside it reveals sour ... ... new dip ice cream gourd yo! ” Like a magic sound, confused children playing on both sides of the street are happy. To change the sugar calabash is the old man child, it seems that we should have known the fate of the year. He wore a tattered old straw hat, slightly cloudy eyes, as if carved in a dark, old face, half-white beard covering the mouth of the pipe dangling. His pair of faded black cloth shoes on the stone path on the tread rhythm, humming a little song in his mouth, right foot, chapped hands carrying a bamboo basket, a root full of dripping hawthorn small