天,阴沉沉的,已是秋末了,风中的黄叶在枝头上打着颤儿,偶尔一两片,终于耐不住秋日的严寒打着转儿掉下来。门前的这条街,行人也不多见了。“卖馒头,卖馒头啊……”一阵嘶哑的叫喊声飘荡在干冷的空气里,声音听起来有气无力而且很不清晰。这样寒冷的天,又这么晚了,谁还在那卖馒头呢?我把头伸出窗外,原来是一个老人,正推着手推车走过。他那苍白的头发被风吹得凌乱不堪,背也有点弯弯的,拖着沉重的 Days, gloomy, it is late autumn, the yellow leaves in the wind shiver on the branches, occasionally one or two, and finally could not bear the fall of the cold in the name of the children fall off. In front of this street, pedestrians are rare. “Selling bread and selling bread...” A hoarse cry shouted in the cold, dry air. The sound sounded weak and unclear. This cold day, and so late, who is still selling gimmick? I put my head out of the window, turned out to be an old man, is pushing a cart. His pale hair was cluttered by the wind and his back was a bit crooked, dragging heavily.