保尔·威利亚德 /Paul Villiard
I must have been around four years old when I f irst entered Mr. Wigden's candy shop, but the smell of that wonderful world of penny treasures still comes back to me clearly more than a haft-century later. Whenever he heard the tiny tinkle of the bell attached to the front door, Mr. Wigden quietly appeared, to take his stand behind the candy case. He was very old, and his head was topped with a cloud of f ine, snow-white hair.
Never was such an array of delicious temptations spread before a child. It was almost painful to make a choice. Each kind had f irst to be savored in the imagination before passing on to the next. There was always a short pang of regret as the selection was dropped into a little white paper sack. Perhaps another kind would taste better? Or last longer? Mr. Wigden had a trick of scooping your selection into the sack, then pausing. Not a word was spoken, but every child understood that Mr. Wigden's raised eyebrows constituted a last-minute opportunity to make an exchange. Only after payment was on the counter was the sack irrevocably twisted shut and the moment of indecision ended.
Our house was two blocks from the streetcar line, and I had to pass the shop going to and from the cars. Mother had taken me into town on some forgotten errand, and as we walked home from the trolley mother turned into Mr. Wigden's.
“Let's see if we can f ind something good. ” she said, leading me up to the long glass case as the old man approached from behind a curtained aperture. My mother stood talking with him for a few minutes as I gazed rapturously at the wonderful display before my eyes. F inally, mother picked out something for me and paid Mr. Wigden.
Mother went into town once or twice a week, and, since in those days baby-sitters were almost unheard of, I usually accompanied her. It became a regular routine for her to take me into the candy shop for some special treat, and after that f irst visit I was always allowed to make my own choice.