The fourth wise man.

His shabby hat looked as though it had seem many sun drenched days in its life. Almost as it had been through as many hardships as the small leathery man. The wrinkles on his forehead were trenches that signified the long hard fought life of what remained on the old man. It was almost as his skin was a size too big for him like the sweater your grandmother gave you for your birthday. The gray tufts of hair that still remained on his petite head were old, withered and looked like the fibers on an old tennis ball. His eyes were drenched with disappointment and sadness. His cheek bones were sacs of air wanting to burst out of the old mans skin to the freshness around. His bristly silver mustache was the only thing that appeared to be firmly attached to his face, almost as if the hairs were stapling his skin to the bone underneath. His weathered hands appeared to have been through everything from scalding hot water to freezing rain and howling wind all the way to broken fingers and hangnails. The age spots on his skin were tales. Tales that have not been told and may never be told. He may be a lot of things, but it is evident through his distinguishing features he is no quitter.