“And where will you put it when you get home?”
“I have no home,” said I, and cried again.
“Poor child!” said he. “Then what dost thou do for thy living?”
“I go of errands,” said I, “for the folks in Rosemary Lane.”
“And what dost thou do for a lodging at night?”
“I lie at the glass-house,” said I, “at night.”
“How, lie at the glass-house! Have they any beds there?” says he.
“I never lay in a bed in my life,” said I, “as I remember.”
“Why,” says he, “what do you lie on at the glass-house?”
“The ground,” says I; “and sometimes a little straw, or upon the warm ashes.”