"At your house," the stranger replied; "it looks for all the world like a big shoe!"
"A shoe!" she said, in surprise.
"Why, yes. The chimneys are shoe-straps, and the steps are the heel, and all those additions make the foot of the shoe."
"Never mind," said the woman; "it may be a shoe, but it is full of babies, and that makes it different from most other shoes."
But the stranger went on to the village and told all he met that he had seen an old woman who lived in a shoe; and soon people came from all parts of the country to look at the queer house, and they usually went away laughing.
The old woman did not mind this at all; she was too busy to be angry. Some of the children were always getting bumped heads or bruised shins, or falling down and hurting themselves, and these had to be comforted. And some were naughty and had to be whipped; and some were dirty and had to be washed; and some were good and had to be kissed. It was "Gran'ma, do this!" and "Gran'ma, do that!" from morning to night, so that the poor grandmother was nearly distracted. The only peace she ever got was when they were all safely tucked in their little cots and were sound asleep; for then, at least, she was free from worry and had a chance to gather her scattered wits.
"There are so many children," she said one day to the baker-man, "that I often really don't know what to do!"
"If they were mine, ma'am," he replied, "I'd send them to the poor-house, or else they'd send me to the mad-house."
Some of the children heard him say this, and they resolved to play him a trick in return for his ill-natured speech.
The baker-man came every day to the shoe-house, and brought two great baskets of bread in his arms for the children to eat with their milk and their broth.