She made this statement as if she hadn't left a single thing to be said.

It seemed rather obscure to Everychild. He tried to think of a more
agreeable subject. He looked the Old Woman's house over, up and down.
"It's rather a funny house, isn't it?" he remarked.

The Old Woman's manner became more sullen than ever. She seized upon a
ladle and began stirring the steaming pot. "It does very well," she
declared. "Houses are funny or otherwise according to what goes on in
them. When you've got your hands full of children who don't want to
work you can't say that your house is exactly funny. Its being an old
shoe--if that's what you mean . . . that's a matter of taste. I prefer
it, for my part. I'd never have been able to settle down anywhere
else. You see, I had to be on my feet mostly all the time from little
on, and now it comes natural, being in a shoe. I can imagine I'm on
the go, even if I never get out from one week's end to another."

She lifted the ladle from the pot. She pressed one hand to her bosom
and with the other lifted the ladle to her lips, testing the stew.
There was a thoughtful look in her eyes. Then she continued:

"_As for living in a shoe . . . there's plenty of females that live in
two_. Always on the go, they're that restless. I tell my undergrowth
it's no more disgrace to live in one shoe than in two, so long as
you've got one that's big enough."

[Illustration: "As for living in a shoe . . . there's plenty of females
that live in two."]

She seemed so pleased with this remark that she had to stir the pot