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He must have slept for a whole lot of jiffies. When he woke up at last, he looked around, wondering where he could be, the place looked so strange and so different from his room at home. Then he remembered,–he was far from home, in the little cabin of the “Mary Ellen.” It was a cosy place, with all the little beds for the children around the cabin. And these beds were not like the ones he usually slept in. They were little shelves on the wall, two rows of them, one row above the other. It was funny, he thought, to sleep on a shelf, but that was what the thirteen children had to do. He was lying on a shelf himself just then, wrapped in a blanket.

The Round Fat Rosy Woman was bending over the stove. It was a jolly little stove, round and fat and rosy like herself, and it poked its pipe through the house just above his head. In the pot upon it, the potatoes were boiling, boiling away, and the little chips of bacon were curling up in the pan.

Outside, he could see all the little skirts and the little pairs of pants, dancing gaily in the wind. He could hear the children who owned those skirts and pairs of pants running all over the boat. The patter of their feet sounded like raindrops on the deck above him.

They seemed to be forever getting into trouble, those thirteen children, and the Round Fat Rosy Woman was forever running to the door of the little house and shouting to one or the other.

“Take care, Maintop!” she would call to one boy as she pulled him back from falling into the Canal.

“Ho there, Bowsprit!” she would yell to another, as she fished him out of the coal.

They were certainly a great care, those children, and all at once Marmaduke decided he knew who their mother must be. The boat was shaped just like a huge shoe and she surely had so many children she didn’t know what to do. Yes, she must be the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe, only the shoe must have grown into a canalboat.

He wondered about the funny names she called them.

“Are those their real names?” he asked, as he lay on his little shelf.

“Yes,” she said, “my husband out there with the pipe was a sailor once, on the deep blue sea. But he had to give it up after he was married, ’cause he couldn’t take his family on a ship. We had a lot of trouble finding names for the children started to call ’em Mary and Daniel and such, but the names ran out. So, seeing my husband was so fond of the sea, we decided to call ’em after the parts of a ship, not a canalboat, but the sailing ships that go out to sea–that is, all but Squall.

“Now that’s Jib there, driving the mules, and that’s Bowsprit–the one all black from the coal. Cutwater’s the girl leaning over the stern; Maintop, the one with the three pigtails; and Mizzen, the towhead playing with your dog.”

“And what are the names of the rest?” Marmaduke asked, thinking all this very interesting.

“Oh!” she replied. “I’ll have to stop and think, there’s so many of them. Now there’s Bul’ark and Gunnel–they’re pretty stout; the twins, Anchor and Chain; Squall, the crybaby; Block, the fattest of all; Topmast, the tallest and thinnest; and Stern, the littlest. He came last, so we named him that, seeing it’s the last part of a ship.

“Now, let me think–have I got ’em all?” and she counted on her fingers,–“Jib, Bowsprit, Cutwater, Maintop, Mizzen, Bul’ark, Gunnel, Anchor, Chain, Block, Squall, Topmast, and Stern. Yes, that surely makes thirteen, doesn’t it? I’m always proud when I can remember ’em.”

By this time the potatoes and the bacon and coffee seemed about ready, so she went out on deck, and Marmaduke slid off his little shelf bed and followed her to see where she was going. On deck was a great bar of iron with another beside it. She took up one bar of iron and with it struck the other–twelve times. The blows sounded way out over the Canal and over the fields and far away, like a mighty fire-alarm, and all the children, that is all but Jib, who was driving the mules and would get his dinner later, came running into the cabin.