"Hundreds of them, I suppose," replied Mr. King, with his arm around
her and drawing her up to him, "and they wear wooden shoes or sabots,
or klompen as they call them, and--"
"Wooden shoes!" cried Phronsie; "oh, Grandpapa," clasping her hands,
"how do they stay on?"
"Well, that's what I've always wondered myself when I've been in
Holland. A good many have left off the sabots, I believe, and wear
leather shoes made just like other people's."
"Oh, Grandpapa," cried Phronsie, leaning forward to peer into his face,
"don't let them leave off the wooden shoes, please."
"I can't make them wear anything but what they want to," said old Mr.
King, with a laugh; "but don't be troubled, child, you'll see all the
wooden shoes you desire, in Rotterdam, and The Hague, too, for that
matter."
"Shall I?" cried Phronsie, nestling back again quite pleased.
"Grandpapa, I wish I could wear wooden shoes," she whispered presently
in a burst of confidence, sticking out her toes to look at them.
"Bless me! you couldn't keep them on," said Mr. King.
"Don't the little Dutch children keep them on?" asked Phronsie. "Oh,
Grandpapa, I think I could; I really think I could," she added
earnestly.
"Yes, they do, because they are born and brought up to it, although,
for the life of me, I don't see how they do it; but you couldn't,
child, you'd fall the first minute and break your nose, most likely.
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