Where you might find a baby, and what the Tollhouse is known for. It's where two talking muffins might settle their score.

The lights inside the house grow dim, then brighten, fade, and start again. A blink, a pause, another try, a warning that the power may die.

I have a sole but no soul, I let your toes peek out with pride. I follow you wherever you go, And keep the ground beneath your stride. What am I?

In a car for your safety. On a shoe to keep it fastened. The weight of a heavy load on a structure. I even make a bitchin accessory on a belt!

Empty fingers wait for five, yet none of mine are truly alive.