he climbed. It was easy work, for the
big beanstalk with the leaves growing out of each side was like a
ladder; for all that he soon was out of breath. Then he got his second
wind, and was just beginning to wonder if he had a third when he saw in
front of him a wide, shining white road stretching away, and away, and
away.

So he took to walking, and he walked, and walked, and walked, till he
came to a tall, shining white house with a wide white doorstep.

And on the doorstep stood a great big woman with a black porridge-pot
in her hand. Now Jack, having had no supper, was hungry as a hunter, and
when he saw the porridge-pot he said quite politely:

"Good-morning, 'm. I wonder if you _could_ give me some breakfast?"

"Breakfast!" echoed the woman, who, in truth, was an ogre's wife. "If it
is breakfast you're wanting, it's breakfast you'll likely be; for I
expect my man home every instant, and there is nothing he likes better
for breakfast than a boy--a fat boy grilled on toast."

Now Jack was not a bit of a coward, and when he wanted a thing he
generally got it, so he said cheerful-like:

"I'd be fatter if I'd had my breakfast!" Whereat the ogre's wife laughed
and bade Jack come in; for she was not, really, half as bad as she
looked. But he had hardly finished the great bowl of porridge and milk
she gave him when the whole house began to tremble and quake. It was the
ogre coming home!

Thump! THUMP!! THUMP!!!

"Into the oven with you, sharp!" cried the ogre's wife; and the iron
oven door was just closed when the ogre strode in. Jack could see him
through the little peep-hole slide at the top where the steam came out.

He was a big one for sure. He had three sheep strung to his belt, and
these he threw down on the table. "Here, wife," he cried, "roast me
these snippets for breakfast; they are all I've been able to get this
morning, worse luck! I hope the oven's hot?" And he went to touch the
handle, while Jack burst out all of a sweat, wondering what would happen
next.

"Roast!" echoed the ogre's wife. "Pooh! the little things would dry to
cinders. Better boil them."

So she set to work to boil them; but the ogre began sniffing about the
room. "They don't smell--mutton meat," he growled. Then he frowned
horribly and began the real ogre's rhyme:

"_Fee-fi-fo-fum,
I smell the blood of an Englishman.
Be he alive, or be he dead,
I'll grind his bones to make my bread._"

"Don'