Up to the very sky?  Jack meant to see at any rate.

So he climbed, and he climbed, and 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’t be silly!” said his wife.  “It’s the bones of the little boy you had for supper that I’m boiling down for soup!  Come, eat your breakfast, there’s a good ogre!”

So the ogre ate his three sheep, and when he had done he went to a big oaken chest and took out three big bags of golden pieces.  These he put on the table, and began to count their contents while his wife cleared away the breakfast things.  And by and by his head began to nod, and at last he began to snore, and snored so loud that the whole house shook.