So the ogre's wife, who was dreadfully curious, gave him a big bowl full of porridge; but before he had half finished it he heard the ogre coming—
Thump! THUMP! THUMP!
"In with you to the oven," shrieked the ogre's wife. "You shall tell me when he has gone to sleep."
This time Jack saw through the steam peep-hole that the ogre had three fat calves strung to his belt.
"Better luck to-day, wife!" he cried, and his voice shook the house. "Quick! Roast these trifles for my breakfast! I hope the oven's hot?"
And he went to feel the handle of the door, but his wife cried out sharply:
"Roast! Why, you'd have to wait hours before they were done! I'll broil them—see how bright the fire is!"
"Umph!" growled the ogre. And then he began sniffing and calling out:
"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."
"Twaddle!" said the ogre's wife. "It's only the bones of the boy you had last week that I've put into the pig-bucket!"