At Dalton, near Thirsk, in Yorkshire, there is a mill. It has quite
recently been rebuilt; but when I was at Dalton, six years ago, the old
building stood. In front of the house was a long mound which went by the
name of "the giant's grave," and in the mill you can see a long blade of
iron something like a scythe-blade, but not curved, which was called
"the giant's knife," because of a very curious story which is told of
this knife. Would you like to hear it? Well, it isn't very long.

There once lived a giant at this mill who had only one eye in the middle
of his forehead, and he ground men's bones to make his bread. One day he
captured on Pilmoor a lad named Jack, and instead of grinding him in the
mill he kept him grinding as his servant, and never let him get away.
Jack served the giant seven years, and never was allowed a holiday the
whole time. At last he could bear it no longer. Topcliffe fair was
coming on, and Jack begged that he might be allowed to go there.

"No, no," said the giant, "stop at home and mind your grinding."

"I've been grinding and grinding these seven years," said Jack, "and not
a holiday have I had. I'll have one now, whatever you say."

"We'll see about that," said the giant.

Well, the day was hot, and after dinner the giant lay down in the mill
with his head on a sack and dozed. He had been eating in the mill, and
had laid down a great loaf of bone bread by his side, and the knife I
told you about was in his hand, but his fingers relaxed their hold of it
in sleep. Jack seized the knife, and holding it with both his hands