That takes me back.
When I was a pre pubescent trainee butcher, the old boy who worked at busting down beef sides all day used to tip me the wink occasionally, and steal me away from the shop floor so he could sharpen his full set of knives.
The shop had an old outhouse at the end of the rear yard, which housed a grindstone just like the one in your picture.
We'd disappear down there with a steaming mug of coffee each, and I'd wind the handle while he'd sharpen the blades.
The wheel itself sat in a shallow trough of water at the bottom, so it would automatically wet itself, if you'll pardon the expression.
In between knives, we'd sit and smoke, and he used to tell me the most outrageous stories from when he was in the army.
His knives would end up sharp, my biceps would end up a tad larger, and I'd learned a few more things about French women.