ave taken little harm, and came ashore as
innocent as a shipwrecked baby. Perhaps his love of music kept it sweet
in spite of the discord all about him; Mr. Laurie said so, and he ought
to know. However that might be, Father Bhaer took pleasure in fostering
poor Nat's virtues, and in curing his faults, finding his new pupil as
docile and affectionate as a girl. He often called Nat his "daughter"
when speaking of him to Mrs. Jo, and she used to laugh at his fancy, for
Madame liked manly boys, and thought Nat amiable but weak, though you
never would have guessed it, for she petted him as she did Daisy, and he
thought her a very delightful woman.

One fault of Nat's gave the Bhaers much anxiety, although they saw how
it had been strengthened by fear and ignorance. I regret to say that
Nat sometimes told lies. Not very black ones, seldom getting deeper than
gray, and often the mildest of white fibs; but that did not matter, a
lie is a lie, and though we all tell many polite untruths in this queer
world of ours, it is not right, and everybody knows it.

"You cannot be too careful; watch your tongue, and eyes, and hands, for
it is easy to tell, and look, and act untruth," said Mr. Bhaer, in one
of the talks he had with Nat about his chief temptation.

"I know it, and I don't mean to, but it's so much easier to get along
if you ain't very fussy about being exactly true. I used to tell 'em
because I was afraid of father and Nicolo, and now I do sometimes
because the boys laugh at me. I know it's bad, but I forget," and Nat
looked much depressed by his sins.

"When I was a little lad I used to tell lies! Ach! what fibs they were,
and my old grandmother cured me of it how, do you think? My parents had
talked, and cried, and punished, but still did I forget as you. Then
said the dear old grandmother, 'I shall help you to remember, and put a
check on this unruly part,' with that she drew out my tongue and snipped
the end with her scissors till the blood ran. That was terrible, you
may believe, but it did me much good, because it was sore for days, and
every word I said came so slowly that I had time to think. After that I
was more careful, and got on better, for I feared the big scissors. Yet
the dear grandmother was most kind to me in all things, and when she lay
dying far away in Nuremberg, she prayed that little Fritz might love God
and tell the truth."

"I never had any grandmothers, but if you think it will cure me, I'll