"Whisht, boy! I just wrapped my old bandanna handkerchief around the end." But worse than that time was the awful morning when you broke the blue pitcher that came over in the _Mayflower_. An old family law said you should never even touch it, where it sat on the shelf by the clock, but the Old Nick said it wouldn’t hurt if you looked inside—just once. You had been munching bread-and-butter, and your fingers were slippery, and that is how the pitcher came to fall. Grandfather found you sobbing over the pieces, and his face was white. "Sonny, Sonny, what have you done?" "I—I d-didn’t mean to, Grandfather." In trembling fingers Grandfather gathered up the blue fragments—all that was left of the family heirloom, emblem of Mother’s ancestral pride. "’Sh! Don’t cry, Sonny. We’ll make it all right again." "M-Moth—Mother ’ll whip me." "’Sh, boy. No, she won’t. We’ll take it to the tinker. He’ll make it all right again. Come." And you and Grandfather slunk guiltily to the tinker and watched him make the blue fragments into the blue pitcher again, and then you carried it home, and as Grandfather set it back on the shelf you whispered: [Illustration: "WATCHED HIM MAKE THE BLUE FRAGMENTS INTO THE BLUE PITCHER AGAIN"] "Grandfather!" Grandfather bent his ear to you. Very softly you said it: "Grandfather, the cracks don’t show at all from here." Grandfather nodded his head. Then he tramped up and down in the garden. He forgot to smoke. Crime weighed upon his soul. "Boy," said he, sternly, stopping in his walk. "You must never be naughty again. Do you hear me?" "I won’t, Grandfather." Grandfather resumed his tramping; then paused and turned to where you sat on the wheelbarrow. "But if you ever _are_ naughty again, you must go at once and tell Mother. Do you understand?" "Yes, Grandfather." Up and down Grandfather tramped moodily, his head bent, his hands clasped behind him—up and down between the verbenas and hollyhocks. He paused irresolutely—turned—turned again—and came back to you. "Boy, Grandfather’s just as bad and wicked as you are. He ought to have made you tell Mother about the pitcher first, and take it to the tinker afterwards. You must never keep anything from your mother again—never. Do you hear?" "Yes, Grandfather," you whimpered, hanging your head. "Come, boy." You gave him your hand. Mother listened, wondering, while Grandfather spoke out bravely to the very end. You had been bad, but he had been worse, he confessed; and he asked to be punished for himself and you. Mother did not even look at the cracked blue pitcher on the clock-shelf, but her eyes filled, and at the sight of her tears you flung yourself, sobbing, into her arms. "Oh, Mother, don’t whip Grandfather. Just whip me." "It isn’t the blue pitcher I care about," she said. "It’s only to think that Grandfather and my little boy were afraid to tell me."