Henry’s Hundred-Piece Puzzle

A story about patience, strategy and the joy of finishing.

Henry’s aunt gave him a puzzle for his eighth birthday. It showed a tall ship with white sails, sailing across a shining sea. The box said, “100 pieces.” Henry thought it would be easy.

He tipped the pieces onto the table. They scattered everywhere, in a mess of blue, white, brown and grey. He tried to fit two together, but they did not match. He tried another, and it did not fit either.

“This is too hard,” he said, and he sighed. He pushed his chair back. His grandfather, who was doing the crossword in the corner, looked up. “Would you like some advice?” he asked. Henry shrugged. “Okay.”

“Start with the edges,” said his grandfather. “Find the pieces with a flat side. They make the frame.” Henry sorted them out. There were twenty. He joined them, one by one, until he had a rectangle.

“Now sort by colour,” said his grandfather. Henry made a pile of blue pieces for the sea, a pile of white for the sails, and a pile of brown for the ship’s hull. The table looked tidier already.

Henry started with the sails. He found a piece with a curved edge, and another with a stripe. They clicked together with a satisfying snap. He found three more, and then five more. His fingers began to fly.

The sea took longest. All the blue pieces looked alike, and he had to try each one many times. Once, he got so frustrated that he walked away for a drink of water. When he came back, he spotted a match straight away.

By dinner time, he had only one piece left. He held it up, and slid it into the last gap, in the corner. Click! The whole ship sailed across the table, whole and bright.

“I did it,” said Henry. His grandfather clapped. “You did. And you did not give up.” Henry took a photo, and then he left the puzzle on the table, just to look at it a little longer.

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