It didn't take long to finish dinner that day. For desert they had
blackberry pie, very juicy and nice, and they didn't even wait to wash the
red marks of that pie from their faces but just ran for the Crying Tree.

The Toyman felt in all of his six big pockets. And out came needles and
thread, and pieces of clean muslin besides.

Stitch, stitch, stitch went his fingers, for a thousand stitches or more.
And bye and bye the sails were all cut and sewed and fitted on the three
little masts.

Then the Toyman stopped.

"We haven't christened her yet," he said. "We should have done that long
ago."

In his pockets he rummaged again, those pockets which always held just the
right thing. It was a small bottle this time, all filled with tiny pink
pills. Much nicer these were, the children thought, than that yellow stuff
in the big bottle they hated so.

The Toyman poured the little pills out.

"What's the use of medicine on a nice day like this," said he.

And he filled the bottle with water and put back the stopper.

"When ships are launched," he explained, "folks break a bottle over the bow
when they name her."