THE ADMIRABLE MISS CRICHTON.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 19800, 27 May 1926, Page 13

THE ADMIRABLE MISS CRICHTON.

(By Kathleen O’Brien, in the Daily Chronicle.) She is not really called Miss Crichton. Her name is the less euphonious one of Spratt. But we have christened her Miss Crichton among ourselves, in recognition of the wonderful yet natural way in which she rose to captaincy, like her admirable prototype, in the moment of danger. For wc had never before been faced with the unchained members of a Sunday school at their annual treat. Me had known Miss Spratt, of course, for some time. That is to say, we had been vaguely aware of the existence of a quiet, self-effacing little elderly woman who sat about in corners and blushed slightly when we spoke to her. We had never really received Miss Spratt into more than the edge of our consciousness. We would hand her a cross sandwich, or a second cup of tea, or we would turn to her with deliberate courtesy, not liking to seem to overlook her, and make some remark about the weather or the prevalence of measles; and the next moment, she was not. Someone else had claimed our attention, and Miss Spratt had gone out of our lives.

But when we arrived at the hall on the afternoon of the annual treat, at which we had lightly undertaken to assist, suddenly we found ourselves face to face with a new order. All our accustomed standards, our categories, our familiar points of view, were swept under. Wc were marooned miserably on the island of our inexperience.

Hows of enormous oblong loaves, waiting inexorably to be cut, stared hostilely at us. Tremendous shapes of butter stood about, cold, yellow, and unfriendly. Teapots of a size even our uneasicst dreams had never known gaped at us cavernously. Instead of the usual pot of jam, there were fifty pots. The air was heavy with excess of bloater-paste. We wondered, panic-stricken, how we were to win through against such overwhelming odds. It was at this moment of peril, with old, artificial barriers broken down, face ! with the stark, grim facts of life, that Miss Spratt’s native faculty for leadership declared itself.

She came bustling iu, just as we were gazing helplessly at those terrible loaves, wondering if we could detect a weak spot in their formation on which we could project an attack. “Here we are,” she said breezily—we gazed at each other! Could this brisk, managing woman, daring to speak without first being spoken to, be little, timid Miss Spratt? “How good of you all to turn up! Have they sent everything? Loaves? Butter? Tea? Yes, it’s all here . . . dear me! They’ve sent that teapot with the broken spout again that we had last year. That’s really very tiresome. So difficult to pour out without making a mess. . . . Higgs!”

One in a homely gardening suit and leather gaiters leaped to attention. “Higgs, take this teapot with the broken spout back to Mrs Michelson, and ask if she could kindly send another in its place.” Higgs’ not to question why, Higgs not to make reply. Higgs seized the teapot respectfully and fled. Had he been a military man, I am certain be would have saluted. “Now,” said Miss Spratt heartily, we had better begin cutting the bread-and-butter. The best way is, I think, to cut each loaf in half.” Marvellous! We had never thought of reducing in that simple way the fighting efficiency of the opposing forces! —“and for each helper to be responsible for one-half. Put a reasonable amount of butter on, please—not too much, of course—but we don t want to be niggardly with it. Are we all ready? We wore. We, the rank and file, fell naturally and cheerfully into our places. Courage came flowing into our hearts. All need for an initiative we did not possess was eliminated. We had a general we knew wc could follow blindly, one whose genius for strategics would not fail us in the hour of need. For half an hour or so nothing was beard but the bright, happy sounds of cutting and buttering. Then Miss Spratt, deciding on jam sandwiches, called for volunteers. Half a dozen of the more intrepid spirited offered themselves up. Miss Spratt chose Lucia and me. The others went back to their buttering, envious and a little crestfallen, though pretending not to bo, at our promotion. “I think,” said Miss Spratt, “if one cuts the bread-and-butter and the other spreads ♦■lie jam. . . ■” From such a faculty for immediate, decisive action do Napoleons spring. “I have allotted,” said Miss Spratt, when, our preliminary work completed, wc were lined up in front of her for orders, "two helpers to each table for tea. Each helper will please look after the children at that side of the table for which she is responsible.” Nothing could bo clearer or more reasonable. We arranged ourselves efficiently for action. The children began to arrive. A few days later some of us were having tea at the Rectory. I saw Miss Crichton —I moan Miss Spratt—tuckeu away in a corner, and went up to her. “How do you do, M ; cI said. “How splendidly the Sunday school treat went off! Everyone is saying so.” Miss Spratt blushed a little, coughed nervously, but made no other reply.