THE EGG-FACED PRINCIPAL.

It was a Wednesday morning like any other at an Australian primary school. There was chatter amongst kids who may not have seen their friends since 3pm the previous day, the clatter or glass milk bottles as the milk vendor dropped off the small bottles that the government had regulated the children have, and teachers using chalk on their blackboards in preparation for the morning’s lessons.

The school principal, a stern man in his late 50s, who typically wore either a brown or grey suit, cream or white shirt and a brown or grey tie, opened the gate to the house on the premises, one of the perks given to country principals, and strode across the field towards his office, which had been the first building of the school. This school had opened at the turn of the century, with an elevated weatherboard building, that had held all year levels from one to eight. The increase in the population had caused two extra buildings to be constructed, one for the junior years and one for the senior years.

He climbed the stairs to his office, attempting to not give anything away with his facial expression, as he contemplated the task he had to perform later that day. This principal saw discipline as very important and was not hesitant to use the four foot length of rattan that he was supplied with by the government for correction of bad behaviour, even though he secretly did not like it. Only the previous day, he had used it on four boys who had been sent to his office for stealing mulberries from the bushes in the yard of his house.

So, it was with great trepidation that those boys were told by their teacher, a kindly, unmarried woman in her forties, that they were to report to the principal’s office just before lunch. What had they done now?

At 12:15 they stood up from their desks and walked to the principal’s office, some of the tramlines on their palms now showing signs of bruising, and sweat forming on them as they climbed the steps to the office. Not more strokes of the cane, they hoped.

The first of the boys, a slightly thick set lad with straight blonde hair, knocked timidly on the door. “Come in!” boomed the principal’s voice. They heard a clattering of glass, which surprised them slightly. The blonde boy turned the doorknob and they nervously entered the room.

“Boys,” he began.

Two of them swallowed hard.

“Yesterday, you were sent to me for stealing mulberries from the trees, and then gave me the excuse that my wife said you could have them.”

“Y-Y-Yes, Sir,” replied a taller, brown haired boy.

“Well, I went home and told my wife this, and it seems I was wrong. My wife did say you could have some, as she still had enough to make mulberry jam. She also insisted on preparing a jug of lemonade for you boys to make up for what I did. I can only say that I am sorry, and that you do deserve some this drink for that.”

“Thank you, Sir,” they chorused. And drank the lemonade that had been poured for them.

“Now, be on your way, boys. It’s not everyday that I allow this.”