When I first attended infants school, my teacher was called Miss Dutton. The name seemed to suit her; a good natured, petite, pretty but somewhat prim young lady. Her main function as I recollect it was to teach us to sit still with our hands in our laps, a position happily adopted by many little girls but not favoured by the boys. This little narrative poem is pure fiction, but bearing in mind the situation at that time in history, could have been true. Little Miss Dutton, Bright as a button Sits with hands in her lap just so Neat and petite, Friendly and sweet, With little girls all in a row Quiet and demure, Polite and pure She teaches girls how to behave Not like the rough boys Scuffing shoes, making noise, Shooting guns, the things little boys crave But little Miss Dutton Bright as a button Has a secret, her own rough boy Though with her he is gentle He's a force regimental Has a gun and it's not just a toy They'll live life in clover When this trouble's all over But meantime they'll make the best Who can say what's to be Before the world is made free 'til then they hope their lives are blessed Little Miss Dutton Bright as a button Today has an extra bright gleam He's a 24 hour leave To themselves they can cleave Live one day in a blissful dream They have sworn true love now And he's made solemn vow To return when he's finished his chore He tries fears to dispel Kisses fondest farewell Then he's gone - and it's June 1944. Little Miss Dutton Bright as a button Sits there now and a sad smile she yields But for him it's all over He made it to the clover Now at peace in a Normandy field Quiet and demure, Polite and pure Girls imitate her in every way true Not like the rough boys Scuffing shoes, making noise, Shooting guns, that's what little boys do.