A while back I wrote about Miss Enid Campbell, the mad but colourful head of my infants' school in the 1950s.
On the day before we broke up for the Easter holidays, Miss Campbell contrived a scenario that drove us wild with excitement.
The school had a broad front, with tall doors of wood from the floor to halfway up, and then glass panels to the ceiling.  At playtime, Miss Campbell would lock all these doors.  She had already enlisted some boys from the last year of the primary school, hoping that by the age of 11 or 12 they had learned the truth about the Easter Bunny.  Inside the school, one boy would hold up two giant, furry ears on sticks, visible through the glass and bouncing up and down like a giant rabbit.  The other boys would place an Easter egg in each of our desks.
At the end of playtime, Miss Campbell would rush into the playground, shouting:
"Children! Children!  I can't get into the school.  Someone has locked all the doors.  But who?"
Of course, we would all look towards the doors, see the bouncing ears, and shout:
"It's the Easter Bunny!"
Hysteria ensued, all of us convinced that the Easter Bunny was in our school.
Then Miss Campbell would say:
"My purse is inside.  Do you think he'll take it?"
Of course, we would answer as one:
"No! He's a good rabbit!"
When all the eggs were distributed, the doors were unlocked and the ears disappeared.
We would enter our classrooms, delighted to receive a chocolate egg each, and extra delighted that it had been given to us personally by the Easter Bunny.
Such an imaginative, generous act was typical of the extraordinary Miss Enid Campbell.