St Marys Academy - Chimes Yearbook (Philadelphia, PA)

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Read fhis and learn why . . . I Believe In Ghosts A FEW WEEKS AGO during the baseball season, something happened to me which changed my whole concept of the world of spirits. I was returning from a night game via a 53 trolley at about twelve-thirty. I was engrossed in a newspaper column which told about a supposed suicide on my street only a few houses away from my home. The car was deserted except for the conductor and me when a stranger boarded, walked back, sat down beside me and struck up a conversation. It seemed that he was also particularly interested in this suicide He insisted that the victim had really been murdered by a gangster called Louis Matteroni, and said he would like to get revenge. This struck me as a peculiar thing for a stranger to say, queerer still because he put it so person- ally as if he had been wronged. Somehow we switched to other topics and as we were getting off the trolley-he got off at the same stop as I did-we found ourselves on the subject of ghosts. If there is any other kind of story that can keep you on edge especially when walking down a dark, uninhabited street, I wouldn't like to hear it. It would be a little too powerful. I asked him if he believed in ghosts and I shall MARIE Louise R11'cHoTTE, '51 never forget his answer. Yes, I do, he said, and then disappeared. I stod there and then, trembling, I looked around. Imagine your own feelings if you were suddenly brought face to face with the bald fact that you have been walking and talking with a real live ghost. I must have looked as if I wasn't all there as I walked down the street to my house. Behind every tree I fancied there was someone lurking, waiting to pounce on me, to kill me. My brain conjured up all sorts of gruesome things until at last I broke into a run all the rest of the way home. I was never so frightened in my life. When I got home and told my mother that I had seen a ghost and told her of the details, she looked at me skeptically. Then she asked me if I actually expected her to believe that story. But when I described the ghost to her, she turned white as a sheet and gasped for air. I thought she was going to faint. But she struggled and man- aged to whisper, It was he, it was the man who died. Well it's up to you. You may believe it or not, but in the next day's Bulletin there was a big spread about Louis Matteroni. He had been found dead, frightened to death, in the victim's house. WHO 'WAS SHE? - Sl-IE WAS A STRANGE little woman, as insig- nificant as those three-letter words which fill in the corners of crossword puzzles. Her wispy grey hair straggled down her neck. She wore a pair of gold-rimmed glasses which, perched half- way down her nose, gave her a perpetually quizzi- cal look. Every morning we watched her as she boarded the 8:15 bus, extracted her fare from the shabby purse and paid the driver. Perhaps it was her very insigniiicance that attracted people but anyhow, everyone gave her a cheery hello or a smile, once they got to know her. Despite the fact that we greeted her every morning for two years, she never told her name and skillfully avoided all questions concerning her identity. At the end of JANE RAFFERTY, '51 the line she left with a warm God bless you. Yes, for twenty-four months our Mystery Lady followed this routine until one morning, she didn't appear. Like all curious people, we dis- cussed the strange incident loud and long. Then, happening to glance at the morning paper, I saw at the very bottom of the last page an obscure news item, Unidentified Woman Stricken Fatally on Market Street. Yes, I thought this must be our Mystery Lady, for reading on I found that the description fit her perfectly. No clue to her indentity the story read. Who was she? To this day we have never found out and every once in a while, the conversation on the 8:15 bus somehow turns to her and we like to speculate as to who she could have been.

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Finally, the day of the ceremony arrived. Standing in the vestry, Dick could see the altar beckoning with white flowers. Slowly he approached it and took his place. Raising his eyes he saw her, dressed in white, delicately beautiful. She gazed into his loving eyes and Dick felt unbelievably happy. At that moment any doubt was swept from his mind. He knew that his choice was the best. The organ and choir united in the strains of Ave Maria and Our Blessed Lady from her throne seemed to smile sweetly at her young seminarian kneeling reverently at her feet. Vicar of Christ BAGGAGE STORED BELOW, last minute remembrances, the usual tearful goodbyes and off we sailed on an unforgettable trip to Europe. Our luxury liner docked at Naples where our party of six ventured into the fabulous Holy City to visit the many beautiful churches and scenic places. We made the famous pilgrimage twice, witnessed the canonization of a Spanish saint and were present for a public audience. But even though we were stirred by these spectacles, deep in our hearts we anxiously awaited that special invitation to a private audience with our Holy Father. I had endlessly planned what I was going to say and how I would compose myself. But all my practice at poise seemed in vain, since it was only two days before we were to leave Rome and still no invitation had arrived. Then that bright Friday morning there stood the messenger at our door. Our faces lit up like candles. The following day we arose bright and early, eager to start. After breakfast, we dressed for the spirit- ual occasion. Mother and Mrs. Gibbons wore long, black dresses with a black veil covering their heads while Dad wore the regular black dress suit. Since I was younger, I had to wear a white dress and white veil. On our way to St. Peter's Basilica, I nervously JEANINE PASQUARIELLO, '52 rehearsed my lines as if I were about to play the most important role in my life. We were well examined and checked by several guards and then we entered one of the buildings of the Vatican. After fearfully mounting the glorious, white marble staircase, we were ushered through a series of beautifully decorated rooms and requested to remain in the last. After waiting several minutes, which seemed like hours, the people began to whisper, He's coming, the Pope is coming! Suddenly His Holiness, noted for his quickness, came rushing through the doorway. Pius XII was dressed as usual, in a white robe and skull cap and slippers of red velvet, a glorious sight to behold. He began to talk to the pilgrims and finally came to me. My mind went blank, my tongue refused to move, I couldn't remember anything I had prepared and I was petrified. After I had kissed his ring, he began to speak to me in that gentle, peaceful voice. My tongue remained adamant, so my mother kindly offered a few words for me. I didn't realize what had happened until it was over and too late to do anything, for our Holy Father went as quickly as he had come. Nevertheless, the meeting of this magnetic servant of God will ever stand out as the most unforgettable experience of my life. .Sbncn 'Monks dwarf! The .fun doem't make the world .vo bright, . Nor ihe moon doe.: it Jhed lovely light, Since you're away, The dayr are longer: the nights are blue. Our hearlr are heavy, our joker are few. Since you're away. God harlen you home, for .rufely He knows, We mix: you much, as our lonelinefr xhawx, Sinre you're away. joan Smith, '51

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rrllfr Exeerpfs from . . . 'ik ' x MEMOIRS 0FA HOC.KEY PLAYER AT THE BEGINNING of the term, Sister announced that those who wished to play hockey must come to her and sign up. I, ardent freshman that I was, knowing nothing minus about hockey, decided I would like to join. So, I did. It was as simple as that! Sister informed us that the hockey clinic was to be held that very week. That, I thought brightly, was a physical examination for the hockey players. When we left QI had learned what a hockey clinic wasj, Sister lent me one of the school's sticks. Bewil- dered, I asked one of the older girls why I would need it. After all, didn't we all use the same stick? The girl looked at me as if I were a combination idiot and freshman, so I decided to keep my intelligence to myself thereafter. One term, how- ever, that completely confused me was the junior varsity. Seniority is so important in high school that it seemed strange to have a junior varsity and not to have one for the seniors too. Finally, everything had been explained to me fnot that I understood, howeverl. When we got to the hockey clinic and I had watched the first game I had ever seen, I decided then and there that I liked it. And though I have found that you have to have either the skin of an elephant or the luck of the Irish to come out with what you took in ftwo 0102 'newmt The St. Mary's emblem over the door, The front stairs that lead to the seeond floor, We cherish these things in a special way Because they belong to our S.M.A. 1--... The North Porch on which there are many chairs, That Freshmen must learn to rarry in pairs. Their faithful duty from September to May- 'Tis an honored tradition at S.M.A. BETTY PEILEKE, '54 arms, ten lingers, two legs, one head, etc.j, I still like it. As much as we have diligently practiced f?j, we still have the marvelous record of winning exactly no games. The secret of our success is our wonderful teamwork. For instance, at one game our junior varsity's left inner drove the ball all the way down the field. It was an excellent play, except that she was going in the wrong direction. Another example is our list of injuries, which goes something like this: one goalie ............ a muscle-crushed hand one left wing . . . ........ a very sore toe one right inner .... .. .a skinned finger one center forward . . . .... a sprained ankle one right wing ............ banged-up shins fThis applies, though less seriously, to most of the players.j one left halfback . . . . . .a compound fracture of the finger one goalie .................. a bruised ankle one left inner .................. a black eye So you see, this is no game for weak people or those who cannot stand the sight of blood. But seriously, it's a grand sport. And so ends the tale of a freshman who will never forget her first hockey season. The driveway that leads right up to the school, The grandfather cloth in the hig front hall, These treasures one sees here every day Are a part of our own dear S.M.A. The hright, cheery classrooms that rhase all gloom, The rooms we so eagerly leave when it's noon, The girls that are with us at work and at play, Our wonderful classmates at S.M.A. just like the freshmen this year, so hrand new, Our huilding at llffl will he strange to us, too, But we welcome its presenee and gayly say, HeIlo. ' to the youngest at S.M.A. Claire Knapp, '53