St Matthews High School - Samascript Yearbook (Conshohocken, PA)

Text from Pages 1 - 52 of the 1942 volume:

THE MIRROR Vol. 9—No. 1 June, 1942 Price, Fifty Cents Associate Editors Richard Brenncn '42 Harry A. Casscl '42. Donald Collins '42 Margaret A. Kehoe '42 Teresa M. O'Connor '42 Doris J. Reed '42 T ypists Jane Fineran '42 Mary Ryan '42 Dorothy Burns '42 Anne Irwin '42 STAFF Editor'in'Chicf Louis A. Moore '42 First Place 1938 First Place 1939 First Place 1940 First Place 1941 Business Managers Margaret M. Kelly '42 Mary A. O'Connor '42 AssisUints Edward Moore '42 Doris Reed '42 Rita Irwin '42 Matthew Moore '43 Paul Delaney '43 Charles McNcelis '45 CONTENTS PAGE The Dedication............Ella M. Fondots 2 The Old Mill..............Merrill Jacobs 3 A Letter From a Rookie Mary A. Ryan, William Johnson 4 Sunset....................Merrill Jacobs 4 Will o' the Wisp.....Teresa M. O'Connor 5 My First Fishing Excursion Elizabeth Lawless 6 Interview with Alice M. O'Halloran Margaret M. Kelly, Margaret A. Kehoe 7 The Perfect Crime........John E. Crawford 8 Candlelight...........Margaret A. Kehoe 9 Candlelight..............Helen S. Fineran 10 The Silent Watch............Louis A. Moore 10 Killed in Action.....Teresa M. O'Connor 11 . Prayer................... Robert J. Burt 12 Advice.........................Marie Entenman 12 Victory Garden..............Louis A. Moore 13 Nocturnal Devastator.........Helen Maguire 14 Ten Things I Like Best in Conshohocken Joan Schrader 14 Old Trooper...............Francis J. Foley 15 This Is It...............Helen S. Fineran 16 The Wages of Sin............Louis A. Moore 17 My Refuge......................Alice Hoy 18 America's Grand Old Girl Margaret M. Kelly 18 Nightfall......................Doris Reed 19 Hillside Fire.................Philip Daly 19 Trademarks...............Joseph V. Reilly 20 Defenseless..............Harry A. Cassel 20 The Tinkers of Ireland. ..Mary Fitzpatrick 21 Washing Dishes.............James J. Keeley 22 Dusk..........................William Delaney 22 Old Black Diana..............Francis Hoy 23 Departure................Marie Entenman 23 Violin in Church.............Helen Maguire 23 Parting......................Helen Maguire 24 Goodbye..............Teresa M. O'Connor 24 Spy Wednesday............Joseph V. Reilly 24 Roads..........................Doris Reed 24 PAGE Fickle Nature............Harry A. Cassel 25 Disillusion..............Ella M. Fondots 25 My Lookout...............Catherine Shaffer 25 Entreaty.................Marie Entenman 25 Dream Palace..................Dons Reed 25 Spring...................William Johnson 25 Life.....................Ella M. Fondots 25 Square Bathtub...........Louis A. Moore 26 Fishing the Schuylkill...Harry A. Cassel 27 After School..................Mary A. Ryan 28 Famous Steeds............Mary O'Connor 28 Fayette Street...........Annette Aigner 29 Plymouth Meeting House. Francis McGuigan 29 Indian House.................Robert Wesley 30 Doin’ My Homework. . .Joseph X. Fondots 31 Bre'r Rabbit, Fugitive......Edward Fineran 31 Knights..................James P. Stemple 32 Cosmopolite of the Month .Richard Bremen 32 The Leaves...............Annabellc Cullen 32 Sunlight....................Michael Saboe 32 Lily Maid of Astolat.........Jane Fineran 33 Canine King...................Ruth O'Bryan 34 Winter.........................Jacob Ruser 34 Boy's Fancy...................James Gordon 34 My Brother....................Teresa Burt 35 Power of Music...........Matthew Moore 35 How to Lose Friends and Influence People Mary Moore 36 Studies at the Court.....James P. Stemple 36 Book Reviews Quiet Resistance.............Louis Moore 37 A Priest’s Life..............Louis Moore 37 Glamorizing Nature. .. .William Delaney 38 Cowboy Saint...........Donald Collins 39 Life of a Mechanic.......Edward Moore 39 Editorials The Truth..............Richard Brennen 41 English Today..........Harry A. Cassel 41 No Homework............Donald Collins 42 To a Dandelion................Doris Reed 43 Conshohocken Published Annually by the Students of SAINT MATTHEW'S HIGH SCHOOL Pennsylvania Dedication TT7E DEDICATE the 1942 issue of “The Mirror” to the boys of St. Matthew’s School who are in the service—army, navy, marine corps, and coast guards— defending our country on land and sea and in the air, at home or on far-flung battlefields beneath foreign skies. Not long ago they trudged the familiar paths from home to school, traveled over the lovely lanes and trails of Conshohocken, roamed the fairways of our rolling golf courses, sported in the swimming holes, climbed the hills nearby, fished in the muddy Schuylkill, and hunted and trapped in our ancient forests. In the old classrooms they sat and conned their lessons, dreamed their dreams, and longed for adventure in the glamorous world that lay beyond the encircling hills of home. These boys were our neighbors, our friends, our brothers, our escorts to dances, our teammates on the basketball squads, our opponents on the tennis courts, our gay and debonnair companions of every day. They worked and played and wept and laughed with us, while the happy hours of life’s morning sped past on noiseless feet. Many of them sat here in the “Mirror room” and spent long hours on their prose and poetry striving to make our magazine the expression of their sincerest efforts. As members of the editorial and business staffs and as contributors to the literary and financial departments, they labored unselfishly to give their best to “The Mirror.” From the windows of this little work shop, they watched the fading sunlight on the Conshohocken hills, and drew inspiration for their stories, their essays, and their poems from the lavish beauty about them—the great trees, the shady trails, the woodland streams, the blue skies, and the love and faith of their homes. Today they are far away from this quiet room and, while we sit here writing our themes under the dark clouds of war, our thoughts steal away to the boys who have left us for life's supreme adventure, life’s sternest reality. To them, over the miles of war-torn land and the stormy sweeps of ocean, through bomb-shelled skies and submarine infested seas, we send our prayers for their divine protection and ultimate victory for, “More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.” As they were true to the little duties of daily life, we know that they will be faithful to the soul-trying task before them. In this beautiful valley they call home, they learned the lesson of service. Their parents, their teachers, and their priests taught them the great principles of religion that will be their bulwark in their hour of need, will enable them to hold high the torch of courage in strong loyal hands. As they value “the good, the true, and the beautiful,” and love America with all the strength of their young hearts, they will meet danger valiantly, will fight courageously and, if they must, will gladly give “the last full measure of devotion” to preserve this nation “one and indivisible with liberty and justice for all. E. M. Fondots '42 % Two THE MIRROR SENIOR CLASS Seated on ground (left to right) Margaret Anne Kehoe, Helen Gaynor, Mary Ryan, Dorothy Burns, Helen Maguire, Kathleen McCann, Margaret DeMarco, Elizabeth Lawless, Jane Fincran, Jeanne Malaspina. First Row Annabelle Cullen, Richard Bren-nen, Teresa O'Connor, Emanuel Kelly, Ella Marie Fondots secretary: James Stemple, president: Rita Irwin, treasurer: Harry Cas-scl, vice-president: Doris Reed, Joseph , Reilly, Annette Aigner. x Secorlxl Row—Mary Jane Smith, William Moran. Margaret Mary Kelly, Michael $a-boe, Helen Finerai Francis O'Neill, Anne Irwin, Donald Collins, Mary O'Connor. Th;rd Row George Handrcn, James Kccley, Marie Entcnman, Anne Whalen. James Kelly, Louis Moore, Elizabeth McDonnell, Jean McGrath, John Bolger, Charles Kelly. Fourth Row Francis McGuigan, Anne Pollard, William Casey, Margaret Mary Kehoe, Frederick Delaney, Sylvester Szmigicl, Raymond Craven, Edward Moore, Merrill Jacobs, Francis Daly. Francis Hoy, Mary Hasson, Joseph Shatter, Mary Reilly, William Delaney. Absent—Catherine McGuigan. The Old Mill A silvery stream flows past'the old saw'mill. Once this mill was erect and strong; now it stands weatherbeaten and wearyThe stones of its one'time sturdy walls are crumblirCg to dust, and the winds, li e silver chimes, ring through the empty compart-ments. The aged mill, however, is never lonely, for the birds nesting in its eaves chirp to it all day long, and the broo gliding past its door brings it greetings from the neighboring• countryside. Merrill Jacobs, '42 THE MIRROR Three A Letter From a Rookie Dear Mary: A bugle blowing off in the distance awakened me rudely my first day in camp. Our detachment had arrived at Camp Meade at 10: JO p.m. After the commanding officer had given us a short talk, we were taken to the mess hall to rest up after the trip. Our meal consisted of coffee, ham, mashed potatoes, spinach, corn-starch pudding, and the old army stand-by, baked beans. You have to learn to like them or you do not really belong. After our snack we were conducted to temporary barracks, where we slept on army cots. My toes stuck out and were cold until the fellow across from me began to snore and blow his breath on them. I was hardly asleep when I was awakened by the noise that was going to be my daily alarm clock, the bugle. Our detachment was lined up for roll call. It was then that we met the idol of the buck privates, yes, the top sergeant. After roll call we took a shower, and well army soap is surely different from the soap Mom supplies at home. About seven o'clock we had breakfast and spent the rest of the day walking around the camp. In the evening the rookies went to the recreation hall to meet the rest of their company. The whole camp retired about 10: JO. The next morning it happened again—yes—the bugle blew at the awful hour of 6: JO, and we got up. When I think of how Mom always called me five times before I even stirred, I am filled with remorse. We had a fine breakfast and a dinner that wasn't so bad even if we did have beans again. We were then ordered to report to the classification room where we were asked all general information. Then came the much publicized ordeal of giving out uniforms. It wasn't half so bad as the movies make it. The sergeant asked me what size shoes I wore. I replied, “Nine.” He said, Don't worry, twinkle toes, your feet will swell. Take these elevens.” I received the rest of my uniform and reported back to barracks. Here we were shown the little space into which we were supposed to stow our clothes. I didn't think it was possible but soon found that it had to be, or ten hours of “K.P. duty would await me. The following morning we had inspection of barracks and lockers. It would take an army engineer months to fit my uniform into the space allotted to it in my locker. Well, I am no engineer, and I was again threatened with K.P. duty because a shirt was out of place. After a hard struggle, I finally remembered some algebra. So, I just let X equal the shirt, Y, the locker, and N2, the sergeant. I factored X and Y and the sergeant squared the locker, and if you know how my outfit got into the space you're a genius. I hear Taps, so I’ll have to sign off. If you want to send me anything, don't send baked beans. Send a cork for the bugler's bugle. Well so-long, date bait, Bill Mary Anne Ryan, '42 William Johnson, '4J Sunset The sun sm s slowly over the purple hills; its rusty reflection gleams on the drab mills along the river; the water ripples past the old stone walls; fluffy white smo e. ris-ing from the chimneys of homes nearby, disappears into the tinted s y. Soon the streets echo to the footsteps of busy workers hastening home. Another day fades into the misty past. Merrill Jacobs, '42 THE MIRROR Four Will O' The Wisp ' I 1 HERE was much talking and grumbling among the farmers from Limerick County i- when they met at the Market Place one day, for again they had been despoiled of their choicest wares before they could prepare them for market. Said Danny Casey, “Sure an’ 'twill be the ruination of me if somethin' can’t be done. 'Tis three weeks now and not a pat of butter have I had fit to bring to market.” “A whist to you and your butter, shouted miserly Will O'Connell. There are all me beautiful cows, with no more milk nor that cobble, and he kicked a loose stone with his boot. Tis a cryin’ shame, that's what 'tis; but mark me, I'll get to the bottom of this mischief, and when I find the 'spalpeens’ responsible, I’ll lather them within an inch of their lives. Sputtering in his great anger, Will stomped over to his now empty cart and started home. Much as the farmers disliked O’Connell, who was a miserly and begrudging man, they agreed that something should be done about the trouble. Said the Widow Burke, a kindly soul, 'Tis no youthful prank that causes such havoc amongst us; ’tis the ‘Little People’ tormentin' us and there is only one remedy for it. We must all lay out our choicest wares each night so the fairy folk will not ruin the rest of our goods seekin' it. Cries of aye, and tis right you are, were heard as the farmers agreed to the widows suggestion. One offered to leave his largest potatoes each night, another his finest cabbage; Mrs. Blake would give bread; Molly Blye, jelly, and so on till each had named his prize ware. Danny Casey was selected to inform O’Connell of the farmers’ decisions, so when he passed the O Connell farm, he stopped and told the still irate farmer of their plans. Plague take the tormentin’ elves and all their like, cried he. “ 'Tis nothin' more of mine they 11 get. Yourself may give if you will, not I. 'Tis a fine stout lock I have made for me cow shed, and come sundown the bossies will be safely locked away from all thievery.” THE MIRROR _________________________________________________ Five “Talk is cheap enough, answered Casey, “but 'twill take more nor lock to fool the 'Little People’.’’ So feeling that he had, at least, warned his neighbor he departed for his own home. All went well for the next few days. Each night the people placed their choicest wares on the kitchen tables for their fairy visitors, and each morning found the tables empty and all else untouched. O’Connell left nought on his table and his cows, also, were left untouched. He laughed aloud each day, deriding his friends for their foolishness in wasting good food on the “thievin’ elves” as he called the “Wee Folk.” Now every good Irishman knows that the “Little People” will find a way to repay evil as well as good, so the fanners talked among themselves saying, ” 'Tis sorry O’Connell will be one of these days. No good comes from laughin' at the 'Little People'.’’ And right they were, for the evening before market day, after O’Connell had milked his cows and carried the milk to the spring house to be locked away, he found his butter trampled on and his morning milk spilled into the spring. Shouting in rage, he rushed back to the bam to lock in his cows only to see the last cow disappearing down the land toward the bog. Stopping only to get a stick and a lantern, as it was growing dark, he rushed wildly down the land to bring them back. Not a sign of the cows could he see, but just out of sight, he could hear the tinkle of the bells around their necks. So, following the sound of the bells, he rushed now here, now there—all the night calling “Co-ee, co-ee” to the cows, but never a sign of them did he perceive. Down the bog land he went following the tinkle of the bells, and when morning came, Mrs. O'Connell found the cows safe in the meadow, though O'Connell himself never returned. And to this day you can hear his “Co-ee, co-ee” come faintly over the bog land, and at nights the light of his lantern can be seen flitting hither and yon, following the ever elusive tinkle of the cow bells. “Will o’ the Wisp” the light is now called and 'tis a warning to all to deal kindly with the Little People.” Teresa Marie O’Connor, '42 My First Fishing Excursion I HAVE been happy many times in my life, but never more so than when I received my first fishing pole from my Uncle Paul and trudged off with him through the woods and meadows to the creek. Uncle, who knew where the best haunts of the pickerel were, placed me at a good point and I threw out my line and waited anxiously for a bite. Suddenly the bait sank out of sight. “Now for it,” thought I. “Here is a fish at last. I gave a strong pull and brought up a tangle of weeds! Again and again I cast my line and drew it back empty. Finally something tugged at my hook and swept off with it into deep water. Jerking it up, I saw a fine pickerel wriggling in the sun. “Uncle,” I cried, 'Tve got a fish! “Not yet,” said he. As he spoke there was a splash, and I caught the gleam of a frightened fish shooting off through the water. My line hung empty. Overcome by disappointment, I sat down on a log and wept. Finally, however, my uncle rebaited my hook, put the pole in my hands, and encouraged me to try my luck once more. “But remember, girl,” he said with his shrewd smile, “never brag of your fish until you have him on dry land.” From that day I heeded his words. Though fishing is supposed to be a boy’s hobby, it is the sport I like best. Elizabeth Lawless, ’42 Six THE MIRROR Interview With Miss Alice M. O Hall oran “D ESPONSIBILITY is the definition of life. Miss Alice O’Halloran, Director of J-V Public Health Nurses in Pennsylvania, learned the truth of that saying years ago. She has been the living exemplification of Father Faber’s interpretation of life, and her days have been crowded with responsibilities “that have walked hand in hand with capacity and power.” In 1906, the Pennsylvania State Department of Health began to organize its efforts to control tuberculosis. At this period typhoid, pneumonia, and other diseases, prevalent in epidemic form in nearly every county of the state, made it imperative that there should be an organization that could be called upon in case of emergency. Mr. Samuel Dickson, health commissioner, authorized Miss O’Halloran, who had graduated from Philadelphia General Hospital only three years before, to establish a special branch of the Bureau of Public Health. To prepare herself for this project, she took courses at Columbia and Chicago Universities, and then organized the nursing service in conjunction with the tuberculosis work. The society began with one nurse, Miss O'Halloran. In 1918 it was made a bureau. Today it has 211 members. The state is divided into seven districts with a supervised nurse over each district, all directly responsible to Miss O’Halloran. These units conduct a tuberculosis service where persons are interviewed, diagnoses made, and treatment recommended; they care for mothers during pre-natal and post-natal periods, follow up every birth that is registered, keep in touch with children between the ages of two and six, “the forgotten period and supervise medical examination of school children. Slender, gray-eyed, Alice O'Halloran is the guiding genius, the directive force of this organization. Alice O'Halloran was born in Philadelphia, the eldest of eight children. Her dream of becoming a school teacher was never realized, for she was early called upon to share the financial responsibilities at home. Miss Gilloola, a trained nurse, advised her to be a nurse, but it was not until her twelve-year-old sister, Elizabeth, died of diphtheria that Alice decided to study nursing. Her father strongly opposed the idea; he thought that “to be a nurse was by no means elevating.” Alice took her problem to Father Thomas McCarty, then a curate at St. Elizabeth's Church, and only through the persevering efforts of the priest were her father's objections overcome. At Father McCarty’s suggestion, she entered the Philadelphia General Hospital, and on October 10, 1900, began the work to which she has devoted her life. During her stay at the hospital she was supervisor of the surgical ward and the men's nervous ward. In 1904, the directress of nurses asked her to accompany Mrs. Pat Campbell, the celebrated actress, to London. “I felt like a very insignificant person when my two-by-four suitcase was placed beside Mrs. Campbell’s twenty-seven trunks, said Miss O’Halloran. “This was the first time I had ever been more than thirty miles from home,” she continued, “and I was very lonesome. After leaving her charge safely in London, Alice met her uncle in Liverpool, who took her to his home in Queenstown. “My aunt,” said Miss O’Halloran, “immediately tried to arrange 'a match’ for me, for she thought it ‘high time' for me to be married. I firmly resisted all her efforts to marry me off, for I had other plans for my future. “Before leaving America, I had promised to take a certain maternity case. Frantic telegrams from my prospective patient prompted me to return. I would probably still be in Ireland, but for that,” she laughed. Since that first venture in traveling, Miss O’Halloran has traversed the United States from coast to coast, lecturing in colleges, high schools, and clubs. At present, she is giving talks on civilian defense, and on the urgent need for nurses. “Never was there a greater need for public health nurses than there is today, declared Miss O’Halloran. “I would advise every high school girl who is interested in THE MIRROR _____________________________________________________________________________ Seven nursing to get some college work. The student who has college work will be called first. In the future I think nursing will require a college degree.” When Miss O’Halloran leaves her office in the State Capitol Building at Harrisburg she returns to the charming home in Overbrook which she shares with her dead brother's three children to whom she has been father and mother for years. Her gracious manner and sense of humor have contributed in no small way to her success in this role. Her house is a real home with an air of informality and hospitality about it, and is alive with the laughter and activities of the young. She is a splendid housekeeper and bakes very good cakes. Though she loves gardening, her hobby is art needlework. The state nurses’ becoming blue silk uniform which she designed is a tribute to her good taste and interest in all details relating to her work. On the mantel piece, in her comfortable living room, is a picture or herself in her robes of doctor of law. She has the distinction of being the only woman on whom La Salle College has conferred this degree. Alice O'Halloran is a woman without “the small jealousies of command”; one who would never ask of a subordinate what she herself would not do. She has the discovering eye, the ready hand, the inspirational force of the born leader. Her life has been “rich with human significance.” To broken, diseased bodies she has seen health restored through her untiring efforts. For herself she asks nothing but the opportunity for service. Her accurate mind, strong will, and generous heart make her the sort of person to whom the suffering and the poor can turn in their hour of need. Her gift for organization and administration, her unselfish devotion to duty, and her comprehensive humanitarian interests place her in the foremost rank of the great army of her profession. Margaret Mary Kelly '42 Margaret Anne Kehoe '42 1 he Perfect Crime THE farm house kitchen was in darkness, when Bob Morris entered. He hesitated a moment to get his bearings. The old stove was in the corner to his right; the table, in the center of the room, directly before him. The other objects were hidden in the shadows, but he tried to remember the position of each of them as he had last seen it. As he stood behind the door he recalled his father’s warning about bad beginnings, but tonight Bob was desperate. He had spent hours plotting, until he was sure that his plans were perfect. Mother would be sewing in the living room. Dad would go upstairs in search of the evening paper which Bob had purposely left in his father's room earlier in the evening. The boy waited in silence; minutes seemed like hours. He began to feel nervous, but it was too late to retreat now. He prayed that nothing would go wrong. One slip and all his scheming would be useless. The clock was ticking the seconds away with an unusually loud and rhythmic count as if trying to warn Mr. and Mrs. Morris of what their son was about to do. Suddenly footsteps came in Bob’s direction. Was Dad coming to the kitchen? The lad hardly breathed. His knees, knocking together, kept time with the clock on the wall. The footsteps turned towards the stairs. Yes, Dad was going for his paper. It was time for Bob to put his strategy to the test. Slowly he crossed the room until he reached the stove; carefully he ran his hand along the shelf. Without warning a box of matches tumbled to the floor. The young thief froze with fright. Then his mother called quietly, “Bob, the cookies are in the cabinet, not on the stove.” But Bob had lost his appetite. John E. Crawford, '43 ______________________________________________________ THE MIRROR Eight Candlelight OF ALL light, candlelight is the most charming to me. The lambent flame sways back and forth forming flickering shadows in the enshrouding darkness. Peace, tranquillity, and contentment are woven into the shimmering web that surrounds it. Dreams hover on the edge of the mellow glow and carry us back along the paths of memory to the dust-covered doors of yesterday and forward to the silver portals of tomorrow. The soft radiance of the candle adds beauty and romance to pictures of fact and fancy. Candlelight has been the setting for unforgettable scenes in literature. Portia, in “The Merchant of Venice” sees the welcoming light burning in her hall. “How far that little candle throws its beams; “So shines a good deed in a naughty world. she exclaims. Always I visualize the stray beams glistening on her golden hair and lighting up her lovely face. How different is the scene in “Macbeth.” The castle is ghostly as a tomb, when, in the dead of night, Lady Macbeth walks in her sleep, carrying a lighted candle that she kept ever at her bedside. The flickering flame playing upon her pale countenance betrays the agony of remorse that torments her seared soul. The romance and mystery in the Master of Ballantrae are enhanced by the weird candlelighted duel fought by the brothers James and Henry Durrisdeer. In the eerie light they faced each other on the snow-covered ground. All the earth was black save where “the flames went up as steady as in a chamber in the midst of the frosted trees.” In that strange encounter the Master” fell wounded and Henry and Mackellar return to the house “leaving the candles on the frosty ground and the body lying in their light under the trees.” In life, no less than in fiction, candlelight lends mystery and beauty to many a scene. In the silence of the sanctuary, the lovely waxen tapers, emblems of sacrificial love, consume themselves amid the frag- THE MIRROR ____________________________ ranee of fragile flowers and wafted incense. How often in the faint flow of a candle is vigil kept by a sick-bed! How often the candle lights the way for souls to the great beyond! Around the still forms of the departed, these silent sentinels stand, and their amber rays fall lovingly and tenderly in parting benediction on the quiet features of the dead. Candles somehow soften grief for— “What seem to us but sad funeral tapers. May be heaven's distant lamps.” Mystery and romance blend with portraits of life and literature as the curling tongues of flame dance in the bordering darkness. I love to spend my leisure moments recapturing the charm and witchery of childhood's happy hours, recalling tender memories of yesterday, and dreaming of golden days of tomorrow, in the magic glow of candlelight. Margaret Anne Kehoe '42 Nine Candlelight “Ah, Candlelight! The illumination of the gods; the lovely flickering flame that breathes romance and poetry. How inspiring is the brave little candle that fights the powerful darkness and sacrifices its own life to give light to the world.” How often I have read all this quixotic rhapsodizing and “how tired I am of it all.” Candlelight is the most exasperating kind of illumination in the world. It brightens a small arc in its immediate vicinity and leaves the remainder of the room in semi-gloom. Weird silhouettes reel and quiver on the walls and ceiling as the delicate flame flickers; and strange monstrosities play hide and seek on the floor in the shadows. The lustrous light of the candle in the window, celebrated as a beacon for many a weary traveller, is the cause of countless fires, too, for when some playful little breeze blows the fragile curtains over the delicate flame, reality comes to the fore and romance goes up in a quick blaze. Pictures of old English domiciles with beautiful candelabra a yard long set on polished mahogany tables are very artistic and alluring, but, when Sis tries the same setting in our humble abode, the result is quite trying on the nerves. I like the table well lighted so that I can tell the difference between a carrot and a frankfurter before I bite into the article. It is most disconcerting to have to peer for long moments trying to locate the bones of a Spanish mackerel and attempting to extricate said bones from the fish in a nonchalant manner. There is something furtive and unreliable about candles. Go near them and the tiny flame leaps up and burns your chin, or the grease trickles over the edge and leaves a tallow trail on your best skirt. If you try to read, the light dances tanta-lizingly, and you practically ruin your eyesight trying to discern the print. I suppose I am just an unromantic soul. I like iight and plenty of it. Candles and candlesticks are ornamental; they have their good points, but they have no place in the stern realities of life. My private opinion publicly expressed is that the candle is a menace, a fire hazard, and a general promoter of evil. Away with the brave little candle, its charm and romance. Give me the bold electric light, which at the touch of a finger, routs the gloom from every nook and corner. Helen Fineran '42 The Silent Watch THE blue-black sky formed an even background for a million twinkling stars. Their beauty was enhanced by the fullness of the nocturnal silence. Almost all the people of the valley were sleeping peacefully under heaven's glistening canopy. Here and there, however, a lighted window sent forth its feeble glow in a vain attempt to rival the floodlight brilliance of a full moon, while trees and shrubs stood out in somber relief against the black of the neighboring hills. Amid' this loveliness the village dreamed away. Suddenly, the slumbering populace began to stir a little. The stars flickered uneasily as though they wished to voice the feeling of the disturbed villagers, and the moon became tense. The stillness was broken by the roaring of airplane motors that pierced the clear atmosphere. The speed at which they were traveling forced them to fade out of the picture almost as quickly as they entered it, for they were needed elsewhere to aid our fighting forces, hence they could not tarry. With silence again the master, the town regained its composure. The stars resumed their quiet vigil, and the moon smiled again. The townsfolk, however, were now a little uneasy. Slumber was no longer so deep as before because the people realized that this was not the time to sleep too soundly. Danger and uncertainty lay ahead, and they must be ready to meet it. Louis A. Moore, ’42 ____________________________________________________ THE MIRROR Ten Killed in Action THIS is a story of the First World War as told to me by my Uncle Ezekiel who was a sergeant in the 60th Infantry. I shall tell the story as nearly as possible in Uncle Zeke’s own words. We landed in France in the morning, and that night in the Vosges Sector, the Boche pulled a surprise raid on us, but we weren’t nearly so surprised as the few prisoners we took were to discover the YANKS had arrived. I don’t believe I'll ever forget that first taste of warfare. “It was in the St. Mihiel drive that I first noticed that Private Swick wasn’t do-ing any fighting. I saw him giving first aid and carrying the wounded behind the lines and, while that wasn't his job, I knew we were short of men for first aid, so I let him alone. After six days of fight' ing and digging in new positions we were finally relieved, and when the roll was called, Swick was among the missing. I went around making inquiries, but no one knew anything about him. A couple of days later he came into camp while I was out drilling and was placed in the guard house. When I heard that he was back, I went to see him. “ ‘Where have you been?’ I barked. “ ‘Sarge,’ he said, 'I was bringing in the wounded and the ‘‘Doc’’ told me to stay around and assist at the first aid station. When they moved on, I hiked back to look for the company. And that’s the truth, Sarge’. “I believed him, so I went to Captain Allsworth, told him Swick’s story, and asked for his release. “The captain said, ‘Since he can't prove his story, I must hold him, but I’ll let him out in a few days.’ That night we received orders to leave for the front. We were loaded into trucks, and taken to the Argonne Forest to re' lieve the 3rd division, and Swick came with us. We moved on pretty quickly until we reached Cunel, a small village with a graveyard on the left and heavy woods and brush on the right. Many at' tempts had been made to take that town THE MIRROR __________________ and hill. Lieutenant Woodfill, named by General Pershing as the greatest hero of the war, lost nearly his whole company trying to take Cunel. Well, for four days we ‘holed in,’ being under heavy artillery fire all the time. At night, patrols were sent out to contact other troops around us. Swick was always willing to do anything; he seemed to have no fear, so I sent him out on patrols knowing he could be relied on to carry out orders. On October 14 we were ordered to take the town. We were to get an artillery barrage at 7:45 a.m. to cover our attack at 8:15. Something went wrong there, so our Lieutenant ordered us to attack with-out the barrage. The German artillery opened on us as soon as we started, and our men were mowed down all around us. The 7th Engineers were to take the grave-yard while we went on to the town, and it was here I noticed that Swick, while charging all right, didn’t use his rifle, though he had many chances to do so, as a German machine-gun nest was causing us a lot of trouble. As soon as we took the nest, I went to Swick, mad as ’blazes’. “ ‘Je-ru-sa-lem.’ I yelled, ’What do you think the army gave you that gun for? An ornament? Why didn’t you use it on those Jerries?’ ’Sarge’, he answered, ‘I can’t use this gun—I can’t kill a man’. I looked at him in amazement. “ ’By cripes,’ I said, ’you’ll use it before this day’s over or you'll be a dead man.’ “ 'I can’t kill a man, even to save myself. I just can't, Sarge,’ said the poor fellow almost crying. ‘It’s against my religion.' “Of course, I knew he was a religious ’guy’; he always carried his Bible in his pocket and read it every chance he got. But I had a good religion myself, and I had killed plenty, I guess. ‘If that's the way you feel it’s “okay’’ with me, buddie,’ I said, 'but if some of these other “guys” see you wasting that gun, it’s going to be just too bad.’ Eleven “I left him then, but later, in the woods when the firing had slowed down a bit, he came to me where I'd holed in and said, ‘Sarge, let me carry some of the wounded back. I hate to see them lying out there without aid.’ “ 'Man,' I answered, 'you’ve picked yourself a tough job, but go to it.' ‘Thanks, Sarge, you’re a good egg,’ he said, 'but if my number’s up, I'd rather go out helping some man to live than sending one to his death,’ and turning he headed out of the woods. “ ‘Good luck,’ I called as I watched. “I saw him around giving first aid, and carrying back the badly wounded. He had a cool head and absolutely no fear. More than one man owes his life to Swick’s help that day. Late that afternoon I was hit in the shoulder and sent back to the first aid station for attention. As I passed through Cunel, quiet now after some fierce fighting, I came upon Swick’s body just outside the town. He was lying face down in the road, a stretcher a short dis-tance away. He must have been on his way to the front when he was killed by the concussion of a shell that hit near him. I moved his body to the side of the road and said a silent prayer for a brave man. “When I arrived in New York, July, 1919, I looked up Swick’s father to give him the Bible I had taken from Swick's body. I thought it might ease his grief to know how bravely his son had died. “I found the family on a side street in a quiet section. A young girl opened the door for me. After I had introduced my' Prayer The sttn that shines upon us here, Through hours of daily toil. Shines on our brave boys far away Who fight on foreign soil. And through the busy hum of day. And silences of night, Across the miles our thoughts and prayers Speed fast on pinions bright. “In war's dread dangers everywhere God eep you in his loving care. Robert J. Burt '43 self and explained my errand she said, ‘Come in, I'll call mother.' “She ushered me into a comfortably furnished room and left to summon her mother. I was looking at a portrait of Private Swick, that stood on a small table, and did not hear anyone enter the room until a quiet voice said, ‘Good morning, Sir.’ “ ‘Good morning. I hope I am not intruding,' I replied. ‘I would like to see your husband, but if he is not at home I'll leave and come back later.’ “ ‘You are very kind,’ she replied. ‘It is only that Poppa is so sick. But he will see you. Come, I’ll take you to him.' “We walked down a hall into a cool room, and there lying in a massive bed was an old man. His hair and beard were white as the sheet that covered his wasted body; only his eyes were alive. When I spoke to him he tried to extend his weak hand in welcome. I took the Bible from my pocket, and placing it beside him said, ‘Sir, this belonged to your son; he was a brave soldier.’ “Looking at it lovingly he whispered, ‘Tell me.’ “So sitting by his bed, with his wife and daughter standing by, I told how his boy had died. When I finished he said suddenly in a clear, proud voice, ‘Louie was such a good boy.' “And even as we looked down at him, the old man, with a contented sigh, slipped past the border line to join his son.” Teresa Marie O'Connor ’42 Advice Little squirrel in the tree Please come down and talk to me— Tell me why you run around Hunting nuts upon the ground. Tell me how you always now To store your food before the snow, And why you're happy all the time When you do naught but work and climb. Little squirrel in the tree Tell your secret, please, to me. Marie Entenman '42 T welve _ THE MIRROR Victory Gardens NOW that the U. S. A. has entered World War No. 2, shortages of many civilian commodities will inevitably result. The common citizen will obtain rubber goods, metal products, and building materials with a maximum of difficulty, and perhaps not at all. But the plentiful American dinner table has, so far, managed to survive and it is our desire to see that it continues to do so, for good food contributes to the well-being of the nation. With the extra amount of food exported to allied countries and the tremendous fortune needed to feed our own fighting forces, a scarcity is certain to occur unless something is done immediately to ward it off. The “Victory Garden, if you are not already familiar with the term, is one that is made where a truck garden was never intended to be. Flower beds, lawns, and vacant lots are ideal. The government suggests that “for the duration” we tell the nasturtiums and petunias to move over and make room for everything from the lowly sweet potato and blushing tomato to the tall, stately com and curly lettuce. The term “Victory Garden” is, however, the only thing about the vegetable garden which is new to me, for every year, about the middle of February, the soil of my brain becomes fertile and little dream seedlings start to push themselves to the fore. With this tender reminder, I am off on a whirl of vegetable productions. Tall rows of golden bantam parade before by delighted eyes. Scarlet tomatoes and bright, healthy carrots do the “Conga,” while big brown potatoes dance the “Harlem jig.” I close my eyes in an ecstasy of joy. This year I shall have no wilted lettuce, wrinkled turnips, anemic corn, or squashy tomatoes. “Fresh Garden Vegetables on Top” shall be the motto. Soon the winter's snows yield the reins of the year to the carefree spring. Trees that had been black and bare suddenly burst forth into refreshing green. The fields are carpeted with violets, forget-me-nots, and buttercups. As nature once more comes into its own, so does my long dormant spirit. The wheelbarrow is brought out while rakes, hoes, picks, shovels, and trowels again thrill to the golden sunshine which has been so long denied them. Seeds and insecticides are restored to their position of honor. The gun has been fired and I’m “rarin' to go.” For almost two months I have planned my “Victory Garden.” In my mind, I have lovingly cultivated each little ethereal plant till it has grown to a size greater than that shown in the garden manual, and then exhibited with conceited pride the harvest perfect. Now the actual time has come, and Old Sol gives the “high sign. The soil looks up in joyful approval, for it, too, is vain and wants some new clothes. I begin tilling with more gusto than you would believe I possess. The pick goes down with a mighty thud and is brought up again along with a rock of immense magnitude. “Rocky soil, eh? Well, so what? Can’t let a little thing like that stop the advance of progress. The pick is up! Then it’s down! It's up! It's down! And each time a new rock is brought to the surface. After a while, this sort of thing becomes irksome. My back begins “to squawk” under the strain. It simply won't have it. It’s not used to this kind of stuff. After the long winter’s rest, such a thing is preposterous. Besides it’s almost dinner time. With aching vertebrae as my token of defeat, I wander numbly into the house. “What need have we for a 'Victory Garden’ anyhow? Our yard’s too small to produce any tangible amount; besides I have unearthed enough Japanese beetle grubs to consume the whole works in a week. “Did I hear the huckster’s voice outside? Tell him to wait a minute. After all, a fellow has to eat. Louis Moore ’42 THE MIRROR __________________________________________________________________ Thirteen Nocturnal Devastator BILL MASON anxiously watched the moon slip from behind a cloud and skim across the inky sky. Its light slowly illuminated the gloomy countryside. Bill knew his comrades were near him, lying silently, waiting tensely. Through each boy's mind ran the same question—would there be another raid tonight? For three succeeding nights the enemy had flown overhead and attacked with ferocity. Bill, the leader of the gang, made desperate plans to stop the flight of this nocturnal devastator, but up to the present each plan to take the offensive had resulted in failure. Every night, before the moon came up, the brave little group, isolated from the rest of the world, gathered around the concealed fire to plan some scheme by which they might vanquish their foe. Would their plans prove unsuccessful again tonight? Bill’s mind was tormented with these questions as he grimly watched. Minutes came —and hastily sped away—still no sign. Maybe they had escaped the inevitable— maybe someone else had intercepted the enemy in flight. The silence of the night was broken by a low distant hum. Yes! It had come after all. The word was mechanically passed along the line. Every man steadied himself for the onslaught as the droning grew steadily in volume. Then Bill struck— he gave the foe all he had and shouted at the top of his lungs. “Hey, 'fellas,' I’ve got him.” A flashlight's brilliant beam, following the direction of Bill's voice, disclosed three figures grouped around Mason, who was proudly displaying an object in his palm—a dead mosquito. Clutched in his other hand was a fly swatter. No mosquito would ruin their badly needed rest this night. Helen Maguire, '42 Ten Things I Like Best in Conshohocken Ten things that I li e best in Conshohoc en Are: The fragrance of clover on an early May morning, in the meadows hy the steel mills. . . . The splendor of the harvest moon hanging, li e a great disc of gold, in a midnight s y over the West Conshohocken hills. . . . Roaming leisurely through the cemetery at twilight and reading the names of the quiet sleepers in our churchyard. . . . An afternoon walk in the cool shadowy woods along the Schuylkill, when the leaves are falling and the crisp autumn air is tinged with frost. . . . The smell of “hot brownies and ginger bread scenting the air around Pater’s bakery. . . . Coming home by rail along the bend of the Schuylkill River—when its banks are a symphony of color and beauty. . . . The bells of the Angelus ringing in the early morning, at midday, and in the evening, reminding me of the great mystery of the Incarnation. . . . The crimson glow that lights the s y when the hot slag from the steel mills strides the snow. . . . My mother's welcoming smile when I come home each day. . . . The quiet radiance of the sunlight filtering through the stained glass windows of St. Matthew’s Church on a cold winter afternoon, and the peace that enfolds me as I knee I before the beautiful white altar in the glow of the sanctuary lamp. Joan Schrader, '44 Fourteen THE MIRROR Old Trooper YOU find this fellow in every borough, town, and city. He has green eyes that stare at each and every passer-by with dispassionate boldness. His ears are notched, not by nature, but by other members of his clan with which he has engaged in battle. His fur is rough and dusty with, here and there, a few bare spots where the hair has been pulled out by the roots. Occasionally, he has an owner, but for the most part he belongs to anyone who will feed him. By this time, no doubt you are aware of the fact! that I refer to the alley cat, the most widely distributed, most hardy, and most notorious of the feline tribe. This vagabond’s home is the empty packing crate in the alley; his table is anybody’s garbage pail, from which with a maximum of noise, he dexterously removes the lid in the middle of the night. When you come downstairs in the morning, you will probably find him licking the top of the milk bottle, and he will not move until you give him a smart clip with the morning paper. He then retreats a foot or two down the front pavement where he sits licking his chops and staring at you with cold eyes, eyes that make you wonder just what sort of demon is observing you. Invariably, he makes you a bit nervous and, slamming the door on the sidewalk sphinx, you retreat to the safety of your hallway, feeling rather foolish. The next time you see the denizen of the alley is when you are on your way to work and discover him stalking birds, in the front yard. Again you get a baleful look from the green eyes; this time for frightening the birds and so ruining the marauder’s chances for a tasty tid bit for breakfast. On returning from work, you find your pet tabby, which has a pedigree as long as your arm, lying on the floor, licking the wounds which he received in a vulgar bout with the seasoned soldier of the Alley Troops. This is too much for you. Off you go determined to give the blighter” at THE MIRROR ____________________________________________________________ Fifteen least one swift and well-directed kick. After stumbling around in the dark for half an hour, you accomplish this noble feat, and although you feel rather low about this sort of revenge, you console yourself with the thought that that cat” will not bother you again. That night when you are in deep sleep, you are dragged back to consciousness by a blood-curdling cacophony of sound. Is it the long-dreaded blitz? No, your friend of the alley is serenading you from the back fence. With uncanny instinct, he has selected a spot directly opposite your window. Silhouetted against a great yellow moon, he pours forth into the silent night all the pent-up emotions of his outraged soul. Hoping to save some remnant of your reason, you get out of bed, reach the window, after stubbing your toe on the bed post and almost fracturing your shin bone on the rocker, and begin to toss old shoes at the back fence troubadour. You miss every shot. Without warning, then, the wailing ceases and, believing you have routed the agitator, you return to bed, only to find that you have just been enjoying an intermission. The nocturne, resumed with greater volume, continues at well spaced intervals until the dawn. In the morning, weak and wan, you crawl downstairs and open the front door to discover the milk bottle smashed into bits and the milk streaming slowly down the steps. This is another tidy bit of handicraft by the one-man wrecking crew of the alley. At the breakfast table, you draw back your chair, and look disdainfully at a cup of black coffee. You have no heart to drink it. Then you find you have but four minutes to catch the bus. Out the door, down the steps, across the dewy grass you dash, when suddenly something darts from behind a bush directly into your pathway. You collide with the object and execute an unexpected parabola in the air. A split second later, dazed and shaken, you pick yourself up from the bosom of Mother Earth. The cat has scored another victory. Completely disheartened you now resort to a last desperate expedient. You return to command some member of the culinary department to feed the storm trooper, hoping by this bribery to win the good will of your Enemy No. 1. It is of no use. That night he is back with a few comrades. You do not know whether he has returned to gloat over you or to thank you, but whatever the explanation, you realize that you have been completely defeated, and surrender unconditionally. You know that you have but one life and that it is pretty well raddled; the veteran of the alley has nine more to gamble with. What can a mortal do when so completely outnumbered? Francis J. Foley '44 This Is It “Q CREWING his courage to the sticking point,” Emery Doday reviewed the facts LJ in logical sequence. With eyes open, he had come into this situation determined to brave the consequences with a stout heart. Now, at the crucial moment, men, women, and children depended solely on him for guidance in their hour of need. What if he should fail! Again he rehearsed the circumstances in his mind and labeled himself “A Prize Fool. But, “the show must go on” he reflected, and stepped courageously toward the little green door that opened into—who knew where? Now, as he looked at the crowd behind him, he realized that somehow he must shoulder the entire responsibility. A child over in a comer wept, and a woman reprimanded her husband shrilly for causing her plight. Emery’s hand trembled as he stretched it toward the knob. Summoning all his courage, he took a determined step forward and, with a quick flick of his wrist, opened the door. The sign within read, “THIS IS IT.” At last! He had effected escape from the “House of Horrors” in Willow Grove. Helen S. Fineran, '42 --------------------------------------------- THE MIRROR Sixteen « The Wages of Sin THE sign on the office door read, Ebenezer F. Threeptoe, president. Mr. Morris Leech looked at the sign absently, and was just preparing to open the door in question, when conversation wafted through and pierced his sensitive tympanum. It was this very conversation which caused Mr. Leech to advance his ear a bit closer to the door, behind which he stood immobile. “You see, it’s this way,” Threeptoe was saying. “My young niece, Desire, is coming to the ‘Big Metrop' to spend a few weeks, but the family is in Florida, and I'm going to Chicago on business; I leave the day after tomorrow.” “—And you want a place to store her in your absence? inquired Percy Penn-leigh, Threeptoe’s private secretary. “Correct; but where? That is the question. I was thinking of trying to secure lodgings for her in one of my employees’ humble dwellings.” A capital idea,” returned Pennleigh. “A capital idea.” Leech waited to hear no more, but dashed for the nearest telephone. Mrs. Morris Leech came into the living room of her tastefully furnished home in answer to the telephone’s impatient summons, picked up the receiver, and, in a low, clear voice greeted the caller with a cheerful, “Hello.” “Listen closely, said a familiar voice. “What is it?” asked Mrs. Leech, a little surprised at receiving a call from her husband, during working hours. “Just this.” returned her spouse. “My boss is seeking a furnished storehouse to lodge his niece. Our cave may be it unless we snuff out the plan in its infancy. So listen carefully. Call Ollie Waddle and have him come to the office and follow these instructions—.” Ollie Waddle waddled up the stairs of the Amalgamated Bubble Gum office building and made his clumsy way toward the door labeled, ‘Ebenezer F. Threeptoe, president,” knocked, and walked in. His mind was filled with instructions he had just received from Leech. THE MIRROR Ollie!” said Threeptoe, with delighted surprise and affection. I haven’t seen you for months. Where have you been keeping yourself all this time?—on another two weeker?” No, on my word of honor—one night -ers only. I haven't been unduly inebriated two successive nights for I don’t know when. “But I may inquire as to your whereabouts for the past couple fortnights? “Same old place; same old place,” the other answered. “What brings you at this hour of the day? “Oh, just a friendly visit.” Conversation went on in this cataclysmic manner, when the important topic manifested itself. By the way, I moved from Twenty-first Street, said Ollie. Where; when? Why wasn’t I invited to the house-warming? “There was none; but life certainly has been gay. It’s the new neighbors; they’re really the original corkers. Give parties frequently; and what parties; oh boy! From those which I have had the pleasure of attending my unstable remains had to be carried to the assuring protection of my humble bed. I might also inform you that the man of the house is one of your model employees.” An employee of mine? Who is he? What’s his name?” demanded Mr. Threep-toe. “Leech, came the answer. Leech! Threeptoe had received a knockout blow. “Leech. Ollie repeated with an air of finality. “You don't mean Morris Leech? “None other,” answered Ollie. “—And he throws wild parties! Didn't know he had it in him. Most interesting; in fact, extraordinary.” Oh, I don’t know, he seems like an all-arounder to me,” commented Mr. Waddle. Well, if that’s the case, he is just the man I’m looking for. It so happens, my niece, Desire, is coming to New York for Seventeen an extended visit, and since she likes the gay life, which at present, I am not in a position to give her, Leech can render a noble service.” It was a decidedly sad Morris Leech who greeted his wife that evening. “Dear?” “Yes, Morris.” “When was the last time we threw a ‘binge’? “Four months ago, New Year’s Eve, to be exact. Why? “Well, said Morris, “we'll have to be pretty lavish for the next few weeks. Desire Threeptoe is to be our guest.” “But your plan? Ollie Waddle? I thought . . .” “So did I, but it turns out that the girl is a gay blade and indulges in the bright times. “I see, said Mrs. Leech with a shrug of resignation. “I suppose there’s nothing we can do to ward it off? “Nothing, Morris answered, with a sigh of despair. “Nothing at all. My plan has proved to be the well-known boomerang. Silence reigned in the Leech domicile for the remainder of the evening. Louis A. Moore, '42 My Refuge THERE are times when all men yearn for solitude. As I am the eldest girl of a large family, I find that a place of refuge is necessary for my peace of mind. My retreat would be, to the ordinary observer, just another big tree, but to me it is a haven of peace. Not far from our house an old oak spreads its friendly arms over the green water of a frog pond. The trunk is split down the center, so that half of the tree leans far over the pond; the other half is almost upright. I can easily secure a foothold in the cleft and climb into the thick branches, and then I am alone in a world of my own. Sitting on the outstretched limbs, I dream of happy things, as the breezes move softly over my face. Reading is my favorite pastime, and I spend many an hour in the leafy shade away from the blazing sunshine, and wander along the fascinating roads of literature. Sometimes the stillness of my hideout becomes so filled with magic that it holds me in a trance and makes me forget every care in the world. No matter what time of the year it is, the old tree holds some kind of peace or happiness for me. In its great oaken arms I am never lonely. Alice Hoy, ’43 America’s Grand Old Lady Silently, and without pomp or fanfare, on October 28 last, a famous American lady celebrated her fifty-seventh birthday. This grand lady stands for freedom, good will, and peace. Some of her children refer to her as the “Old Lady of Bedloe Island. Her true name is “Liberty, Enlightening the World. She stands on a star-shaped base in New York Harbor, facing the sea, and greets incoming ocean liners, loaded with people of all nationalities who seek her protection. In her left hand she holds a tablet on which is inscribed the date, July 4, 1776. Her right hand holds a torch that burns at night. We salute you, great lady, and may the light of liberty burn again for the people of France, who gave you to us. Oppressed people of France, and all others who are living in despotic and corrupt countries of Europe, keep the light burning in your hearts just as strongly as our light burns in the harbor. Every act of tyranny must eventually burst into a flame that will again restore peace and tranquillity to your troubled lands. Margaret M. Kelly, ’42 ---------------------------------------------------------- THE MIRROR Eighteen Nightfall DARKNESS creeps over the tired earth. One by one the lights in the houses are extinguished and the stillness of night settles over the valley. Then through the enveloping gloom lights appear in the midnight sky, like the glowing ends of cigarettes. Giant airplanes are winging through the air on missions of life or death. How many mothers follow those great ships in thought! How many prayers accompany them on their flight, for it is particularly at night that the lonely mothers think of far away places and of the boys who, somewhere, are following the flag to save their country from the disaster that threatens it. All through the busy hours of the day, commonplace tasks occupy the mind of the mothers, but at night when all their work is done, in the hush that falls on land and sea, their hearts go winging through space faster than the fastest bird or plane, to the distant shores where their boys are—sleeping?—fighting?—dying? Night has been considered, so often, the powerful conspirator of evil; the time when wickedness prowls the world’s highways and byways. Will not the quiet vigils of the night, the love that traverses the miles, the prayers that carry the powerful desires to the great throne of mercy, prevail over the evil? Doris Reed, '42 Hillside Fire It is autumn. From our class room windows the hills Ioo li e a great fire with the yellow and brown and scarlet of the maples, sycamores, poplars, and walnuts forming the flame, and the dar pines and firs, the coal that has not yet begun to bum. Philip Daly, '44 THE MIRROR _____________________________________________________________ Nineteen Trademarks MAN, it seems, is possessed of a desire to be remembered, and he goes to great lengths to save himself from the oblivion that inevitably awaits even the greatest. The scientist hopes to give to the world an achievement that will live through the ages; the inventor perfects his idea and envisions a revolutionized world in which his name will be held in grateful esteem. Every poet, like Shelley, prays that his dead thoughts be driven “over the universe like withered leaves to quicken a new birth.” This deep seated longing of every man to leave behind him some mark of his sojourn here, is doubtless what has inspired many a student to carve his initials on the desks. It may be that the carver hopes to inspire those who follow him with courage to endure, as he did, the vicissitudes of school life—a case of “others have done it, so can you.” Our school was built in 1870 and some of the desks of that ancient vintage bear mute testimony of man’s universal desire to be remembered. Initials have been carefully, painstakingly, and often artistically carved into the wood. What motives actuated the engraver? What dreams of greatness went into their making? What visions of a glorious future led the occupant to this “act of vandalism”? The phrase is the term used by the faculty in referring to the art. For, be it known to all interested, our teachers have no sympathy, whatever, for anyone who defaces school property. This attitude of the school authorities is responsible for the “splendid condition” of the newer desks and student chairs. Never is a well-made memorial cut into the modern furniture. It has been known that students, who so far forgot themselves as to retrace the marks in ancient desks, have been obliged to scrape the desks, plane them, and revarnish them. Travellers, who have visited Eton, have told me that the old benches and forms are hand-carved to an astonishing degree. Wood-engraving is supposed to be part of the culture of this well-known seat of learning; a bit of its “atmosphere and tradition. When we explain this to our teachers it leaves them cold. They apparently care little for tradition and atmosphere,” so our new desks remain polished and spotless. It would be foolhardy to put a mark on one of them, but the old timers afford us a little consolation—at least we can look at the initials and stealthily retrace them. The boys who, years ago, occupied these seats must have been braver than the youth of today. I envy them their courage. Ever since the day I entered high school I have yearned to stipple my monogram on a desk, but so far prudence has restrained me. And I think it would be foolhardy to court disaster at this late date. Joseph V. Reilly, '42 Defenseless TOTALLY unprepared for any such descent, the woodland submitted timidly to the thickening haze that gently permeated its leafless ceiling. Gray clouds assembled in the gloomiest corner of the sky and, after a few long moments of ghostly consultation, rolled across the heavens toward the miniature forest below. Not unlike huge powder-puffs in appearance, they seemed to swoop low and dab the hillocks with a resplendent coating of majestic whiteness. A panicky stream, trembling from the icy fingers that the merciless winter had laid upon its throat, fled, choked, through the bleak grove in a futile attempt to avoid the oncoming storm. The naked trees that fringed the hillside lifted pleading arms, to no avail. Relentlessly, the snow fell thick and fast. Soon the woodland succumbed to the flaky invasion and lay quiescent under a pall of white. Harry A. Cassel, ’42 ----------------------------------------------------- THE MIRROR Twenty The Tinkers of Ireland THE Tinkers” of Ireland are bands of rovers, who are found in every county of the Emerald Isle. Unfortunately, they have acquired a bad name which is not entirely deserved, for they were originally good people who were driven to lawlessness by injustice. They date back to the time that Cromwell besieged northern Ireland, and confiscated the farms of the natives, thus forcing these unfortunate people to leave their rightful homes and wander evermore throughout the length and breadth of their homeland. Many of the evicted families emigrated from the country, but the less fortunate were left to their fate at home and took to the roadside as their only shelter. To eke out an existence they went about mending pots and pans, and so became known as “Tinkers. Each county in Ireland has its share of these wanderers. They seldom spend more than a few weeks in the same locality, for they are driven from every spot by the people in the neighborhood who are annoyed by their presence. There is some justification for this attitude for the Tinkers destroy crops along the countryside, force their way into the fields or farms and take whatever vegetables they need for a meal. Indeed, they help themselves to anything conveniently lying around the farmyard. Their advent takes on the nature of an invasion, for they travel in crowds, in old jaunting carts drawn by donkeys or ponies. Often the Tinker bands have from twenty to thirty donkeys, each hauling an overload of passengers. The screeching of the wheels of the vehicles accompanied by the clatter of the donkeys’ roughly shod feet striking the rough roads, the cries of the children, interrupted by an occasional merry laugh from the women folk, and the whistling and fiddling of the men give warning that the Tinkers are arriving. When they sight in a country lane or on a back road or highway, a cozy spot sheltered by many trees or bushes they “pitch camp.” The unpacking of their personal belongings is always a laughable sight for their household effects are quite unique, usually including old stoves, boxes, baskets, and pieces of chinaware, scattered pieces of bedclothing, small tables, and chairs. They arrange all their belongings on the grass by the wayside. Then they quickly make a blazing fire, around which they seat their little children who are anxious to partake of some food. It is then that the Tinkers begin to contend with one another as to who shall go to the nearest house and beg the food. Needless to say, the meal is usually highlighted by a highly spiced argument among the gang. When they finally settle down for a night’s sleep, it is on the bed of straw, with the sky overhead as a roof. The children always go bare-footed even in winter. They are taught to ride donkeys while they are very young. “The blessings of God on your curly head and you’ll ride a donkey in the morning, is what the Tinker said the night his son was born. Though Tinkers consider themselves very respectable people because of their origin, the Irish in general, have little regard for the rovers, who demand as their right what others have worked hard to get. Today, tinsmithing is still their chief occupation, and it is by no means unusual to see a whole Tinker family by the roadside busily engaged in soldering all kinds of utensils and making various small articles of tinware. THE MIRROR Mary Fitzpatrick, '44 T wcnty-one Washing Dishes THE art of washing dishes may seem, to the inexperienced, one of the simplest of household chores, and one that is a purely feminine occupation, but I can assure all of this opinion that both beliefs are erroneous. Washing dishes is one of the most wearisome and tedious tasks ever devised to make man's existence difficult, and when I say man's I am not referring, generally, to the human race but, specifically, to individuals of the male gender. Although I have an older sister and a younger one, I am usually the victim selected to wash the dishes. It may be that “dish pan hands' play no important part in my matrimonial chances, or that I am just one of those easy victims of feminine wiles, celebrated in the best psychological novels. At any rate I know this, I am the country’s leading “martyr of the dishpan.” The method of procedure at meal time in our house is ever of a single pattern. Immediately after the conclusion of each meal I am intently watched by my mother and two sisters and, I am sorry to say, by my father, who see to it that any attempt on my part to escape is promptly frustrated. I carry all the dishes to the kitchen and when my mother observes that the last dish has been removed from the table, she communicates the news to the rest of the family who proceed to relax, leaving me with the china. Before beginning my menial task I first look out the window and admire the beautiful sky and hills and trees and meadows. Then I look at the stack of dishes and murmur, “The isles of Greece,” . . . and shudder. I shake a liberal sprinkling of “Duz,” the powder that produces fluffy, fleecy suds, makes hard water soft and removes all grease “in the twinkling of an eye”—into the dishpan and proceed to fill it with good hot water—the hotter the better it seems. “It will not hurt your hands,” my mother says. “In fact it will do them a lot of good.” Black thoughts fill my mind. I have no affection for my family. They do not love me; nor do they understand me. Injustice of this sort warps men's souls. While the water is running into the dishpan, I once more gaze out the window dreaming of a “Utopia” where the inventor of each and every dish is hanged in effigy hourly. After these preliminaries, I attack the china mountain before me. At last, when I am about to count myself a physical wreck, I discover that all the dishes are washed and I rinse them in steaming hot water, “nab a towel and, with a skill acquired by long practice, begin to dry first one, then two, then three or four dishes at a time. During this process of increased production of dried dishes, through the open window comes the shrill whistle of my bosom friend on his way to meet me ahead of the crowd, so as to spare me the humiliation of being caught unawares by our “gang.” I make haste and—meet disaster—for at this point some recalcitrant vessel, usually a treasured article, reacts to the law of gravity with obvious result. The crash brings the family to the kitchen. One glance at my mother’s horrified expression sends me flying through the doorway, determined to find the first recruiting station and enlist for service on foreign shores. Even this solace is denied me—I am too young to join the army. I have an awful fear, however, that when I do enter the service, the first time the sergeant looks at me, he will discover my secret shame and send me to do kitchen duty for a few thousand. Well, if I must, I shall serve my country faithfully as a kitchen maid, but I trust I shall be spared this final humiliation. No one knows what a harrowing task it is for a boy to do dishes. Only those who have been victimized know what real courage it takes to do the job. James J. Keeley, '42 Dusk Dus ! the stolid companion of death. And throws across the dying light Stales the fast fleeing Day. His deadly pall of gray. William Delaney '42 T wer.ty-two THE MIRROR Our old black Diana's hanging' up the wash. And a colorful array it is, by gosh’! Blue overalls on the hedge are flung, And gramp’s red shirts on the line are hung; The baby's frocks in a snowy row Hang close to blouses of indigo; And yellow skirts and magenta smocks Are pinned beside rows of bright green socks. How she's shadin' out her carnation slip. Oh! she sure does work at an awful clip. Wash day comes but once a week. Then the poles begin to squeak; The motor hums and bangs and howls, And water swishes through the tow’ls; The engine slows down; it soon will die; Diana looks around with fretful eye And I know that it's time to get out of here. Because if I don’t, there'll be work I feaT Francis Hoy '42 Departure Tread lightly, if you go tonight, You may awake the rose. Speak softly, little birds may hear— Our quarrel they’ll disclose. Violin in Softly The poignant strains Of an old xriolin Sweep through the tranquil stillness of The church. THE MIRROR _______________________ Perhaps the twinkling stars will see The pain within my heart— Go quickly, lest they let you know That I but play a part. Marie Entenman '42 Church And as The melody Springs from its wooden heart, My soul once more is filled with joy And peace. Helen Macuire '42 T wenty-three Parting Today beneath bright s ies of spring My heart is wearing rue, For here a little hour ago I said good-bye to you. We may not share tomorrow love, But we had yesterday; And I shall treasure joys we new In this our fleeting May. The brilliance of a rainbow Far flung across the s y; And in the tranquil twilight The wood dove's mournful cry; The sheen of crystal dew drops Flashing from hill and plain; And fields of fragrant clover Trembling after rain; The far off song of church bells Lulling the boisterous breeze; And opal shades of evening Falling on restless trees Are mem'ries that will bridge the miles Though you have crossed the sea; And in the garden of my heart You will I{eep tryst with me. Helen Maguire '42 Goodbye I will not write about the war. But ma e my little rhyme A monument, however poor. To ever fleeting time. How silently the hours pass; How lovingly we treasure The baubles in this earthly house We've built for our own pleasure. How quietly we slip away When time's brief reign is done To find beyond life's darkest hour That day has just begun. Teresa Marie O’Connor '42 Spy Wednesday Spy Wednesday in Jerusalem And people roaming 'round. Were searching streets, and lanes, and roads. In hope that Christ be found. A day in nineteen forty-two— A dar forbidding day; The way was cold, and damp, and raw, 'LJeath s ies so grimly gray. I heard a nocl(ing at my door, A sound both slow and wea ; A lonely beggar stood without With aspect sad and mee . Into my house, this beggar came, Who had not where to go; He ate the bread and meat I served, TJor told me of his woe. As day sped swiftly on to dar , The stranger sought to share My household tas s—he built a fire— He helped me mend a chair. And as he bade farewell to me. And passed into the night. The peace that filled my humble home Was li e a radiance bright. Spy Wednesday on my calendar, I wondered could it be, That He whom all the world once sought. Had spent the day with me. Joseph Vincent Reilly '42 Roads Earth’s roads sweep across the mountains And twist to the valley’s end And over these winding highways A stream of pilgrims wend. Some wal along gay and carefree, And some stumble on through woe; But all at last reach the narrow gate Through which each man must go. Doris Reed '42 ________________THE MIRROR Twcnty'four Fickle Nature Entreaty Poets have lauded Nature’s moods. Her beauty and her splendor; Have sung of trees and wind and stars In verses soft and tender. And I have read of dreamy broods, That through the woodlands trickle, But I am firm, when I contend That 7Nature’s way is fickle. For who can tell me why the breeze That gently isses clover. Will turn into a hurricane And blow an oa tree over! Or why the rain that puddles up The fields for thirsting squashes. Will wait until the work is done, Then rudely sprinkle washes! Ho, no my friend I still declare Though Mature is beguiling, You cannot quite depend on her, No matter how she's smiling. Harry Cassel ’42 Disill usion I've often seen the shadows. Take leave of moonlight beams, And watched the little pixies. In my midnight summer dreams. And once I strode out hoping. To catch them at their play. But only saw the twinkling stars. Chasing them away. Ella Marie Fondots '42 My Lookout My window is my lookout. At night from it I see A world of magic people. Whom no one knows but me. They live in fairy castles. Beyond the moon and stars; They serenade the breezes. With silver-stringed guitars. They play along the milky way. Until the night is done; Then through the door of daylight, They tip-toe one by one. Catherine Shaffer '43 THE MIRROR ________________________ Have we loved in vain, my dear? Can’t we brave the weather? Strange, the way is hard and long When we’re not together. I remember other days Filled with joy and gladness; They were happy times for me— How they bring me sadness. Wait! and listen to my plea Do not let me mourn here; Take me with you all the way To the end of life, dear. Marie Entenman '42 Spring The angler starts to shine his rod; The earthworm trembles ’neath the sod; The robin builds its dainty nest; The possum wakes from winter rest; The trees put on their dress of leaves; The swallows nest in dusty eaves; The meadow lark begins to sing— Of course, you're right—the time is spring. William Johnson '43 Life I dream of wars and dragons bold. And chariot wheels of solid gold. I dream of castles in the air, And perfumed ladies, tall and fair. I dream of knights with dashing steeds, Who worship me with noble deeds. I dream and dream and wish and wish— Meanwhile, I slowly dry each dish. Ella Marie Fondots '42 T wenty-five Square Bathtub IDO NOT know whether or not you have considered the subject, but I cannot see why the square bathtub has not gained more widespread popularity. You so seldom hear of anybody's owning one. Square tubs dwell almost completely within the realm of advertising, yet I cannot understand why, for a square bathtub certainly has advan-tages over its elliptical competitors. I know, for the old type bathtub has caused me many maddening hours. I shall now state my grievances. As I step into a warm bath and reach for a cake of soap, the slippery little thing worms its way out of my hand and makes a straight dive for the water. Giving me a dirty look, it sinks slyly below the waterline. My hand immediately sets after it in hot pursuit, grabs impulsively for it, but misses. The soap is not to be taken without a struggle. The hope of capturing it by surprise inspires me to sneak up on it from be-hind. My hand advances closer, closer, closer. The water is greatly disturbed by the impact of my hand as it endeavors to “nab” the slimy, white object, but the culprit leaps into the air with much more force than you would think possible in an insignificant little bar of toilet soap. It sneers at me, and makes straight for the H20 again. By this time my temper is fast losing ground, but I can still control it. I sit pensively for a while, laying plans for a fresh offensive. “What would Napoleon have done in a similar crisis?” is my arch-thought. Had that noble man been living today, he might have thought of an air-raid. Such a maneuver might do just the trick. At this juncture, the palm of my hand is raised parallel with the naughty little “hunk” of soap. I have no knowledge of what plans the soap is making at this time. I, however, am certain of my next move. Silence reigns. Once more the unfortunate water must suffer the impact of a surprise raid. The hand clashes down over the slithery solid, which by the way of retaliation, slips out from under it, shooting once again into space. The after effect of this defeat, however, is far more disastrous than the foregoing one. When the soap slipped from under my palm, it left a slimy trail which forced my arm to give way, thus giving me a very spectacular fall. My pride is now deeply wounded, but my determination is by no means exhausted. Once more the plotting commences. The light of intelligence again begins to glow. Why not get a dinner fork and jab the sinful soap? It may not be “cricket, but it would be effective. A cursory glance around the bathroom, however, reveals the fact that there is no fork to be had and that a substitute cannot be found. Maneuver number three is definitely out. I renew my earlier “sneak up behind and clutch method,” but without success. At last I must admit defeat. I now let the water out, pick up the erring bar of soap, chisel grips for my finger, and then refill the tub. All this exercise takes its toll of a man. A constitution like mine cannot stand the strain. I am worn out. On such a momentous occasion as this, the dream of a square bathtub is closest to my heart. Just think, a square bathtub! In such a device a bar of soap could go just so far and no farther. Though it might evade me for a while, sooner or later I would corner it in one of the right angles formed by the walls. O joy! At this point, I make the final decision to visit the shops in search of a tub that will satisfy my qualifications. In the end, I shall probably be forced to write to the various bathroom supply concerns for aid. And I am ready to wager that it will be just my luck to receive a reply from all of them stating that they all are “out of square bathtubs,” and that “priorities have forced them to quit production of them for the duration.” Oh well! I can dream, can't I? Louis Moore ___________________________________________________________ THE MIRROR T wcntysix ALTHOUGH the Schuylkill River has never possessed the reputation of being a “fisherman's rendezvous,” scores of devotees of the “rod and reel” occupy the banks of this slow-moving stream during the summer months. In favorable weather, a large percentage of the disciples of Izaak Walton sit perched on the tops of dams and canal locks. These spots are particularly cool because the obliging breeze oftentimes whips the spray from the falling waters against the sun-swept figures. Where the river adopts artificial banks (stone walls and continuous rows of small wharfs) the casual fishermen ensconce themselves on packing cases, canvas stools or, mayhap, beach chairs and wait patiently for their bite. They consider a glistening eighteen-inch carp ample recompense for their total efforts, but are satisfied with a nine-inch speckled bass. Usually, however, the catch turns out to be a few hungry sunfish, some gullible minnows, or a lazy cat, tempted from the culmy depths of “ole man river” by the curious antics of Mr. Worm struggling futilely on a skillfully-baited hook. Among the anglers who frequent the coal-colored waters are many reincarnated Huck Finns. You can see them trudging the shores on their way to a favorite sunfish haunt, garbed in rolled-up trousers and battered straw hats with freshly-cut spruce branch for their pole and tomato can for their bait box. Often these carefree anglers sit upon the edge of a protruding pier dipping their sun-tanned toes in the cooling stream and releasing tiny wavelets, which slip across the water to surround their bobbing cork floats. Even in late autumn determined anglers brave the blasts of approaching winter's breath and tramp from the cheery warmth of homes nearby to chilly retreats along the river's ice-chafed shoreline. Here, comforted by their glowing pipes or a plug of rum maple, they will wait contentedly for the unwary fish, while make-shift stoves belch forth friendly blazes of much-needed encouragement. At present, however, the piscatorial pastime is being seriously threatened by polluted conditions existing throughout the entire system of the river. Devoted fishermen often thought of improving the river, but their hopes never materialized. Today, dreams for the betterment of the stream are growing nearer to reality. The contemplated plans, if carried to completion, will transform the Schuylkill, now only a ghost of its former self, into a true “fishermen’s rendezvous.” Harry Cassel, '42 THE MIRROR . ___________________________________________________________________ Twenty-seven After School TO ME as a child the happiest part of a schoolday was the walk home after the lessons were completed. I can see myself yet, a solitary little fellow, trudging along the quiet road in the late fall. The contents of my dinner pail jingled to the tune I whistled as I picked great bouquets of gay-colored leaves, sumac, and goldenrod. In the open country, I loitered among dun-colored cornfields, where yellow pumpkin-like eyes peeped out at me from the brown stubble. But how different it was in the winter! Then, the sharp touch of frost quickened my lagging feet, and, all bundled up in my leggings, I went stumbling through the drifts. If the day were bright, flocks of bobwhites fled excitedly from tree to tree or whistled musical notes as they picked at the frozen pine cones. Tracks of rabbits crossed and re-crossed along the roadway. Often I caught a ride with some fur-coated farmer on his way home from town, and, from his bob-sled, I looked wonderingly at the winter change of landscape. As we jingled past the cornfield, horses and cattle threw up their heads to listen and then went crashing away through the stalks. The evergreen grove was no longer dark, silent, and lonesome. Purple finches and starlings hid beneath the branches for protection against the winter’s storm. Soon, with a very cold face and a healthy appetite for supper, I would tumble off before our gate and go stamping up the path to the house. Now that I have left the “wilds and moved to the more densely populated city, much of the pleasure of going to school has departed. HISTORY, legend, and mythology are filled with stories of famous steeds, for the horse is one of the animals most beloved by man. In my childhood I read, with wonder, many tales of renowned horses. Pegasus, the winged horse of mythology, which carried Bellerophon to victory over the Chimaera is perhaps the most fabulous of all. Alexander’s horse, Bucephalus, shares his master’s glory in the pages of history, and the Trojan horse remains forever an example of war strategy and duplicity. All America loves the anonymous galloper that carried Paul Revere on his historic ride to Concord, and Ichabod Crane's old nag, Gunpowder, has a place in the affections of all lovers of Irving’s “Sleepy Hollow.” In the sporting world, Man O’ War was, for years, one of the most renowned racers. His noble head, with its white star on the forehead, has adorned many a stick pin and pair of cuff links. War Admiral, Sea Biscuit, and Cavalcade, too, have been celebrated winners in their day and have had hosts of admirers. But of all the steeds that have won renown, none is better known or more beloved than the schoolboy's pony.” It is one of the smallest of the species and, perhaps, the most widely distributed. It can travel anywhere with its owner and requires no attention; it may be stabled in a boy's pocket, carried in a brief case, or hidden under the mattress. It is at the beck and call of the rich and poor alike and gives democratic, impartial service to all, though it is the familiar of such noteworthy individuals as Virgil, Ceaser, and Homer. The man who first wrote a “pony is the undying hero of the classroom, for this charger has galloped hundreds of riders to success. Though teachers through the ages have denounced the little courser as a trickster— a low-down fellow with whom no honorable student would associate, the “pony” retains undiminished popularity. Youth’s cry is “A boy’s best friend is his pony. I firmly believe that in spite of all their denials, many teachers have ridden to success on a pony's back, and keep one conveniently stabled in a secret drawer in their desks. Mary Ryan, '42 Famous Mary O’Connor, '42 ___ THE MIRROR T wentycight Fayette Street Fayette Street, our main thoroughfare, extends through the town in a straight line for almost a mile, from the Matson-ford Bridge to Twelfth Avenue where it merges into Butler Pike. Years ago, it was an Indian trail winding through the dense forest. During the Revolutionary War, Lafayette led the patriots over this road when they were fleeing to Valley Forge in 1777. It is from this famous French general that Fayette Street gets its name. In the early days of the borough, it was a stony, dusty road, scarred “with deep ruts caused by the heavy “string' teams hauling iron ore, clay, and limestone to the blast furnaces. Gas lamps in iron posts, placed at road intersections, furnished street illumination. The police lighted these lamps at night and turned them off in the morning. Today, Fayette Street is a broad avenue lined with great maple, poplar, and horse chestnut trees. The business section is confined to a few squares at the lower end of the town, near the river. In the residential district beautiful, stately houses surrounded by spacious, well-kept grounds line both sides of the avenue. Four large stone churches add dignity to Fayette Street. Our church, St. Matthew’s, at Third Avenue and Fayette Street, is a granite structure in Gothic architecture. From afar, its lofty bell-tower and spires can be seen outlined against the sky. Beside the church are the rectory and school, both granite buildings that harmonize with the church. Fayette Street, however, is not so beautiful as it was a few years ago. Commercialism has made inroads on the ancient highway, and the ubiquitous filling stations and chain stores appearing among the gracious old homes produce a discordant note in the once lovely harmony of old avenue. Annette M. Aigner '42 Plymouth Meeting House ONE of the oldest structures in the vicinity is the Quaker Meeting House which stands at the intersection of Germantown Avenue and Butler Pike in Plymouth Meeting. It is a rather long, narrow, one-story building of gray limestone, and sits back from the road in a plot of ground fenced in by a low stone wall. The old prayer house is a splendid example of Colonial architecture, and Quaker simplicity. The building has undergone certain alterations necessitated by changing conditions and by a fire in 1867, but the original walls of limestone still stand. Beauti- THE MIRROR T wenty-nine ful woodwork, mellowed by age, and wooden benches used by generations of worshippers add distinction to the interior. Its history dates back to the time of William Penn. In 1686 James Fox, who came from Plymouth, Devonshire, Eng' land, on the ship Desire, purchased 5327 acres of land from Penn, and named the settlement Plymouth, after the example of the Pilgrims. The settlement was of sufficient importance by 1691 to attract the notice of Penn who wrote from London, “commend me to my friends at Plymouth.” The first meeting of the Plymouth Friends was held at the home of Fox. Although there are no historical records to show the exact date of the building of the chapel, it must have been erected in the early part of the 18th century. The Radnor and Haverford records of the ninth month 1701 bear testimony to its existence. The first deed to the Meeting House property was given on October 6, 1700. During the Revolutionary period, when Washington's army, under Lafayette, was retreating from Germantown to Valley Forge, the meeting house was used as a camp and hospital for the soldiers. There is still preserved a letter from an officer in the American army, headed “Camp at Plymouth Meeting, the thirteenth day, the twelfth month, 1777.” It begins, “I have these two nights past taken up my quarters in the ‘House of Contemplation.’ ” About 1780, one end of the Meeting House was used for school facilities. Tradition says that David Rittenhouse, the great astronomer, attended this school. Friends were always opposed to human slavery and headquarters for the Abolition agitators was at Plymouth Meeting. A well-known station of the underground railway was at the home of George Corson, opposite the Meeting House. On the ground of the old church is the William Jeanes Memorial Library, built in 1935. Although the interior is a very modern library, the exterior follows the same Colonial style as the church and preserves the note of durability and simplicity. Today the Plymouth Meeting House stands stately and aloof, as if aware of the prestige its history gives to it. Stamped with enduring beauty and rugged honesty it is reminiscent of the integrity and sincerity of the sturdy pioneers who crossed the seas to find in the wilderness of America a place where they could worship God according to their conscience. Guarded by century-old trees, many of these pioneers are sleeping in the graveyard behind the Meeting House. Their gentle spirits seem to hover about their beloved house of worship as they keep faith with those who have followed in the paths they blazoned so long ago. Francis McGuigan '42 Indian House “Indian House” was the name of the colonial mansion in which my mother lived when she was a little girl. It stood on Conshohocken Road between Villa-nova and West Conshohocken, and was a typical two-story colonial structure surrounded by spacious grounds. On a huge marble inset between the windows on the second floor were carved two Indians. This tablet gave the house its name. Just outside the kitchen door was a deep well valuable to the household for its lime water. At the rear of the house stood a big rambling barn in which cattle were slaughtered. The grounds were almost surrounded by a stream over which an old arch-bridge, built low, cast shadows on spots where the ducks swam and the frogs croaked in the bushes. The interior of “Indian House consisted of nine large low-ceilinged rooms each furnished in colonial style. For some reason stories began to be circulated about mysterious noises that were heard in the house and a ghostly visitor who appeared at the windows. After a while, no one dared to live in the house, and it was torn down. My mother often talks about “Indian House and I wish that I could have lived there. It would have been an experience worth treasuring. Robert Wesley '43 Thirty THE MIRROR Doi n My Homework WHAT can I write about? “Gotta get this homework done or I’ll catch it tomorrow. I think I’ll try poetry first. Maybe this English book can help me. Let me see what it says about poetry. “Form of literature written in rhythmical or metrical language. Well, I’m pretty sure that I gave in plenty of good poetry be-fore—she called it “doggerel,” though. Whew! I can’t even read the stuff she talks about, let alone write it. Well, may as well try a short story while I'm at it. This sounds all right to me ... it has everything but a plot, but that's the first thing she’ll look for. Aw, I can’t do this stuff. I wish I didn’t even have to go to school tomorrow, then I’d . . . say . . . that’s an idea, huh? I was playin’ football this afternoon, maybe I got hurt. Teeth? All there. Not even a loose one. I didn't get as much as a scratch. Just when I need it, too . . . any other time ... Of course, I could always “fake it, but Mom's pretty careful about stuff like that. A pain in the back? . . . and I lie in bed with an electric pad at my sfiinc all day. Sick at the stomach? . . . she gives me some of that poisonous potion “Gram-maw” invented. Oh—I may as well get this done. A fellow has to have some will power. “Gee,” 12:30 already, and I “gotta get up early tomorrow! If I was in bed, I'd prob’ly be fast asleep right now . . . Pillow looks invitin' over there . . . Nice warm blankets, too . . . I’ll just turn them back so it won’t take so long to climb in when I’m done . . . Maybe if I’d lie down, I could think better. It’s worth tryin’ anyway . . . Ah, nothin’ like a good, soft, comfortable bed, I always say. Now I'm able to work better . . . Makes me sorta drowsy . . . The light’s a little strong . . . I’ll put it out for a minute . . . Just a minute. Ah, that’s better; much better . . . Well, “whaddya” know I actually feel sleepy. Maybe if I slept for fifteen minutes I’d feel fresher. Maybe somethin’ will happen and I won’t have to go to school tomorrow. Ah! shucks. If I get up early I can do my homework in a few minutes. I have a pretty good idea of it - - - I hope - - -She’ll be plenty sore - - - if - - - I - - -don’t - - - hand - - - it - - - in - - -. Joseph X. Fondots ’44 Bre r Rabbit, Fugitive THE densely wooded slopes of West Conshohocken are a veritable “rabbit-hunters’ paradise.” Oaks, maples, and elms, combined with a liberal sprinkling of poison ivy and briar bushes furnish a fair semblance of the “forest primeval. Scores of brown-bodied rabbits inhabit the timber land, and, in the fall, amateur hunters seek them. The rabbit’s best means of defense is the briar patch. The mere thought of pursuing a bunny into this barbed inclosure is enough to make the amateur huntsman tremble. Old Cottontail is fully aware of the advantages of his stronghold and, at the least sign of danger, dashes into it, leaving his chagrined pursuer looking ruefully at the bushes. Since the rabbit does not hibernate, he must seek food during the winter, and it is while poor Bre’r Rabbit is on foraging expeditions that he is in the greatest danger. Many a peaceful furry friend just finishing his noonday meal is almost frightened to death by the appearance of a freckle-faced demon with a gun. In the twinkling of an eye, however, the rabbit is off with the hunter in wild pursuit. Hours later the bedraggled, mudspattered sportsman wearily returns, after a steeple-chase through the woods after the wily bunny. Cottontail has once more outwitted his persecutor, who leaves the woodlands meditating morosely on the ways of the rabbit and devising strategy that will end the bunny's friskiness. Edward Fjneran, ’43 THE MIRROR Thirty-one Knights BROADWAY'S great “White Way is the center of night life in New York, but this brilliantly illuminated thoroughfare is no more attractive to its habitues than is the sketchily lighted depths of K. of C. Hall, the heart of Knight” life in Conshohocken. The main attraction in this rendezvous of the local playboys is the assembly of pool tables that are arranged in a straight line parallel to the bowling alleys. Deadly combats take place over such prizes as a bar of candy or a soda, and the participants bring to their games the intensity of knights of old jousting for a priceless trophy. Even the “heat customers, who loll on the benches around the battleground, give rapt attention to the tussles and no sound save the familiar click of the billiard tells breaks the silence during a tournament. At other times, the noise sounds like a traffic jam on the main street of a big city just at the rush hours; for the tumult of the tumbling bowling pins, the clicking of the pool balls, the raucous voices of debaters arguing about the merits of the shot just accomplished by one of the players, and the blare of the radio, form a wildly discordant chorus. Though the outside world is ever changing, the only noticeable alteration in the Knights is the disappearance of many of the familiar faces of the former frequenters of the hall. These young men have answered our country’s call to arms and are now seeing parts of the world that they never dreamed of viewing. Occasionally, some of the boys get home on leave of absence. Invariably, they stroll down to the old haunt for a friendly little “get-together. At such times amusements are forgotten and admirers gather around, listening intently to tales of life in the service. James P. Stemple, '42 Cosmopolite of the Month CORNELIA OTIS SKINNER, Broadway star of the legitimate stage; Oscar Levant, talented pianist and composer; Pearl Buck, world famous depictcr of Chinese domestic life and Nobel Prize Winner; Donald Nelson, czar of the War Production Board, and countless other celebrities have been brought before the public eye by the Cosmopolitan magazine, under the caption, “The Cosmopolite of the Month.” The interviewers present these distinguished personalities to readers in a manner fascinating and delightful, yet cleverly informal. Each person discussed is shown not only in the spotlight of his achievements but also in his everyday struggle along life's path. The skillful pens of the authors transform the world's great men and women into real people in a style that makes these biographies one of the most popular forms of literature today. Richard Brennen, 42 The Leaves The leaves Came tumbling down Mid rain and steady sleet; And as they fled into the night I heard Them laugh. Annabelle Cullen '42 Thirty-two Sunlight The sun Comes shining down Upon the mosquito Gayly loitering atop the man's Bald head. Mike Saboe '42 THE MIRROR The Lily Maid of Astolat AJ Y grandmother, a petite, lovely woman with light blue eyes and lustrous gray hair, carefully coiffured, is continually bewailing the tendencies and habits of the young women of today. She deplores their lack of restraint, their free and easy ways, their hurling themselves” at each and every eligible male, their unconventional and unladylike attire. Slacks, shorts, and anklets cause her real suffering, and I get many a lecture about the shortcomings of “girls of today,” for Gran has been mother to me since I was three years old. She will sit for hours in her straight-backed chair, with the faint tattoo of clicking knitting needles a running accompaniment to her gentle talks. She discourses endlessly about the good old days, and the gentle, self-effacing women of her time, who liked to sit at home embroidering and crocheting or enriching their minds with the poetry and prose of the old masters. She loves fair Ellen Douglas, and lovely Evangeline, but she has a particular affection for “Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable, Elaine, the Lily Maid of Astolat. I often listen to a summation of the virtues of Elaine and to her sweet and tragic story, but I have my own ideas on the subject of the Lily Maid and others of her ilk, celebrated in song and story and held up to us for veneration. Often, I have wondered just what would happen to me if I tried to emulate the tactics of the sweet Elaine. She got her own way all the time; her father and brothers adored her and humored her every whim. When I seek a favor from my brothers or a privilege from my father it makes little difference to them that I am the only girl in the house. Without a qualm they refuse me in unmistakable terms. “No, you can't have the car. Stay home with Gran. What an idea for a girl of your age,” they say. If I call Dick on the phone and ask him to a dance, I am “carrying the torch, literally, flinging my heart at his feet. Should I shed a tear over a broken engagement, I am told “to snap out of it. Who is the sap, anyway? It didn't take Elaine a day “to fall for Launcelot and let the whole family know about it. It was all right for her to spend hours in the attic mooning over his shield, shining it, and embroidering a cover for it. I’d like to see what would happen to me if THE MIRROR _____________________________________________________________ Thirty-three I took Dick O'Connell's cigarette case to my room and sat polishing it and gazing wistfully at his monogram. Father would probably recall stories about “cousin Emily who was a bit odd’’ and call in a psychiatrist to examine me. V hat difference is there in my letting Dick wear my class ring and Elaine’s having Launcelot wear her “favor to the tournament? I can picture the consternation of my family and their drastic methods of action if I had insisted on taking up my abode in the hospital when Dick's leg was broken. Though the whole staff of doctors, supervisors, and nurses could chaperon me, the family would be “disgraced forever by my devotion to my love. Yet little Elaine went off by herself and nursed Launcelot back to health with no one but Lavaine as her chaperon. Did she lose her reputation? Was she sent to Aunt Martha's, in a Vermont village, 'till the neighbors forgot her “escapade”? Not at all, her whole family aided and abetted her. She certainly did all she could to get her man and Launcelot had a hard time making her see that he did not return her affection. Nobody called her insulting names and told her she did not know her place. She really proposed to Launcelot, and when he cruelly rode away “without looking back,” she got even with him by dying. She staged a first-class revenge act by making a spectacular journey down the river in a barge. What happened? King Arthur and the whole court gave her a royal funeral. Perhaps some of grandmother's favorites deserve her veneration, but I have my doubts about it. I contend that the heroines of literature got all the “breaks, and fame to boot; the modern girl is made of sterner stuff, and has to learn to “take it.” With half of Elaine’s freedom and privileges, I could really have a good time. Jane Fineran, '42 Canine King OUR dog is the pampered pet and undisputed ruler of our family. His name is the cause of constant controversy. Mother calls him Honey-doll ; my brother, “Slug”; and Dad, “that dog.” Probably the most appropriate name would be Dumbo, since he is about the size of an elephant, and twice as clumsy. He is exceptionally fond of men in the service, whom he greets lovingly by sampling their uniforms. He considers our house and the surrounding countryside within view of it, his own private playground. Any trusting Winter Lightly shines the wintry sun Upon a crystal tree. Gleaming brightly as a star Upon a lonely sea. Icicles are hanging from The bushes by the Ia e; All the countryside loo s li e A frosted wedding ca e. Jacob Ruser '44 person who dares set foot upon this territory is dealt with accordingly by the canine ruler. The favorite playground of our “little darling” is a small swamp nearby. Here he spends hours playing with frogs and snakes, after which sport he appears at the back door, as muddy and disheveled a creature as can be found. It is at such moments that he becomes my exclusive property, and I am ordered to repair to the back yard to “wash the tramp,” before he is readmitted to civilized society. Ruth O'Bryan '44 Boy’s Fancy I love to watch the ocean, With its waves of snowy white; I love to see the sailboats, As they fade into the night. I love to watch the sunshine, On the hillsides fade and die; But most of all I love to watch, My Mother baling pie. James Gordon '44 Thirty-four THE MIRROR My Brother WHEN my brother was small he never played marbles or ball like the other boys, but stayed in the house and watched my mother doing the house-work. When mother washed the dishes, Robert would always dry them. When she cooked, he ran all the little errands for her. Well, it's a good thing for our family today that he did this, because one Christmas Eve, six years ago, my mother stole away to Heaven. Bobby took over the household duties then, and has performed them according to an undeviating schedule ever since. I think that he is quite efficient. On Monday afternoon, when he comes home from high school, he begins the weekly wash and works until it is time to cook supper for my father and my older brothers who work. He gets up very early on Tuesday morning and hangs the wash out before he goes to school and, when he comes home at noon time, he cooks lunch, and then rushes out to take down the clothes that are dry. In the afternoon he takes down the rest of the wash, dampens it and irons until meal time. On Wednesday he com- pletes the ironing, and on Thursday and Friday he does odd jobs around the house. Then comes the hardest day in Bobby's week. Yes, I mean Saturday, general cleaning day. Bobby cleans the whole house and has every room spick and span before supper time. Saturday night is his night out. Sunday afternoon he bakes a cake; he always avoids pie baking, because he is not so good at making the crust. Ever since my grandmother died in the early part of November and left my grandfather living alone, Bobby has been baking two cakes and sending one down to him. I can tell you truthfully that my brother can bake better than many housewives. In addition to doing the household chores, Bob studies his lessons every day. I think my brother is quite a man. He has never complained about his duties. He has made life easier for my father and three other brothers who live at home. Since mother died I have been with a dear friend, but when I get out of school I expect to take over the task of managing the house, and I hope I shall be able to do half as well as Bobby has done. Teresa Burt '44 Power of Music “Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast, To soften roc s or bend a notted oa .” So wrote Congreve over two centuries ago, and although men have been quoting these lines for two hundred years, I have my doubts about the “soothing” power of music; I have suffered much from “rapturous flights of sound.” When a high note followed by a low one comes over the radio, I know that it is time for me to seek the quiet and peace of our automobile shop. In the living room, my sister Helen, the eldest of our family, sits perched on a footstool beside the radio with her ear against the speaker, listening to the “magnificent music.” Suddenly she jumps up and begins to howl and scream. Her voice sinks to an all-time low note then rockets to an ear-splitting high one. This is what she calls opera singing. I often warn her that, someday, big men in white will drive up to our house and carry her away to Norristown State Hospital in a tight-fitting jacket. Her retort is, “You don't know good music when you hear it.” If my sister is not listening to operas on the radio my brother Eddie has on that wild down-beat music called “jazz.” He starts swinging around the room, throwing his big feet into the air. He calls this running around “jitter-bugging” or “rug cutting. People passing our house look at it in a startled manner, then accelerate their speed until they are a little distance from the homestead. They do not seem to be favorably impressed by the music. Personally, I am all in favor of “unsung songs” and “unheard melodies.” Matthew Moore, '43 THE MIRROR Thirty-five How to Lose Friends and Influence People Against You HERE, folks, is an opportunity to lose all the friends you have and to prevent yourself from making any others. There are no strings attached to this offer; no coupons to clip, no money to send— nothing whatever to do, except follow the few simple rules set down below. RULE 1—Do as few favors for your friends as possible, but accept all they do for you with verbal thanks and nothing more. Give only as many gifts as pride demands, but take all offered you. RULE 2—Whenever you make an appointment, don’t fail to be late. If the person with whom you made the appointment calls you dov n, laugh it off and tell him that it’s more modern to keep people waiting; it shows them that they are not so important as they think. RULE 2—Have no consideration for your companions, but be sure to repri- Studies at WHAT would a basketball game be without the spectators and the satiric, ridiculous, optimistic, and pessimistic remarks that fill the gymnasium with an unharmonious rumble, that is nevertheless music to the sportsman’s ear. Forever present is the ordinary zealous rooter who cheers his favorite on to success. Tense and excited he follows closely each play, rejoicing at clever shots and worrying over poor ones. At the end of the contest he leaves more exhausted than the team. The most serious observers are the parents of the participants. Mother’s voice may be heard crying out above all others, Oh, Horace, you'll get hurt. Look out!” Her face registers gratitude if her son is kept on the bench out of the danger zone. Dad on the other hand, stands up and encourages Horace to enter the tiff and to beat the tar” out of the visiting basket-eers. If his offspring does something spectacular during the course of the game, he turns to his neighbors and says, “That’s mand them when they forget you. After all, your individual comforts are more important to yourself than theirs are. RULE 4—Often borrow money, but seldom pay it back. If any one should, however, be crafty enough to wheedle any money out of you, hound him until he makes restitution. RULE 5—Some people consider being ill-mannered, humorous. I’m sure you’ll find it a very effective friend exterminator. Simply mortify those around you by being ignorant and disgusting whenever possible. Making mistakes in both grammar and etiquette is a good method of making yourself unpopular. These five rules probably do not embody every phase of friend-losing but, in most cases, nothing more is needed. Just be faithful to them and you will be eligible for the “Lonely Hearts’ Gazette.” Mary Moore '43 tlie Court my boy. After the game, father walks home with his famous son, nodding and smiling to everyone with an air of carefree nonchalance. The most vitally concerned beholder, sits on the bench, his face displaying, alternately, dejection or elation. This individual is the coach, upon whom rests responsibility for the success of the team. His reactions while the squad is in the midst of a tight game, oftentimes cause the attention of the spectators to be focused on him for minutes at a time. Amidst jubilant howls and contemptuous taunts, he gives undivided attention to the maneuvers of his proteges on the floor. He knows that he is “on the spot” every time the varsity plays. Basketball, the newest star on the horizon of sports, has grown rapidly. Flashing action, intricate plays, and clever maneuvers, all feature the game. To me, however, one of the most interesting features of it is the ever varying reactions and criticisms of the great gallery of spectators. James P. Stemple ’42 ____________________ THE MIRROR Thirty-six Quiet Resistance THE MOON IS DOWN. By John Stein-beck,- T'Jew York: The Vising Press. 1942. 188 pp. $2.00. Reviewed by Louis Moore '42 In The Moon Is Down” John Steinbeck has continued his experiment (begun in “Of Mice and Men”) of writing a short novel which can be easily adapted to the stage. This new book, however, differs from its predecessors in two ways; it lacks the author's usual disgusting realism, and the locale of the story is outside the American continent. What little plot The Moon Is Down” can boast of is merely a thin garment in which Mr. Steinbeck has clothed his ideas on Nazism and the war. The book is, also, a psychological study of small town people in one of the invaded countries of Europe. The reaction of the villagers to the invasion, in turn, makes possible a psychological study of their conquerors. The men and women of a hamlet suddenly find themselves under a despotic dictator's rule. Although Hitler is presumed to be the dictator's name, it is not actually divulged. The trials encountered by the enemy soldiers in their efforts to reconcile the people to their fate are of a nerve-wracking nature. The conquered populace shows its stubborn will to be free by commiting acts of sabotage and murder, in such a manner as to make life a dreadful uncertainty for the sons of the New Order.” The mental strain placed on the soldiers is so severe that several members of the regiment go insane, while others come perilously near the breaking point. Steinbeck presents his enemy soldiers as men suffering from a great disillusionment brought about by their adherence to laws laid down by ruthless THE MIRROR___________________________ leaders who disguised lust for power in the form of patriotism. How each soldier's idea of dictatorship fell short of the reality is cleverly told. The literary style of The Moon Is Down is ingeniously simple, and, although it sometimes becomes monotonous, much more power is given to the novel by this type of writing. No matter how great are his faults, John Steinbeck can certainly draw a variety of distinct, life-like characters. This valuable gift is adequately manifested in this, his latest work. Such names as Mayor Orden, Doctor Winter, Joseph and Annie, Captain Bentick, Mrs. Orden, Colonel Lanser, Major Hunter, Lieutenant Ton-der, and Lieutenant Prackle will have a deserved place in that corner of the reader's mind devoted to literary personages. As fiction, the book makes interesting reading, but I fear Mr. Steinbeck’s idea that the conquered states of Europe by their determined resistance will drive the Nazis insane, is a little too optimistic. Such a set-up” may not be so “far-fetched as it seems to me, but, if taken with any tangible degree of seriousness, it certainly will not help the American people out of the apathy into which they are accused of having fallen. Read “The Moon Is Down with a broad mind and remember we are still at war. A Priest’s Life THE KEYS OF THE KINGDOM. By A. ]. Cronin. Boston: Little, Brown, and Co. 1941. 344 pp. $2.50. Reviewed by Louis A. Moore '42 In spite of its unusual qualities, A. J. Cronin's novel, “The Keys of the Kingdom is a “best seller. When the book is compared with some of its contemporaries, the term unusual” certainly mani- Thirty-seven fests its significance, for this fine work lacks the undesirable elements of a great deal of the popular fiction. None of the current idea of realism, silly romance, or risque humor can be found in “The Keys of the Kingdom. Skillfully drawn characters and an absorbing story make it a novel worthy to take its place on the shelf of literary classics. The story is told in retrospect by Father Francis Chisholm, who, about to be sent to an aged priests’ home, after years of service in Christ's army, looks back on his life and recalls the joys, anxieties, and sorrows of his long, eventful years. His musings carry him to his home in Scotland where he experienced the first great sorrow of his life—the death of his parents by drowning, in the River Tweed. He was then taken into the house of Holy Dan Glennie, his grandfather. Mrs. Glennie's harsh treatment of the boy led Polly Bannon, another relative, to have Francis removed to the comforts of her home. Here his romance with Nora, Polly's niece, was tragically ended by Nora's suicide. Soon afterward young Chisholm entered San Morales Seminary where he was later ordained. After failing as a curate, Francis was sent to a mission in Pai-Tan, China, where he spent his busiest and happiest years laboring among the poor. The character of Father Francis Chisholm, the hero, dominates the book. His magnanimous simplicity makes the reader feel and think as the priest does. Although Father Chisholm is the motivating force, the subordinate characters do not suffer. Mother Maria Veronica, Polly Bannon, Mr. and Mrs. Fisk, Bishop Anselm Mealey, Mr. Chia, Dr. Tullock, Father Terrant and the rest are distinct personalities, drawn with the same accuracy and distinctiveness as the hero. The book arouses controversial thought, inspired by some of Father Chisholm’s sayings. “Athiests may not all go to hell —hell is only for those who spit in the face of God;—Creed is such an accident of birth, God can’t set an exclusive value on it;—I never have been able to stand the clergy in bulk.” Most reviewers succeed in finding some fault with an author’s work. Perhaps, therefore, I only manifest my inadequacy as a literary critic when I say that I can see no tangible weakness in “The Keys of the Kingdom. To me it is the prose epic of all true heroes who spend their valiant lives in unselfish service in obscurity. Glamorizing Nature STORM. By George R. Stewart. Random House. 1941. 349 pp. $2.50. Reviewed by William Delaney There is a saying, “Everybody talks about the weather but no one does anything about it.” George Stewart in his latest novel, “Storm, presents a vivid contradiction to this common quotation. The book is so named because a storm is its leading character. A Junior Meteorologist, designated in the book by the initials J. M., took a paternal interest in “Maria,” the name he sentimentally gave the storm, chiefly because it was he who discovered it as a mere breeze somewhere southeast of Japan, but also because he foresaw a possibility that this upstart wind might develop itno a gigantic storm which would eventually end the drought which lay tense upon the western coast of the United States. His interest in “Maria led him to trace her life span of twelve epic days from her birth in Asia to her cataclysmic maturity on the American Continent. “Maria arrived with much more intensity than the J. M. had bargained for and caused a lot of trouble for all within her wake. Rotary snow-plow operators, telephone repairmen, travelers, and residents all felt the power of the J. M.'s protege. Beyond a doubt “Storm is one of the most original and unusual novels of the current year. Although it contains enough technicalities to keep the average reader’s dictionary in frequent use, the book seldom lags in interest. “Storm” is a delightfully new adventure in reading. It deserves a place on every intelligent person’s book shelf. The reader will fall completely under “Maria’s” powerful spell as she sweeps majestically across the pages of this superb novel. __________________ THE MIRROR Thirty-eight Cowboy Saint THE MAN WHO GOT EVEN WITH GOD. By M. Raymond. Milwaukee: The Bruce Publishing Co. 1941. 170 pp. $2.00. Reviewed by Donald M. Collins '42 From firebug, to Texas cowboy, to saintly Trappist monk all in one lifetime, is a series of transformations hard to imagine in anyone of human flesh and blood. In “The Man Who Got Even with God such a story is told of John Green Hanning, known in religion as Brother Mary Joachim. The biography gives a fascinating picture not only of John Hanning, but also of life in a Trappist monastery in America. Hanning's whole philosophy of life was based on revenge. His craving to “get even led him to burn down his father's tobacco barn, and finally to join the Trap-pists at the Abbey of Gethsemani in Kentucky, where he “got even’’ with God, by becoming a saintly monk. To the ordinary observer the life of a Trappist must seem antagonistic to everything in human nature, but John Hanning, an American boy, learned among these perpetually silent, penitential men to subdue his ungovernable temper and acquire sanctity. His change of heart is brought about, humanly speaking, through the patience and understanding of Dom Benedict, abbot of the monastery, who becomes one of his dearest friends. The tale is simply and graphically related by Father Raymond, one of John Hanning’s brothers in religion. The author’s style is forceful and graceful; his pen sketches of the Trappists, in general, and the American Brother Mary Joachim in particular, are strong and convincing. This is a deeply spiritual book, written clearly and beautifully. Even the most skeptical could not read it unmoved, for it recounts a tale of heroism in which a great battle is fought and won in a man's soul. Every understanding American will love this story of the cowboy who, in conquering himself, “got even with God.” Life of a Mechanic cc v H for the life of a mechanic.” Oh, V_y yes! Listen, brother, you don’t know a thing when you run around making such remarks. Have you ever stopped to consider what kind of life a mechanic has? It’s a tough one. All day long he wallows in grease and dirt and just when he is intent on doing a strenuous job a customer taps his shoulder and says, “Listen, I got this trouble, and I got that trouble.” The mechanic can’t “flare up” and tell him to “scram.” No, sir, he has to fix the man’s car or lose his good will and pay check. If the five o'clock whistle blows for the time to quit when he is doing a “rush job,” there is no going home until the work is done, for if a customer wants his car, he THE really wants it. None of that, “Wait ’til morning” stuff for him. Sometimes the poor “grease monkey is lying in bed asleep at two o’clock in the morning when the phone rings. He knows it’s trouble, but the phone has to be answered and if it’s a road job, out he goes. There is a good side to the auto mechanic's life, however. When a man’s car goes dead on him, he needs a mechanic. After the serviceman gets the car running, the customer looks happy and often adds a tip to his, “Thank you. Early and late hour “road calls” give the laborer the satisfied feeling that comes from helping another fellow out of a “jam.” The life of an auto mechanic is not all pain; there is a little joy in it. Edward Moore '42 MIRROR _____________________________________________________ Thirty'nine Patrons and Patronesses Rev. William A. O'Donnell Rev. John H. Crawford Rev. James V. McEnery Mr. Mrs. Emanuel Abrams Miss Frances Rose Abrams Mr. Si Mrs. John Aigner Mr. John Aigner, Jr. Mrs. Mary Andes Willis H. Baldwin Mr. Si Mrs. Harry Barrett Miss Marguerite Barrett Dr. M. E. Barrows Mr. Si Mrs. John Bauer Mr. Si Mrs. John Berish Mr. Si Mrs. Berryman Mr. Si Mrs. George Blake Mr. Si Mrs. Joseph Blake Mr. Si Mrs. Ray A. Blake Mr. Si Mrs. Arthur Blanche Mr. Si Mrs. John V. Botto Miss Catherine Botto Mr. D. Rae Boyd Mr. Si Mrs. Charles A. Brady Dr. Anna Brandt Mrs. Charles Brandt Mr. Si Mrs. Christopher Brennan Mr. Mrs. J. Brennan Mr. Si Mrs. Michael Brown Miss Louisa Brown Mr. Si Mrs. John Burkert Mrs. Burns Mr. Si Mrs. R. Burns Mr. Leo J. Burt Francis Carr Mr. Joseph Carr Mr. William Carr, Jr. Miss Mary D. Casey Mr. Si Mrs. Thomas Casey Mr. William J. Casey Mr. Si Mrs. Harry A. Cassel Mr. Si Mrs. Donald Clark Mr. Si Mrs. J. Clark M. Si Mrs. William Clark Mrs. Cody Mr. Si Mrs. Harry A. Collins Compliments of a Friend Mr. William A. Conley Mr. Si Mrs. John L. Connelly Conshohocken Bargain House Mr. Si Mrs. John F. Cook Mr. John W. Cook Mr. Si Mrs. James Coonan Mr. Si Mrs. John Costello Mr. Si Mrs. Martin Costello Mr. Si Mrs. George F. Craven Mr. Si Mrs. John Crawford Miss Julia Crowley Mr. Bernard Curran Miss Madeline Daly Miss Margaret Daly Miss Mary Daly Mr. Si Mrs. Walter Daly Mr. Si Mrs. Joseph L. Darby Mr. 6? Mrs. Charles Davis Mr. Si Mrs. R. DeHaven Mr. Frederick Delaney Mr. Si Mrs. Sam DeMarco Miss Elizabeth Dempsey Francis T. Dennis, Esq. Mr. Si Mrs. S. Desimone Mr. Si Mrs. H. DeStefano Mr. John Devanney Mr. Si Mrs. Louis Devanney Miss Mary Devanney Mr. Si Mrs. Charles Dillon Mr. Si Mrs. Andrew Donovan Mr. Si Mrs. Paul E. Donovan Mr. Si Mrs. Thomas Donovan Mr. Edward J. Doran Mr. Frank Doran Mr. Edward Dougherty Mr. Si Mrs. Edward Dougherty Miss Isabelle Dougherty Mr. James Dougherty Mr. John Dougherty Miss Mary Dougherty Mr. William A. Dugan Mr. Si Mrs. Thomas Durkin Mr. Si Mrs. Martin Early Miss Elenor Eckert Mr. Si Mrs. John Eliff Mr. Si Mrs. Thomas Eliff Mr. Francis Entenman Mr. Si Mrs. O. Entenman Mrs. Michael Estock Miss Frances P. Evans Mrs. John J. Ferry Mr. Edward V. Fineran Mr. Edward V. Fineran, Jr. Mr. John Fineran Mr. Si Mrs. Joseph Fineran Miss Fisher Miss Mary Fitzpatrick Mr. Si Mrs. Anthon C. Flad Dr. Si Mrs. C. J. Flotte Mr. Mrs. John B. Foley Miss Julia H. R. Foley Mr. Julius Fomalont Mr. Si Mrs. Philip Fondots Miss Dorothy Ford Dr. T. DcLorme Fordyce E. Arnold Forrest Mr. Si Mrs. J. Freas Freshmen A Dr. Si Mrs. James J. Fritz Mrs. William Gavin Mr. William Gavin, Jr. Mr. Si Mrs. Richard L. Gear Mr. Si Mrs. Joseph Giangulio Miss Anne Gleba Miss Margaret Golden Goldenberg's Furniture Store Mr. Si Mrs. James Gordon Mrs. Michael Grip Miss Marie Gross Mr. Si Mrs. lohn Gross Mr. Philip Hagan Mrs. P. Hanna Mr. Si Mrs. Robert Hanna Mrs. Malcolm Harkins Harrold's Hotel Miss Mary J. Harrington M. Harris Home Furnishing Company Mr. Val Hartman Mr. Si Mrs. Thomas Hasson Mrs. Anne Hayes Mr. Si Mrs. David Hayes Miss Mary Hayes Mr. Si Mrs. James Heffernen Mrs. Herman Helbling Mr. Si Mrs. Frances Heller Mr. Robert Herrman Miss Agnes M. Hickey Mrs. John F. Hickey Mr. Si Mrs. L. Hilbert Mrs. Robert Hissner Mr. Si Mrs. Harry Hoy Miss Dorothy Hurley Mr. Joseph Irwin Mr. Si Mrs. William P. Irwin Mr. Thomas Jackson Mr. Si Mrs. Jacobs Mildred Si Marion Jacobs Mr. Milton Jacobson Mr. Felix Jemionck Mr. Si Mrs. F. J. Johns Mrs. Dora Johnson Mr. Si Mrs. Arthur F. Kehoe Mr. Si Mrs. John J. Kehoe Mr. Si Mrs. Michael Kehoe Mr. Paul Keller Miss Annie Kellv Mr. Charles J. Kelly Miss Elizabeth Kelly Mrs. Margaret M. Kelly Mr. Philip Kelly Mr. Si Mrs. Thomas W. Kelly Miss Margaret Kennedy Miss Teresa Kennedy Miss Margaret M. Kilcoyne Miss Mary Kilcoyne Mr. Si Mrs. E. Kirkpatrick Mrs. Knieszner Mr. William C. Koch Miss Frances Koldys Mr. Si Mrs. Lawrence LaCost Ladies’ Auxiliary, V.F.W. Post 1074 Mr. Charles Larkin Mr. Si Mrs. James T. Lavan Mr. Tames T. Lavan, Jr. Mr. James P. Lavan Miss Margaret Laverty Mr. Si Mrs. Joseph Lawler Mr. Si Mrs. David Leahy Dr. Si Mrs. Joseph Leary Miss Pauline Lendacky Mrs. Michael Logan Mr. Edward A. Lorenz Dr. George Lukens _____ THE MIRROR Porty The Truth CENTURIES ago when Christ was ar-raigned before Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor inquired of the Saviour, “What is the truth?” But Pilate turned aside without waiting to hear the answer from Him who was the Way, the Truth, and the Life. Down through the ages people have constantly argued about what constitutes the truth. In the school room some pupils justify themselves for any and every statement about fellow students by vigor' ously exclaiming, “Well, it's the truth. I don't care who likes it. I always tell the truth.” Is the truth sufficient justification for every indiscriminate assertion? Very often the faults of others are revealed. Little stories are circulated that have a grain of truth in them, but are so maliciously or carelessly distorted in repetition that irreparable injury is done to the victim of the tales. The bold declaration of an irrefutable fact does not constitute “the whole truth.” What about the extenuating circumstances and motivating forces which led to the commission of the misdemeanor or “crime”? Detraction is revealing the sins of another without necessity. Many students are guilty of this offense. Without a qualm, they reveal things that seriously injure the reputations of their fellow students. The fact that the gossipers “tell the truth” does not render them less guilty of sin. Many “moderns” openly profess disregard for the decalogue. Yet, today, even as when the tablets of stone were given to Moses on Mount Sinai, the Ten Commandments remain the great moral code and apply to the least of men as well as to the greatest. Sin is an obsolete word. The mere mention of it causes a person to be accused of preaching. Yet detraction is a sin and many boys and girls who consider themselves honorable are guilty of it. When an act of imprudence or vice is committed, it is seldom reported to those who have a right to know because the pupils’ welfare is their responsibility. Instead, a whispering campaign starts, tales are told in deepest confidence” and, when a great deal of harm has been done, the story-teller justifies all by saying, “It is the truth.” Telling the truth is poor excuse for the injury done. Students have no right to expose the faults of others except to the lawful authorities. A more careful scrutiny of what is the “truth,” and less spreading of malicious gossip masquerading as truth would eliminate much humiliation and heartbreak among students, and promote the honor so many high school boys and girls talk about. If this be preaching, make the most of it. Richard Brennen, 42 English Today The fifth columnists of today, who are striving to undermine the organization of our government, are not the only fifth columnists of whom we must be wary. The cheap pulp magazines, the comic books, and the comic pages of the daily papers are all agents laboring perpetually to weaken the successful organization of our English. The average child will have thoroughly mastered such common terms of the detective comic strip as—“Dey ain't nothin’ 'rong; He ducked into one of dese winders,” and “All rite, youse guys, get ’em up!” long before he has learned grammar and correct spelling. His first gods are those colorful subjects of countless adventures, the comic strip heroes, who pass captivatingly before his youthful eyes. Bewitched by admiration for these supermen he succeeds unconsciously in adopting their language, though he fails in imitating their phenomenal physical feats. Eventually there comes a time in the comic reader's life, when he begins to “grow up, literally. No longer does he spend his leisure hours poring over “Big THE MIRROR Forty-one Little Books and Ace Comics. He now has his Western Novel to enlighten him on the “slang” of the great plains. When he has graduated from the corrals, he has learned the lingo of the hard-riding cowboys, has in fact become adept in using the colorful language of the picturesque, fast-shooting men of the plains and is ready to assimilate the persiflage-and slang that pass for English among the younger generation. Such expressions as “I should a stood in bed; Take a powder,” and “Git off, you’re bendin' my ear, fill the air when the gang meet. Thus modem students thoroughly master a number of dialects, jargons, or whatever you care to call them and wonders what is the matter with the “dopes who find their speech unintelligible. If these wide-spread tendencies are to be overcome, if this Nazi horde of words is to be combated and defeated, the student must obtain the proper equipment and word weapons. This can only be accomplished by reading good books, and by listening to those who are endeavoring to keep English one of the most powerful mediums of expression existing today. So long as the hill-billies,” gangsters, and cowboys of the comic strips and the heroes and heroines of the pulp magazines, continue to exert their baleful influence, the English language will be in danger. It is the duty of all lovers of good speech to fight against this menace and endeavor to preserve the strength and beauty of our native tongue. Harry Cassel, 42 No Homework JOHN B. KELLY, National Health Di-u rector,. would probably be next president of our land if school children were allowed to vote, for Mr. Kelly is the hero whom all pupils dream about—the advocate of NO HOMEWORK” for school children. Mr. Kelly’s aim in the movement, however, was not to be “The Great Emancipator of the schoolroom slave. He proposed the abolition of homework so that students would have more time for outdoor play and exercise in accordance with his “Hale America” program. Just how beneficial the adoption of this proposal would be is doubtful. Naturally, pupils with a love of outdoor sports would take advantage of the extra time for the right purpose, but others with a propensity for wasting time would simply lounge on street comers, congregate in pool rooms, or frequent the local movie house. The high-school curriculum is rather exacting. All the work cannot be done in school, no matter how willing teachers and pupils are to labor hard. Supplementary reading, the writing of themes, the memorizing of poetry, and the “writing up” of chemical experiments have to be done outside of school hours. No one yet has devised a short way of learning French and Latin verbs, or an inspirational method of remembering the facts of history. It is obvious that all the work cannot be done in a study period, so home study remains a necessary supplement to the school work. Students who complain about every task, who never have time for home study or extra-curricular activities now, would not accomplish any more work if they had extra hours at their disposal. Ordinarily, the pupils who do the best work in the classroom, find time for outside activities and home study as well. A curtailment of homework, at present, however, would allow students to secure part-time jobs and help in the war effort. On the other hand, those who conscientiously prepare their lessons are really helping America by fitting themselves for the responsibilities they will soon be called upon to share. Now, more than ever, a solidly good education is an asset that should not be under-rated. Perhaps, the greatest contribution boys and girls can make to the country’s defense project is the time and effort they give to their school work. The “NO HOMEWORK movement would, in most cases, simply give the unambitious pupils more leisure to waste their opportunities. The responsible, serious students, like the “busy man, will always find time to do their work and do it well. Donald Collins '42 Forty-two THE MIRROR Mr. James A. Lynch Mr. 6i Mrs. Frank P. Mack Mr. (i Mrs. Andrew Mager Mr. (j Mrs. James Maguire Miss Anna Mae Maksimowica Mr. (i Mrs. J. Malaspina Mr. (i Mrs. J. Mansheld Mrs. Matteo Mr. (j Mrs. James Mellon Miss Anne Meyers Mrs. F. Meyers Paul D. Miller Mrs. C. Millhouse Dr. Mrs. Paul Miraglia Mrs. Allen Moore Mr. Mrs. Louis Moore Mr. Michael Moore Mr. (s' Mrs. William A. Moore Mrs. William Moran Miss Katherine Morley Mr. (S Mrs. Charles Mullen Mr. (s' Mrs. Elmer Munroe Miss Anne Murphy Miss Catherine Murphy Mrs. Catherine Murphy Mr. (f Mrs. John L. Murphy Mr. Mrs. John T. Murphy Murray's Restaurant Mr. (f Mrs. O. C. MacFarland Mr. (S Mrs. Joseph McCauley Miss Isabel M. McCoy Miss Frances McCrudden Mrs. McDade Miss Alice McDonnell Mr. Thomas McDonnell Miss Matilda McEvoy Mr. James P. McEvoy Mr. Mrs. George McFadden Mr. ( Mrs: Frank McGlade Mr. DonaltKMcGonigal Mrs. Joseph McGrath Mrs. Estelle McGuigan Mr. John McGuigan Mr. (f Mrs. John McGuigan Mr. Paul McGuigan Mr. (s' Mrs. Thomas McGuigan Mrs. Margaret McIntyre Mr. 6? Mrs. Paul McKeon Mr. (i Mrs. William A. McMahon Mr. 6? Mrs. John J. McNamara Mrs. McPhilomy Dolores Anne McShca Mr. £Mrs. Bernard Nagle, Jr. Mr. Mrs. James E. Nagle Miss Josephine Nase Mrs. Emma Neil Mrs. Dudley Nolan Miss Edna Nolan Miss Helen Nolan Miss Rita Nugent Mr. (3 Mrs. Dennis O'Brien Mr. (3 Mrs. John F. O'Brien Mr. Maurice O'Brien Neil C. O'Brien Mrs. Thomas O'Bryan Mr. (3 Mrs. Michael Ochnich Mr. (3 Mrs. Edward O'Connor Mr. (3 Mrs. John O'Connor Miss Mary O'Connor Miss Rosemary Roth Mrs. Rotosky Mr. 6? Mrs. Jacob Ruser Mr. (3 Mrs. James Ryan Mr. (s’ Mrs. Joseph Saboe Mr. (3 Mrs. J. Safko Mr. 6? Mrs. W. Francis Scanlan Mr. 6? Mrs. Harry Schank Mr. (s' Mrs. Francis Scharff Mr. (3 Mrs. John Scharff Mr. (3 Mrs. Edwin Schrack Mr. (3 Mrs. Thomas Schrader Mr. (3 Mrs. Matthew O’Connor Dr. William Sclafani Mr. Hugh O'Donnell Mr. (3 Mrs. John Ominski Miss Dorothy O'Neill Mr. 6? Mrs. William J. O'Neill Mrs. George Opelski Miss Anna Pagnacle Mr. 6? Mrs. Frank C. Palacio Mr. (3 Mrs. Frank Pater People's Drug Store Dr. John D. Perkins Harry Pollard Mrs. Harry Pollard Mr. (3 Mrs. John Powers Mr. (3 Mrs. Alfred Poysden Mr. (3 Mrs. Charles Primevera Mr. Walter Psculkowski Mr. (3 Mrs. Walter Pupek Miss Jane Purcell Quaker Chemical Company Mr. (3 Mrs. George P. Rafferty Mrs. Sophie Rakowski Mrs. Ethel Ramey Mrs. Mary Reagan Mrs. Alexander Redmond Mrs. Sarah Redmond Mr. 6? Mrs. Earl Reed Dr. Reichard Mrs. Elsie (3 Mary Anne Reilly Miss Mary Frances Reilly Mr. (3 Mrs. Robert Reilly Miss Virginia Marie Reilly Mr. (3 Mrs. William Reilly Mr. d Mrs. Russel Righter Mr. Paul Roberts Mr. (3 Mrs. Irvin Rodeback Room 6, Grade 5 Room 5, Grade 5 Room 7, Grade 6 Room 11, Grade 8, Boys Room 11, Grade 8, Girls Miss Helen Roop Mr. Mrs. Roop Mr. 6? Mrs. S. Root D'. I. Ross Mr. ? Mrs. Tames Rossi Mr. (3 Mrs. Gus Schneider Miss Marie Schultes Mrs. Carl Schwab Mrs. Mary Schweiss Senior Class Mr. (3 Mrs. Warren Shaffer Mr. (3 Mrs. Clifford Sigg Mrs. Frances Sirchio Mr. (3 Mrs. Louis Slavic Mr. (3 Mrs. George Smith Mr. 6? Mrs. Peter R. Smith Snare's Cut Rate Store Mrs. Spangler Miss Frances Stemple Mrs. Reuben Stemple Mr. (3 Mrs. William Stitzel Mr. (3 Mrs. A. Strychari Sunny Slope Dairy Miss Marie Sweeney Miss Alice Talone Mrs. Nicholas Talone Mr. Nicholas Talone Mr. Thomas Tammany Mr. A. K. Taylor Mr. (s' Mrs. Herbert L. Tindall Mr. (3 Mrs. James Traill Miss Grace Tyler Mrs. Valyo Mrs. John Vandegrift Mr. John Vandegrift Mr. (3 Mrs. J. Logan Vink Mrs. Thomas Walsh Mr. J. A. Warrell Mrs. Thomas Watson Dr. Leon H. Weissman Mr. Herbert Wilkinson Mr. (3 Mrs. Harry J. Williams Hon. (s' Mrs. J. Ambler Williams Mr. 6? Mrs. George Wilson Mrs. Wolper Mr. 6? Mrs. Alfred Wudarski Mr. ’ Mrs. William Ycnca Dr. Zagorski Dr. M. 1. Zakreski To a Dandelion Once bright and golden, 'How old and gray, With the gentle breeze. You will float away. Doris Reed '42 THE MIRROR Forty-three Koppers Coke Fuel Oil Nature’s Refined E. F. MOORE Anthracite Old Comfort Coal Incorporated Chevrolet and Oldsmobile Sales and Service R. LINCOLN HAIN 12th Avenue and Fayette Street General Manager Conshohocken, Pa. Phone 777 Night 1263 Telephone 127 PHILADELPHIA LEE UNIFORM CO. of Conshohocken CONSHOHOCKEN. PA. TIRES Drink Pure Goat Milk for CONTINENTAL CAFE Vim, Vigor, and Vitality 201 East Hector Street JOHN P. LAWLESS JOSEPH RATH, Prop. COLLEGEVILLE, R.D. 1 Phone 1093 MR. WM. C. MARTIN MOSER Makers of School and College Jewelry GLASS 908 Chestnut Street WORKS Philadelphia, Pa. Pennypacker 6748 JICIMO RIO 21 Fayette Street Conshohocken, Pa. Expert Shoe Repair All Work Guaranteed MILMORE QUALITY SANDWICH SHOP 68 Fayette Street PHILLIP 8C ANTHONY Barbers 14 Hector Street Zeps Hamburgers Steaks Spaghetti W. H. WALLACE Jewelers 113 Fayette Street Conshohocken, Pa. HISSNER STATIONERY, MAGAZINES AND TOYS Baseball Gloves, Bats and Balls Special Mother and Father Day Cards Fountain Pens and Pencils GEORGE W. TAYLOR 50 Fayette Street Conshohocken Motor Freight COATES - WAFER PAYNE’S MARKET Groceries — Meats — Vegetables Germantown Pike and Center Avenue Marble Hall, Pa. Phone 1595 POST 840 VETERANS OF FOREIGN WARS Bridgeport, Pa. NEIL C. O'BRIEN Atlantic Service Station F. 8C J. H. DAVIS Dealers in Coal, Ice, and Fuel Oil North Line QC Fayette St. Conshohocken, Pa. Phone 1480 Yard and Office Elm and Cherry Streets Conshohocken, Pa. I honc 443 Conshohocken Recorder S. SZMIGIEL All the News of Your Home Community Wholesale and Retail Tobaccos 310 East Elm Street for Only $1.50 per Year Conshohocken, Pa. Every Tuesday and Friday Phone 1559 • • JAMES BONDI RYKOWSKI SONS FURNITURE STORE Watchmakers and Jewelers • We Buy Old Gold Southwest Comer of Arch 3C Chestnut Sts. Norristown, Pa. Watch ' Clock - Optical Jewelry Repairing Phone 4089 2p Favette St. 4373 Main St. Open Every Evening Cifchohocken, Pa. Manayunk, Pa. HENRY I. FOX, JR. M � IE’S BEAUTY SHOP Insurance — Security Bonds 1. Swede Street 319 Swede St., Norristown, Pa. Norristown, Pa. Phone 3735 Phone 344 For Ladies’, Children's Wear—See SANDLER’S REA FASHION SHOP WaUpaper — Paint 64 Fayette Street Supplies Conshohocken, Pa. Penn and Cherry Sts. The Store That Serves You Right 4 Norristown, Pa. Men's Wear Boys' Wear F. M. PHILLIPS 8c SON GILBERTS Hector and Harry Streets Now—Two Good Stores Conshohocken, Pa. . 132 W. Main St. Main 8C Cherry Sts. Norristown, Pa. “Fill the Home with Phillips' Furniture” STEMPLE’S TAXI SERVICE • % IHE SPOI Call 522 Day and Night 30 Fayette Street REUBEN STEMPLE ' Conshohocken, Pa. MICHAEL FREDERICK General Auto Repairing 927 Spring Mill Avenue ALLEN’S SERVICE STATION Phone 1413 West Conshohocken, Pa. • v BISCHOF GARAGE AAA Keystone Service WEST END GARAGE Hector 8C Forrest Streets 1024 Ford Street • - Phone 1427 Night 882 West Conshohocken, Pa. DECKER’S Quality Groceries Delicatessen Foods FRISCO’S BEAUTY SALON Prompt Courteous Service 401 Fayette Street 345 Spring Mill Avenue Conshohocken, Pa. Phone 1839 Phone 1769 • • FOOD MARKET Quality lfels atnd Groceries Conshohottce ,, a-Phone 481 G. J. RAFFERTY, Ph dr. 49 Fayette Stt-c-t Conshohocken, Pa. � re cription« Gut Price Drugs Phone 27 POLLACK DAIRIES Milk and Cream Telephone 1043 JOHN’S LIGHT LUNCH 42 Fayette Street Conshohocken, Pa. CODER’S ESSO SERVICE North Lane and Butler Pike Day Phone 1578 Night Phone 963-J FELIX BORAWSKI SHOE REPAIR McCOY’S DRUG STORE Fourth Ave. and Fayette Street Conshohocken, Pa. FRANK BATDORF Floor Covering Specialist Norristown, Pa. Estimates Furnished without Obligation 204 DeKalb Street Telephone 642 DOM FREDERICK 727 Wells Street Conshohocken, Pa. Haircutting “A to Z Conshohocken Local Barbers Association BENNY REDS BARBER SHOP 26 Fayette Street A. IRVIN SUPPLEE Grain, Feed, Flour, Hay, Straw and Salt 14 East Elm Street Phone 24 MATRICARDI’S CIGAR STORE 637 Spring Mill Avenue Conshohocken, Pa. FOGARTY’S DEPENDABLE FOODS 48 Fayette Street Conshohocken, Pa. SADOWSKI’S 245 East Hector Street Conshohocken, Pa. HALE FIRE PUMP CO. Conshohocken, Pa. SCHANK’S PRINTING 1208 Fayette Street Conshohocken, Pa. Phone 1623'J WALLACH’S FOOD MARKET and General Merchandise Germantown Pike and Chestnut St. Lafayette Hill, Pa. “Spencer” “Individually Designed Dress and Surgical Garments for Men and Women HELEN M. GALLY Lafayette Hill Phone 1370 or 1872 JOHN BROTHERS To the Class of 1942 Compliments of LARRY 8C BUD COMMUNITY ROWLING AVCADEM 2nd Avenu? and Fayette S ' -eet Conshohocken, Pa. Catering to: Bowling Parties League Bowling Special Matches Open Bowling Pocket Billiards For Reservations Call Conshohocken 561 CHARLES J. LUTTER, Prop. Buy with Confidence at BLOCK’S Norristown, Pa. Selling Merchandise of Merit Since 1844 MILLS’ CANDY SHOPPE Home Made Candies Light Lunches Ice Cream Phone 1415 521 Fayette Street BUY WITH CONFIDENCE AT F. W. WOOLWORTH COMPANY 100 Fayette Street Conshohocken, Pa. CHICCO BEVERAGES NORRISTOWN, PA. W. T. GRANT CO. 110 Fayette Street Conshohocken, Pa. ALTOPEDI’S MARKET MEATS S’ GROCERIES 4th Avenue and Maple Street Phone 1128 TRADESMEN’S NATIONAL BANK OF CONSHOHOCF Automobile Financing Personal Loans 5% JONES LUMBER COMPANY Phone 13 Lumber - Millwork - Building Supplies Hector Sc Cherry Streets Conshohocken, Pa. FRANK’S CAFE HARMONVILLE ESSO SERVICE RIDGE PIKE Care Saves Wear MR. COROSELL, Prop. Phone 1516 CHARLIE HICKS MUSIC STORE Radios - Instruments 6? Sheet Music Conshohocken, Pa. Phone: Conshohocken 1545 SOCKET’S FAMILY SHOE STORE Sundial All-Leather Shoes Riant Bldg., 74 Fayette St. Phone 845