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

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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

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“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

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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