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

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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

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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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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