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

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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

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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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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