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

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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

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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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« 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