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

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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

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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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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