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

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Nightfall DARKNESS creeps over the tired earth. One by one the lights in the houses are extinguished and the stillness of night settles over the valley. Then through the enveloping gloom lights appear in the midnight sky, like the glowing ends of cigarettes. Giant airplanes are winging through the air on missions of life or death. How many mothers follow those great ships in thought! How many prayers accompany them on their flight, for it is particularly at night that the lonely mothers think of far away places and of the boys who, somewhere, are following the flag to save their country from the disaster that threatens it. All through the busy hours of the day, commonplace tasks occupy the mind of the mothers, but at night when all their work is done, in the hush that falls on land and sea, their hearts go winging through space faster than the fastest bird or plane, to the distant shores where their boys are—sleeping?—fighting?—dying? Night has been considered, so often, the powerful conspirator of evil; the time when wickedness prowls the world’s highways and byways. Will not the quiet vigils of the night, the love that traverses the miles, the prayers that carry the powerful desires to the great throne of mercy, prevail over the evil? Doris Reed, '42 Hillside Fire It is autumn. From our class room windows the hills Ioo li e a great fire with the yellow and brown and scarlet of the maples, sycamores, poplars, and walnuts forming the flame, and the dar pines and firs, the coal that has not yet begun to bum. Philip Daly, '44 THE MIRROR Nineteen

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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

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Trademarks MAN, it seems, is possessed of a desire to be remembered, and he goes to great lengths to save himself from the oblivion that inevitably awaits even the greatest. The scientist hopes to give to the world an achievement that will live through the ages; the inventor perfects his idea and envisions a revolutionized world in which his name will be held in grateful esteem. Every poet, like Shelley, prays that his dead thoughts be driven “over the universe like withered leaves to quicken a new birth.” This deep seated longing of every man to leave behind him some mark of his sojourn here, is doubtless what has inspired many a student to carve his initials on the desks. It may be that the carver hopes to inspire those who follow him with courage to endure, as he did, the vicissitudes of school life—a case of “others have done it, so can you.” Our school was built in 1870 and some of the desks of that ancient vintage bear mute testimony of man’s universal desire to be remembered. Initials have been carefully, painstakingly, and often artistically carved into the wood. What motives actuated the engraver? What dreams of greatness went into their making? What visions of a glorious future led the occupant to this “act of vandalism”? The phrase is the term used by the faculty in referring to the art. For, be it known to all interested, our teachers have no sympathy, whatever, for anyone who defaces school property. This attitude of the school authorities is responsible for the “splendid condition” of the newer desks and student chairs. Never is a well-made memorial cut into the modern furniture. It has been known that students, who so far forgot themselves as to retrace the marks in ancient desks, have been obliged to scrape the desks, plane them, and revarnish them. Travellers, who have visited Eton, have told me that the old benches and forms are hand-carved to an astonishing degree. Wood-engraving is supposed to be part of the culture of this well-known seat of learning; a bit of its “atmosphere and tradition. When we explain this to our teachers it leaves them cold. They apparently care little for tradition and atmosphere,” so our new desks remain polished and spotless. It would be foolhardy to put a mark on one of them, but the old timers afford us a little consolation—at least we can look at the initials and stealthily retrace them. The boys who, years ago, occupied these seats must have been braver than the youth of today. I envy them their courage. Ever since the day I entered high school I have yearned to stipple my monogram on a desk, but so far prudence has restrained me. And I think it would be foolhardy to court disaster at this late date. Joseph V. Reilly, '42 Defenseless TOTALLY unprepared for any such descent, the woodland submitted timidly to the thickening haze that gently permeated its leafless ceiling. Gray clouds assembled in the gloomiest corner of the sky and, after a few long moments of ghostly consultation, rolled across the heavens toward the miniature forest below. Not unlike huge powder-puffs in appearance, they seemed to swoop low and dab the hillocks with a resplendent coating of majestic whiteness. A panicky stream, trembling from the icy fingers that the merciless winter had laid upon its throat, fled, choked, through the bleak grove in a futile attempt to avoid the oncoming storm. The naked trees that fringed the hillside lifted pleading arms, to no avail. Relentlessly, the snow fell thick and fast. Soon the woodland succumbed to the flaky invasion and lay quiescent under a pall of white. Harry A. Cassel, ’42 ----------------------------------------------------- THE MIRROR Twenty