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

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The Tinkers of Ireland THE Tinkers” of Ireland are bands of rovers, who are found in every county of the Emerald Isle. Unfortunately, they have acquired a bad name which is not entirely deserved, for they were originally good people who were driven to lawlessness by injustice. They date back to the time that Cromwell besieged northern Ireland, and confiscated the farms of the natives, thus forcing these unfortunate people to leave their rightful homes and wander evermore throughout the length and breadth of their homeland. Many of the evicted families emigrated from the country, but the less fortunate were left to their fate at home and took to the roadside as their only shelter. To eke out an existence they went about mending pots and pans, and so became known as “Tinkers. Each county in Ireland has its share of these wanderers. They seldom spend more than a few weeks in the same locality, for they are driven from every spot by the people in the neighborhood who are annoyed by their presence. There is some justification for this attitude for the Tinkers destroy crops along the countryside, force their way into the fields or farms and take whatever vegetables they need for a meal. Indeed, they help themselves to anything conveniently lying around the farmyard. Their advent takes on the nature of an invasion, for they travel in crowds, in old jaunting carts drawn by donkeys or ponies. Often the Tinker bands have from twenty to thirty donkeys, each hauling an overload of passengers. The screeching of the wheels of the vehicles accompanied by the clatter of the donkeys’ roughly shod feet striking the rough roads, the cries of the children, interrupted by an occasional merry laugh from the women folk, and the whistling and fiddling of the men give warning that the Tinkers are arriving. When they sight in a country lane or on a back road or highway, a cozy spot sheltered by many trees or bushes they “pitch camp.” The unpacking of their personal belongings is always a laughable sight for their household effects are quite unique, usually including old stoves, boxes, baskets, and pieces of chinaware, scattered pieces of bedclothing, small tables, and chairs. They arrange all their belongings on the grass by the wayside. Then they quickly make a blazing fire, around which they seat their little children who are anxious to partake of some food. It is then that the Tinkers begin to contend with one another as to who shall go to the nearest house and beg the food. Needless to say, the meal is usually highlighted by a highly spiced argument among the gang. When they finally settle down for a night’s sleep, it is on the bed of straw, with the sky overhead as a roof. The children always go bare-footed even in winter. They are taught to ride donkeys while they are very young. “The blessings of God on your curly head and you’ll ride a donkey in the morning, is what the Tinker said the night his son was born. Though Tinkers consider themselves very respectable people because of their origin, the Irish in general, have little regard for the rovers, who demand as their right what others have worked hard to get. Today, tinsmithing is still their chief occupation, and it is by no means unusual to see a whole Tinker family by the roadside busily engaged in soldering all kinds of utensils and making various small articles of tinware. THE MIRROR Mary Fitzpatrick, '44 T wcnty-one

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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

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Washing Dishes THE art of washing dishes may seem, to the inexperienced, one of the simplest of household chores, and one that is a purely feminine occupation, but I can assure all of this opinion that both beliefs are erroneous. Washing dishes is one of the most wearisome and tedious tasks ever devised to make man's existence difficult, and when I say man's I am not referring, generally, to the human race but, specifically, to individuals of the male gender. Although I have an older sister and a younger one, I am usually the victim selected to wash the dishes. It may be that “dish pan hands' play no important part in my matrimonial chances, or that I am just one of those easy victims of feminine wiles, celebrated in the best psychological novels. At any rate I know this, I am the country’s leading “martyr of the dishpan.” The method of procedure at meal time in our house is ever of a single pattern. Immediately after the conclusion of each meal I am intently watched by my mother and two sisters and, I am sorry to say, by my father, who see to it that any attempt on my part to escape is promptly frustrated. I carry all the dishes to the kitchen and when my mother observes that the last dish has been removed from the table, she communicates the news to the rest of the family who proceed to relax, leaving me with the china. Before beginning my menial task I first look out the window and admire the beautiful sky and hills and trees and meadows. Then I look at the stack of dishes and murmur, “The isles of Greece,” . . . and shudder. I shake a liberal sprinkling of “Duz,” the powder that produces fluffy, fleecy suds, makes hard water soft and removes all grease “in the twinkling of an eye”—into the dishpan and proceed to fill it with good hot water—the hotter the better it seems. “It will not hurt your hands,” my mother says. “In fact it will do them a lot of good.” Black thoughts fill my mind. I have no affection for my family. They do not love me; nor do they understand me. Injustice of this sort warps men's souls. While the water is running into the dishpan, I once more gaze out the window dreaming of a “Utopia” where the inventor of each and every dish is hanged in effigy hourly. After these preliminaries, I attack the china mountain before me. At last, when I am about to count myself a physical wreck, I discover that all the dishes are washed and I rinse them in steaming hot water, “nab a towel and, with a skill acquired by long practice, begin to dry first one, then two, then three or four dishes at a time. During this process of increased production of dried dishes, through the open window comes the shrill whistle of my bosom friend on his way to meet me ahead of the crowd, so as to spare me the humiliation of being caught unawares by our “gang.” I make haste and—meet disaster—for at this point some recalcitrant vessel, usually a treasured article, reacts to the law of gravity with obvious result. The crash brings the family to the kitchen. One glance at my mother’s horrified expression sends me flying through the doorway, determined to find the first recruiting station and enlist for service on foreign shores. Even this solace is denied me—I am too young to join the army. I have an awful fear, however, that when I do enter the service, the first time the sergeant looks at me, he will discover my secret shame and send me to do kitchen duty for a few thousand. Well, if I must, I shall serve my country faithfully as a kitchen maid, but I trust I shall be spared this final humiliation. No one knows what a harrowing task it is for a boy to do dishes. Only those who have been victimized know what real courage it takes to do the job. James J. Keeley, '42 Dusk Dus ! the stolid companion of death. And throws across the dying light Stales the fast fleeing Day. His deadly pall of gray. William Delaney '42 T wer.ty-two THE MIRROR