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

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Our old black Diana's hanging' up the wash. And a colorful array it is, by gosh’! Blue overalls on the hedge are flung, And gramp’s red shirts on the line are hung; The baby's frocks in a snowy row Hang close to blouses of indigo; And yellow skirts and magenta smocks Are pinned beside rows of bright green socks. How she's shadin' out her carnation slip. Oh! she sure does work at an awful clip. Wash day comes but once a week. Then the poles begin to squeak; The motor hums and bangs and howls, And water swishes through the tow’ls; The engine slows down; it soon will die; Diana looks around with fretful eye And I know that it's time to get out of here. Because if I don’t, there'll be work I feaT Francis Hoy '42 Departure Tread lightly, if you go tonight, You may awake the rose. Speak softly, little birds may hear— Our quarrel they’ll disclose. Violin in Softly The poignant strains Of an old xriolin Sweep through the tranquil stillness of The church. THE MIRROR Perhaps the twinkling stars will see The pain within my heart— Go quickly, lest they let you know That I but play a part. Marie Entenman '42 Church And as The melody Springs from its wooden heart, My soul once more is filled with joy And peace. Helen Macuire '42 T wenty-three

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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

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Parting Today beneath bright s ies of spring My heart is wearing rue, For here a little hour ago I said good-bye to you. We may not share tomorrow love, But we had yesterday; And I shall treasure joys we new In this our fleeting May. The brilliance of a rainbow Far flung across the s y; And in the tranquil twilight The wood dove's mournful cry; The sheen of crystal dew drops Flashing from hill and plain; And fields of fragrant clover Trembling after rain; The far off song of church bells Lulling the boisterous breeze; And opal shades of evening Falling on restless trees Are mem'ries that will bridge the miles Though you have crossed the sea; And in the garden of my heart You will I{eep tryst with me. Helen Maguire '42 Goodbye I will not write about the war. But ma e my little rhyme A monument, however poor. To ever fleeting time. How silently the hours pass; How lovingly we treasure The baubles in this earthly house We've built for our own pleasure. How quietly we slip away When time's brief reign is done To find beyond life's darkest hour That day has just begun. Teresa Marie O’Connor '42 Spy Wednesday Spy Wednesday in Jerusalem And people roaming 'round. Were searching streets, and lanes, and roads. In hope that Christ be found. A day in nineteen forty-two— A dar forbidding day; The way was cold, and damp, and raw, 'LJeath s ies so grimly gray. I heard a nocl(ing at my door, A sound both slow and wea ; A lonely beggar stood without With aspect sad and mee . Into my house, this beggar came, Who had not where to go; He ate the bread and meat I served, TJor told me of his woe. As day sped swiftly on to dar , The stranger sought to share My household tas s—he built a fire— He helped me mend a chair. And as he bade farewell to me. And passed into the night. The peace that filled my humble home Was li e a radiance bright. Spy Wednesday on my calendar, I wondered could it be, That He whom all the world once sought. Had spent the day with me. Joseph Vincent Reilly '42 Roads Earth’s roads sweep across the mountains And twist to the valley’s end And over these winding highways A stream of pilgrims wend. Some wal along gay and carefree, And some stumble on through woe; But all at last reach the narrow gate Through which each man must go. Doris Reed '42 THE MIRROR Twcnty'four