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

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Square Bathtub IDO NOT know whether or not you have considered the subject, but I cannot see why the square bathtub has not gained more widespread popularity. You so seldom hear of anybody's owning one. Square tubs dwell almost completely within the realm of advertising, yet I cannot understand why, for a square bathtub certainly has advan-tages over its elliptical competitors. I know, for the old type bathtub has caused me many maddening hours. I shall now state my grievances. As I step into a warm bath and reach for a cake of soap, the slippery little thing worms its way out of my hand and makes a straight dive for the water. Giving me a dirty look, it sinks slyly below the waterline. My hand immediately sets after it in hot pursuit, grabs impulsively for it, but misses. The soap is not to be taken without a struggle. The hope of capturing it by surprise inspires me to sneak up on it from be-hind. My hand advances closer, closer, closer. The water is greatly disturbed by the impact of my hand as it endeavors to “nab” the slimy, white object, but the culprit leaps into the air with much more force than you would think possible in an insignificant little bar of toilet soap. It sneers at me, and makes straight for the H20 again. By this time my temper is fast losing ground, but I can still control it. I sit pensively for a while, laying plans for a fresh offensive. “What would Napoleon have done in a similar crisis?” is my arch-thought. Had that noble man been living today, he might have thought of an air-raid. Such a maneuver might do just the trick. At this juncture, the palm of my hand is raised parallel with the naughty little “hunk” of soap. I have no knowledge of what plans the soap is making at this time. I, however, am certain of my next move. Silence reigns. Once more the unfortunate water must suffer the impact of a surprise raid. The hand clashes down over the slithery solid, which by the way of retaliation, slips out from under it, shooting once again into space. The after effect of this defeat, however, is far more disastrous than the foregoing one. When the soap slipped from under my palm, it left a slimy trail which forced my arm to give way, thus giving me a very spectacular fall. My pride is now deeply wounded, but my determination is by no means exhausted. Once more the plotting commences. The light of intelligence again begins to glow. Why not get a dinner fork and jab the sinful soap? It may not be “cricket, but it would be effective. A cursory glance around the bathroom, however, reveals the fact that there is no fork to be had and that a substitute cannot be found. Maneuver number three is definitely out. I renew my earlier “sneak up behind and clutch method,” but without success. At last I must admit defeat. I now let the water out, pick up the erring bar of soap, chisel grips for my finger, and then refill the tub. All this exercise takes its toll of a man. A constitution like mine cannot stand the strain. I am worn out. On such a momentous occasion as this, the dream of a square bathtub is closest to my heart. Just think, a square bathtub! In such a device a bar of soap could go just so far and no farther. Though it might evade me for a while, sooner or later I would corner it in one of the right angles formed by the walls. O joy! At this point, I make the final decision to visit the shops in search of a tub that will satisfy my qualifications. In the end, I shall probably be forced to write to the various bathroom supply concerns for aid. And I am ready to wager that it will be just my luck to receive a reply from all of them stating that they all are “out of square bathtubs,” and that “priorities have forced them to quit production of them for the duration.” Oh well! I can dream, can't I? Louis Moore THE MIRROR T wcntysix

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Fickle Nature Entreaty Poets have lauded Nature’s moods. Her beauty and her splendor; Have sung of trees and wind and stars In verses soft and tender. And I have read of dreamy broods, That through the woodlands trickle, But I am firm, when I contend That 7Nature’s way is fickle. For who can tell me why the breeze That gently isses clover. Will turn into a hurricane And blow an oa tree over! Or why the rain that puddles up The fields for thirsting squashes. Will wait until the work is done, Then rudely sprinkle washes! Ho, no my friend I still declare Though Mature is beguiling, You cannot quite depend on her, No matter how she's smiling. Harry Cassel ’42 Disill usion I've often seen the shadows. Take leave of moonlight beams, And watched the little pixies. In my midnight summer dreams. And once I strode out hoping. To catch them at their play. But only saw the twinkling stars. Chasing them away. Ella Marie Fondots '42 My Lookout My window is my lookout. At night from it I see A world of magic people. Whom no one knows but me. They live in fairy castles. Beyond the moon and stars; They serenade the breezes. With silver-stringed guitars. They play along the milky way. Until the night is done; Then through the door of daylight, They tip-toe one by one. Catherine Shaffer '43 THE MIRROR Have we loved in vain, my dear? Can’t we brave the weather? Strange, the way is hard and long When we’re not together. I remember other days Filled with joy and gladness; They were happy times for me— How they bring me sadness. Wait! and listen to my plea Do not let me mourn here; Take me with you all the way To the end of life, dear. Marie Entenman '42 Spring The angler starts to shine his rod; The earthworm trembles ’neath the sod; The robin builds its dainty nest; The possum wakes from winter rest; The trees put on their dress of leaves; The swallows nest in dusty eaves; The meadow lark begins to sing— Of course, you're right—the time is spring. William Johnson '43 Life I dream of wars and dragons bold. And chariot wheels of solid gold. I dream of castles in the air, And perfumed ladies, tall and fair. I dream of knights with dashing steeds, Who worship me with noble deeds. I dream and dream and wish and wish— Meanwhile, I slowly dry each dish. Ella Marie Fondots '42 T wenty-five

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ALTHOUGH the Schuylkill River has never possessed the reputation of being a “fisherman's rendezvous,” scores of devotees of the “rod and reel” occupy the banks of this slow-moving stream during the summer months. In favorable weather, a large percentage of the disciples of Izaak Walton sit perched on the tops of dams and canal locks. These spots are particularly cool because the obliging breeze oftentimes whips the spray from the falling waters against the sun-swept figures. Where the river adopts artificial banks (stone walls and continuous rows of small wharfs) the casual fishermen ensconce themselves on packing cases, canvas stools or, mayhap, beach chairs and wait patiently for their bite. They consider a glistening eighteen-inch carp ample recompense for their total efforts, but are satisfied with a nine-inch speckled bass. Usually, however, the catch turns out to be a few hungry sunfish, some gullible minnows, or a lazy cat, tempted from the culmy depths of “ole man river” by the curious antics of Mr. Worm struggling futilely on a skillfully-baited hook. Among the anglers who frequent the coal-colored waters are many reincarnated Huck Finns. You can see them trudging the shores on their way to a favorite sunfish haunt, garbed in rolled-up trousers and battered straw hats with freshly-cut spruce branch for their pole and tomato can for their bait box. Often these carefree anglers sit upon the edge of a protruding pier dipping their sun-tanned toes in the cooling stream and releasing tiny wavelets, which slip across the water to surround their bobbing cork floats. Even in late autumn determined anglers brave the blasts of approaching winter's breath and tramp from the cheery warmth of homes nearby to chilly retreats along the river's ice-chafed shoreline. Here, comforted by their glowing pipes or a plug of rum maple, they will wait contentedly for the unwary fish, while make-shift stoves belch forth friendly blazes of much-needed encouragement. At present, however, the piscatorial pastime is being seriously threatened by polluted conditions existing throughout the entire system of the river. Devoted fishermen often thought of improving the river, but their hopes never materialized. Today, dreams for the betterment of the stream are growing nearer to reality. The contemplated plans, if carried to completion, will transform the Schuylkill, now only a ghost of its former self, into a true “fishermen’s rendezvous.” Harry Cassel, '42 THE MIRROR . Twenty-seven