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

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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

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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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After School TO ME as a child the happiest part of a schoolday was the walk home after the lessons were completed. I can see myself yet, a solitary little fellow, trudging along the quiet road in the late fall. The contents of my dinner pail jingled to the tune I whistled as I picked great bouquets of gay-colored leaves, sumac, and goldenrod. In the open country, I loitered among dun-colored cornfields, where yellow pumpkin-like eyes peeped out at me from the brown stubble. But how different it was in the winter! Then, the sharp touch of frost quickened my lagging feet, and, all bundled up in my leggings, I went stumbling through the drifts. If the day were bright, flocks of bobwhites fled excitedly from tree to tree or whistled musical notes as they picked at the frozen pine cones. Tracks of rabbits crossed and re-crossed along the roadway. Often I caught a ride with some fur-coated farmer on his way home from town, and, from his bob-sled, I looked wonderingly at the winter change of landscape. As we jingled past the cornfield, horses and cattle threw up their heads to listen and then went crashing away through the stalks. The evergreen grove was no longer dark, silent, and lonesome. Purple finches and starlings hid beneath the branches for protection against the winter’s storm. Soon, with a very cold face and a healthy appetite for supper, I would tumble off before our gate and go stamping up the path to the house. Now that I have left the “wilds and moved to the more densely populated city, much of the pleasure of going to school has departed. HISTORY, legend, and mythology are filled with stories of famous steeds, for the horse is one of the animals most beloved by man. In my childhood I read, with wonder, many tales of renowned horses. Pegasus, the winged horse of mythology, which carried Bellerophon to victory over the Chimaera is perhaps the most fabulous of all. Alexander’s horse, Bucephalus, shares his master’s glory in the pages of history, and the Trojan horse remains forever an example of war strategy and duplicity. All America loves the anonymous galloper that carried Paul Revere on his historic ride to Concord, and Ichabod Crane's old nag, Gunpowder, has a place in the affections of all lovers of Irving’s “Sleepy Hollow.” In the sporting world, Man O’ War was, for years, one of the most renowned racers. His noble head, with its white star on the forehead, has adorned many a stick pin and pair of cuff links. War Admiral, Sea Biscuit, and Cavalcade, too, have been celebrated winners in their day and have had hosts of admirers. But of all the steeds that have won renown, none is better known or more beloved than the schoolboy's pony.” It is one of the smallest of the species and, perhaps, the most widely distributed. It can travel anywhere with its owner and requires no attention; it may be stabled in a boy's pocket, carried in a brief case, or hidden under the mattress. It is at the beck and call of the rich and poor alike and gives democratic, impartial service to all, though it is the familiar of such noteworthy individuals as Virgil, Ceaser, and Homer. The man who first wrote a “pony is the undying hero of the classroom, for this charger has galloped hundreds of riders to success. Though teachers through the ages have denounced the little courser as a trickster— a low-down fellow with whom no honorable student would associate, the “pony” retains undiminished popularity. Youth’s cry is “A boy’s best friend is his pony. I firmly believe that in spite of all their denials, many teachers have ridden to success on a pony's back, and keep one conveniently stabled in a secret drawer in their desks. Mary Ryan, '42 Famous Mary O’Connor, '42 THE MIRROR T wentycight