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

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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

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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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Fayette Street Fayette Street, our main thoroughfare, extends through the town in a straight line for almost a mile, from the Matson-ford Bridge to Twelfth Avenue where it merges into Butler Pike. Years ago, it was an Indian trail winding through the dense forest. During the Revolutionary War, Lafayette led the patriots over this road when they were fleeing to Valley Forge in 1777. It is from this famous French general that Fayette Street gets its name. In the early days of the borough, it was a stony, dusty road, scarred “with deep ruts caused by the heavy “string' teams hauling iron ore, clay, and limestone to the blast furnaces. Gas lamps in iron posts, placed at road intersections, furnished street illumination. The police lighted these lamps at night and turned them off in the morning. Today, Fayette Street is a broad avenue lined with great maple, poplar, and horse chestnut trees. The business section is confined to a few squares at the lower end of the town, near the river. In the residential district beautiful, stately houses surrounded by spacious, well-kept grounds line both sides of the avenue. Four large stone churches add dignity to Fayette Street. Our church, St. Matthew’s, at Third Avenue and Fayette Street, is a granite structure in Gothic architecture. From afar, its lofty bell-tower and spires can be seen outlined against the sky. Beside the church are the rectory and school, both granite buildings that harmonize with the church. Fayette Street, however, is not so beautiful as it was a few years ago. Commercialism has made inroads on the ancient highway, and the ubiquitous filling stations and chain stores appearing among the gracious old homes produce a discordant note in the once lovely harmony of old avenue. Annette M. Aigner '42 Plymouth Meeting House ONE of the oldest structures in the vicinity is the Quaker Meeting House which stands at the intersection of Germantown Avenue and Butler Pike in Plymouth Meeting. It is a rather long, narrow, one-story building of gray limestone, and sits back from the road in a plot of ground fenced in by a low stone wall. The old prayer house is a splendid example of Colonial architecture, and Quaker simplicity. The building has undergone certain alterations necessitated by changing conditions and by a fire in 1867, but the original walls of limestone still stand. Beauti- THE MIRROR T wenty-nine