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

Text from Pages 1 - 52 of the 1943 volume:

THE MIRROR Vol. 10—No. 1 Associate Editors Paul J. Delaney ’43 John E. Crawford ’43 William J. Johnson ’43 Mary C. O’Connor ’43 Catherine H. Shaffer ’43 Mary B. Fitzpatrick ’44 Typists Teresa R. English ’43 Joan B. Gillespie ’43 Camilla Rossi ’43 Helen Eliff ’43 Gertrude Durkin ’43 Rose Sirchio ’43 June, 1943 Price, Fifty Cent9 S T A F F Ed it or-in -Chi e f Edward V. Fineran ’43 First Place 1938 First Place 1939 First Place 1940 First Place 1941 First Place 1942 Business Manager Carolyn M. Ruser ’43 Assistants Matthew J. Moore ’43 Clara A. Johns ’43 Helene Darby ’44 Rosemary Fennell ’44 Thomas Walsh ’45 James P. McFadden ’45 Charles McNeelis ’45 Art Paul J. Delaney ’43 CONTENTS PACE Our Boys .................................. 2 Sursum Corda.............George McMonigal 3 The House of Hoy.............Joseph Hoy 4 Morning.................Catherine Shaffer 4 The Realm of Old Romance, Frances A. Hot to 5 Eight-Eighteen............Joseph Foley 6 An Old Pupil .............M. DeStefano 7 Drug Store Clerk..........Paul Delaney 8 The Mightiest Fall....John E. Crawford 9 Sundae Special .........Theresa Poysden 10 Abode of Memories.........Patricia Dobbin 11 The Model “A”...............Matthew Moore 12 Blackout Alice Hoy 12 Memories of Eire.............. M. Fitzpatrick 13 Brothers . . Frances A. Botto 14 Scholarly Gremlins........... Ruth O'Bryan 15 Playful Moon .............Betty Heffernen 15 Black Jake ................ Ed. Fineran 16 The Air is Good ......Lawrence Murphy 16 Dreamer’s Refuge.............Thomas Walsh 17 Manners Today............. Ruth O'Bryan 17 Great Event.............. James Watson 18 Carefree Dancers ....... Thomas Walsh 18 River’s Journey....... Marie Rotosky 18 Fall Mary Ann Ochnich 18 The Smoking Habit Joseph McGuigan 19 Story of a Boy, His Girl, and His Country...............William J. Johnson 20 Memory ...............Thomas Tammany 20 A Subterranean Haunt Dorothy Strycharz 21 Remembrance ..............Robert Aigner 21 Quail Hunting............... Joseph Hoy 22 Paradise Lost .....James McFadden 22 Nocturnal Scholar............... Ruth O'Bryan 23 Dreaming ................ Peggy McGrath 23 Forest Slumber .............. Marie Lavan 23 Princess Night........ M. DeStefano 23 Young Love................Ruth O'Bryan 23 Fairy Tale................James McFadden 24 PACE Springtime................Carolyn Ruser 24 Modern Design...............Vera McPhilomy 24 No Regrets................Mary O'Connor 25 Lament.......................Rose Sirchio 25 Winter .................Catherine Shaffer 25 Street Light.............. Ed. Fineran 25 Tabby.................... Mary O'Connor 25 Fickle ...................Peggy McGrath 25 America At My Door........James Gordon 25 Work......................Francis Foley 26 Cardinal in the Snow..........C. Shaffer 26 Dusk ....................Marie McCarrick 26 Farewell .................Mary O'Connor 26 Binky.....................Francis Foley 27 The Landscape of Ireland. Mary Fitzpatrick 28 Perseverance ............. Joseph Foley 29 Twilight William Johnson 29 The Wind’s Invitation Mary O'Connor 29 The Perry Jewels .............Ed. Fineran 30 Light of Other Days ... Bernadette Clark 31 Gulpfa Mills B. Clark 31 Bnllygomingo Lake T. Tammany 32 High Rock . James McFadden 33 Secrets of the Hills......... M. McCarrick 33 Sunset ..............Alice M. Powers 33 Feline Trek...............Thomas Walsh 34 Reveille .................Dolores Reagan 34 Draft .......................Paul Delaney 34 Thunderstorm Ed. Fineran 34 Editorials Words .................. Ed. V. Fineran 35 Manners Gertrude Durkin 35 Wintertime Magic..........Ed. V. Fineran 36 Book Reviews Flying Fortresses ......... Ed. Fineran 37 South of the Border ---- Man’ Moore 37 The Story of Lourdes C. Rossi 38 Francis of Assisi.......Mary O'Connor 39 War ......................Eleanor Heller 39 Cons hoi iocken Published Annually by the Students of SAINT MATTHEW S HIGH SCHOOL Pennsylvania Our Boys ryHEY have left us—one by one, the boys, our boys—gay and debonnaire—shy and different—serious and thoughtful— and their going has left a great void in our hearts, an emptiness in our lives. We miss them at every turn—the blue-eyed, grayeyed, brown-eyed boys—the tall, the short, the thin, the chubby boys—the grave boys and the merry boys—our own. All their young laughter, their gay persiflage, their lighthearted badinage is silent. Gone is their jaunty step along the lanes, their merry, whistled tunes, the raucous greeting of their blatant automobile horns as they riotously saluted the passing hour. They have traveled far from the rolling fairways, the winding roads, the quiet streets of Conshohocken. When the hour struck, they were eager to be up and away. Quietly, gravely, they laid aside their carefree youth. Today, they are all over the world—in frozen Alaska—in the sultry Solomons—in the blistering heat and penetrating cold of North Africa—fighting on land and sea and in the air—wherever the red, white, and blue banner of freedom calls them. They left us with smiles on their lips, dreams in their eyes, and courage in their hearts—left us to travel the charted and uncharted ways of the world—so that we might keep the things we love—that America might remain a refuge for the oppressed, a place of security, a haven of peace, a land of faith and hope and charity. They left us to keep safe American ideals, American homes, the great American pattern of life—freedom under God. For them we wait and work and pray. ★ ★★★★★ _______ THE MIRROR Two SENIOR CLASS On Ground (scaled, left to right Matthew Moore, Clara Ann Johns. Catherine Shaffer, Margaret Gibbons, Alice Hoy. John McNamara. First Row—Martin Early, Elizabeth Safko. Joseph McGuigan, vice president; Mary O’Connor, secretary; Edward Fineran, president: Carolyn Ruser, co-treasurer; John Crawford, co-treasurer; Mary Moore, John Coyne, Second Row William Brady. Helen Traill. Agnes Nolan, Edward Reagan. George Donovan, Rose Sirchio (rear), Teresa English, Rita Kehoe (rear). Helen Eliff. Camilla Rossi (rear), James Watson, Joseph W ilson. Kathryn Murphy, Kathleen Reilly. Joseph Nagle. Third Row—Margaret Logan. Howard Noble, W illiam Johnson. Ann Kirkpatrick. Fourth Row—Kathleen Sarvey, George Mc-M onigle. Joan Gillespie, Harry Schank. Eleanor Brennen, Joseph McCauley, Gertrude Durkin, Paul Delaney, Elizabeth Schneider. Absent Patricia Gavin, Catherine Nunges-ser, Martin Costello. Sursum Corda LIFT up your heart; the world is not all drab. The lovely, heartening things of everyday lie at your door. Your home is filled with faith and love to keep you safe, and strength and courage compass every hour. There are eyes that grow brighter at your smile. and hearts that beat with quickened tempo at your footfall on the walk. These things are yours today. Oh! keep them safe. George McMomgal, ’43 THE MIRROR Three The House of Hoy IN THE midst of tlie quaint little settlement of Plymouth Meeting, resolutely facing the heat of summer and the hitter cold of winter, stands the Hoy house, remarkable for nothing but the size of the large amicable family which it shelters, six girls and five hoys ranging in age from five to eighteen. Members of the household pass in and out continuously, some seeking refuge within the sheltering walls when danger threatens and some searching for a sanctuary outside when housework is imminent. The architecture dates back to a period before the Civil War and the place has not been changed much since then except that during the past decade it has been repapered and painted. Throughout the house the floorboards are wide and the window sills are broad and deep. The sleeping quarters consist of six spacious rooms painted or papered according to the occupants desires. On winter nights the favorite gathering place of the clan, however, is before the open fireplace in the living room, and it is here that the joys and sorrows of the day are discussed. When the chores and lessons are completed, everyone indulges in his or her favorite pastime. The younger children play games and crack nuts on the hearth, while waiting for apples to roast. The older and more sophisticated minds turn to reading, knitting, or pinochle. Father plays the violin or piano and strains of “I'll Take You Home Again. Kathleen,” “Tales of Vienna Woods” and other old sweet melodies echo through the room. Mother sees that fair play is shown, and, at the same time, tries to enjoy the evening paper. Perfect harmony reigns until an over-enthusiastic member takes a game too seriously; then the room is in an uproar until my father catches the eye of the ring leader when the noise subsides instantly. Just before Christinas, Francis, the eldest, (Mother’s pet we all say) enlisted in the Field Artillery. Today, he is overseas somewhere. His going made the first break in the Hoy family, and while we all miss him, Bobbie, the youngest, is loneliest. He keeps asking, “When’s Bud coming home?” Mother’s eyes fill with tears, but her voice is always steady when she answers, “in a little while Bobby.” Before we disperse for the night we say the rosary, the five oldest each saying a decade. Francis gets a special remembrance now. and Hoys, big and little, pray that victory will soon he ours, that God will protect our eldest wherever he is, and that soon he and all other American boys all over the world may come home again to those who love them. We want Francis hack in his place at the fireside. Joseph Hoy, ’45 Morning rT ' RACES of night still lingered in the gray sky — to the west the town stretched away into shadow over the eastern hills hung a slender, fading crescent moon — a solitary pale gold star shot- wanly beside it...Through the clouds broke a tenuous line of rose that outlined the bare trees against the slowly clearing backdrop. The houses lay asleep in the cool, thin air. . .a sacramental silence shrouded the valley. . .Quietly, the convent door opened and the nuns — on their way to early Mass — emerged from the shadowy portal. Noiselessly, they hastened through the tranquil street — to keep tryst with the great Creator of day. Catherine Shaffer, ’45 THE MIRROR Four The Realm of Old Romance GRANDMOTHER sat in her favorite chair beside the window. The sun shone on her gray hair turning it to a shimmering coronet of silver. Her strong well-shaped hands that were not strangers to hard work, were adorned only by a plain gold wedding ring, a symbol of the forty-nine years she and grandfather have spent together; happy years for the most part although sprinkled here and there with tears. She was busily crocheting and, as I looked at her, I thought of the many times she had told me the story of her life in Conshohocken. It was in 1880 that her father first purchased a house on the corner of Hector Street and North Lane in Spring Mill. A few years later, he brought his wife and family there to live. Grandmother was thirteen at the time and she had an older brother and a younger sister. They all loved the house. “The memory of it,” grandmother often says, “is very clear in my mind today. It was a white stone house with green shutters, and was surrounded by a white picket fence. The back porch was so situated that it faced the main road, and, consequently, was the permanent meeting place of the family. A great oak tree shaded the back yard. Wisteria and trumpet vines covered the sides and hack of the house. Grape vines made a canopy over the yard. This house, however, was very useful as well as quaint and lovely, for it was in the “front room” of his home, that great grandfather Smith opened the first ice cream parlor in Conshohocken. He was the pioneer manufacturer and retailer of ice cream in our town. Every morning at 5 o’clock he would go to the creamery for fresh cream and be back in time to make eighty quarts of vanilla ice cream before noon. Each afternoon he went up and down the avenues, with his cart, calling, “ice cream.” He was, indeed, very popular with the children, and if they were good he would give them an extra dip, filling tile little dishes they brought to his “store on wheels.” THE MIRROR _ Five Grandmother, then a young girl, served the customers in the small parlor, and it was here that Joseph Botto, whom destiny had chosen to be my grandfather, first met her when she was a young lassie of eighteen. He had heard from different sources that she was “quite a girl,” and one Sunday he decided to investigate for himself. As an excuse he went to buy licorice, even though he was particularly allergic to it. In order to “stall for time” he bought the whole supply of the tiny shop. During the next few weeks he became inordinately interested in ice cream; in fact, it became the most important thing in his life, and he consumed vast quantities of it. This was the beginning of his courtship and a year later, in 1894, he married his girl. Rather than leave Spring Mill, the young people moved to the house across the street from the old homestead. “I liked my new home,” grandmother declares, “but it could never take the place in my heart that my childhood home had.” In the course of the years that followed, grandmother had twelve children, four daughters and eight sons of whom my handsome father is the eldest. Everyone of the children attended St. Matthew’s School. The name Botto has been, for many years, on the school register. Later, the family moved from Spring Mill to Conshohocken. The first break in the home ties came with the marriage of my father. One by one the others married, except my Aunt Catherine, who lives with grandmother and grandfather at their home on Fifth Avenue. Today, the youngest is twenty-seven, married, and has a family. He is a member of the United States Army, Medical Division. Only two of the Botto children live in Conshohocken, my father and my Uncle Albert. Grandfather goes to work every day at Norristown Court House while grandmother, with a little help from me, still attends to household duties. In January my grandparents will celebrate their golden wedding anniversary. As I look at grandfather and grandmother I am convinced that: “Hearts with equal love combined, kindle never dying fires;” and that, “Marriage is the mother of the world, and preserves kingdoms, and fills cities and churches, and even heaven itself.” Frances Ann Botto, ’44 Eight-Eighteen ON PASSING a jeweler’s store next time, take a look at the dummy clock which hangs over his front door. Almost certainly you will find the hands pointing to eighteen minutes past eight o’clock. Do you know the reason for this? One version of the story is that the man who first put up one of these clocks had just heard of the death of Abraham Lincoln and set the hands at eight-eighteen in honor of our martyred patriot. Lincoln, however, was not killed at this time; he was shot at ten minutes past eight and jewelers were registering eighteen minutes past eight on their clocks before Lincoln was assassinated. The truth of the matter is that jewelers, by setting the hands of their clocks at this time, have more space available on the dial for advertising. Today, however, these curious time-pieces are not so numerous as they were a few years ago; modern electric clocks have taken their place. If you should happen to see one of the old-fashioned kind, however, notice the hands; they will, in all probability, point to eight-eighteen. Joseph Foley, ’44 ___________________________________________________ THE MIRROR Six An Interview with AN OLD PUPIL THE familiar figure of Mr. Thomas Carroll was erect anti dignified as he sat in the comfortable living-room of his home at Eleventh Avenue and Fayette Street. The pale glow from the lamp on the table cast a dim shadow over his silvery-gray hair. Courteous, kind, meticulously dressed, he was the perfect gentleman of the old school. He smiled as he tried to look back through the years, and remember his school days, for it is a far cry from the time he entered St. Matthew’s till now, and the years that have intervened have been busy, useful ones. “Uncle Tom,” as he is familiarly called by the children of the present day St. Matthew’s, attended the school when it was situated in the basement of the old church at Hector and Harry Streets, before the present high school was built. When the “new school” was opened in 1871, Tom was present the very first day. He was a pupil in the “second room” taught by Miss Bess O’Brien, for he had completed the “first room” presided over by Miss Mary Maguire, and had not yet advanced to Miss McCullough’s “high” grade. If a graduate of the “high” desired further learning, a room “equivalent to four years of high school, taught by Peter Bolger, offered excellent opportunities.” Uncle Tom likes to talk about the first guiding light of the school, austere Father Richard Kinahan, who, besides building the school, equipped an observatory in the dome of the building. In those far away days, the “Carroll boy” was right-hand man to the pioneer priest. The Carrolls lived across the street from the school and Tom tended the furnace, replaced broken window glass, and mended desks; in fact, he was odd-job man for the building. Every day, accompanied by Tom, the pastor would go to the THE MIRROR _________________________ observatory and set his watch by the sun at noon. Tradition has it that the people used to set their watches by Father Kinahan's never varying routine. At exactly the same hour every morning he walked down to school, and spent the morning with the young children in Miss Maguire’s class. The afternoons he devoted to the upper grades. “Father Kinahan had two loves,” declares Mr. Carroll “the stars and the children.” The whole parish mourned the severe old pastor when he died in 1909, but none missed him more than Tom Carroll did. An odd circumstance directed Uncle Tom’s life work. One day, when he was a husky young man of eighteen, he happened to be passing a home in which a woman had recently died. The people, who knew him, asked him to carry the message of her death to an undertaker. He did so, and the undertaker later hired him as an assistant. From then on, his path was set. For years he has been in “the undertaking business” and has laid to rest many of his townspeople, among them Miss Bess and all forty of the boys and girls of the old “second room.” With a twinkle in his eye, he says, “I did what many a boy, at present, would like to do; I buried my teacher!” Uncle Tom recalls the days when Conshohocken was a pioneer settlement, and houses were few and far between. He narrates vividly the pranks of his boyhood companions when Spring Mill Avenue was a country Toad. He recalls the fun they had swimming in the old iron-ore hole that has since been filled in and converted into a smooth, much used thoroughfare. Two of the favorite haunts in those days were “Snakey,” a creek so named because of the many snakes there, and the “Bumebank,” a strip of land extending from the Schuylkill Seven dam to the locks between the canal and the river. As a boy, Tom used to hunt in the woods around Conshohocken, and this sport is still his hobby. With Rex, his loyal bird-dog, he and Father O’Donnell, our present beloved pastor, often go on bunting trips, and Uncle Tom always looks forward eagerly to his autumn vacation-time. In all his 81 years Tom Carroll has been respected by the other residents of Conshohocken; his close associates bold him in affection for he has stood the test of years. St. Matthew’s has no more loyal champion than he. His interest in the school and in the achievements of its pupils is deep and sincere. He has never missed a graduation ceremony. St. Matthew’s is proud of him, for through the years he has lived according to the principles taught him within the walls of the old gray schoolhouse. His has been “the noblest contribution which any man can make for the benefit of posterity — that of a good character.” To the youth of his native town he has made a rich bequest — “a shining, spotless example.” Marjorie De Stefano, ’44 Drug Store Clerk WrHEN I went to work at Raf-derty’s Drug Store, my employer, George Rafferty, gave me a few rules of conduct that he wished me to observe. He told me to be courteous, attentive, and accurate; to listen to the customers’ requests, and not to try to tell them what they wanted. “It is a good thing,” said he, “to remember that the customer is always right.” The instructions sounded simple enough and were easily followed while the “boss” was around, but when I was left in charge, things began to get complicated. I soon learned that with my new position I had, apparently, acquired a rather important status and my townsmen had gained a certain amount of confidence in me. In fact, some of them acted as if I had been suddenly endowed with superior knowledge on various subjects. I was consulted in divers cases. I had to know the antidote for an overdose of calomel, the best food for baby, the best nail polish for stopping runs in stockings, a cure for the baby’s colic and for grandpa’s rheumatism, and the advantages and disadvantages of brands of lipstick. No matter how wrong the question was, I had to know the right answer. Eight Just before Christmas, a boy came in and asked for a plaster of Paris set. I gave it to him, and as he left, I envisioned a future sculptor at work. In no time he was hack with a note from Mama condemning all “stupid high school boys,” and ordering a box of “Evening in Paris” perfumes. One man demanded hair thinner; yes, hair thinner. A woman asked for razor blades. “Double, or single edge, please?” I inquired, politely. “Oh! I don’t know,” she sighed. “Just give me a tube of lipstick.” I have become acquainted, also, with the boy who buys a box of Kleenex and a half hour later comes back and indignantly demands Pinex cough syrup; with the girl who is not sure whether it’s “2 in 1 machine oil” or “2 in 1 shoe polish” that she was sent for; and with a host of other absent-minded individuals. But I must not complain. “Remember,” George says regularly, “the customer is always right. Don’t try to be a mind reader. Listen carefully, and you won’t make mistakes.” “All right, George.” Paul Delaney, ’43 ___________________ THE MIRROR THE MIGHTIEST FALL THE winter snows had made the usually quiet Schuylkill a roaring torrent. The trees on the West Consho-hocken hills were showing signs of spring. There was little evidence of activity along the water front, however, except for the white smoke that emerged from “Moe’s Diner”, a ramshackle eating house, at the bend of the river. Doctor Marshall, noted physician and lecturer, entered the small cabin. His coat collar was turned up; his brown fedora pulled low over his eyes. Gone were his usually dignified air and conservative attitude. In fact, he looked exactly as he felt, furtive and nervous. Hesitantly, he surveyed his surroundings; then his eyes fell on a disreputable figure slouching at a table in the center of the smoke-filled room. He walked in that direction. “Howdy, Doc.” drawled ‘Frcnchy’ Durvaine without rising, and dropped on the table the battered hat which he had been slowly twirling in his hand. Doctor Marshall merely nodded acknowledgment of the greeting, and, removing his hat, wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He glanced around at several shabby figures at another table and then seated himself beside the Frenchman. “You know what to do, Durvaine?” he inquired in a low tone. “Sure, Doc,” replied his henchman. “It’s going to be easy.” “Good,” answered Marshall. “Now listen carefully. The store closes at ten. It usually takes the clerk a half hour to go over the books, so I’d say eleven would be the best time.” “Sounds simple enough, Doc, but I don’t see why a man of your position would stoop to—” “Never mind,” snapped Doctor Marshall. “I’m paying you well. Let me do the worrying.” THE MIRROR _________________ “All right. Doctor. It’s your money; I guess it’s your worry, too, not mine.” Frenchy left the shack and headed downtown. It was a cool March evening; an evening that made a person forget the evils and hardships of life. As Durvaine trotted along, his thoughts wandered back to the old doctor. The Frenchman could not understand why any consideration would make a man of the physician’s standing engage in a ‘shady’ undertaking. Marshall was a respected member of his community; in fact he was one of the most prominent men in town. Everyone knew, however, that the doctor had grown a bit morose since Mrs. Marshall’s death Jtve months ago. Perhaps that accounted for his strange behavior. Anyway, Durvaine had never been averse to earning a little easy money, and he was sure the Doctor would take good care of him. These thoughts were still running through his mind when he reached his destination. The store lay in the shadow of a warehouse. The whistle from a tug boat on the river sounded in the silence. For a moment the interloper stood still in the shadows to make sure he was alone. Then he cautiously moved toward the rear of the store, Nm« and with practised hands, jimmied a small window open. With the slyness of a eat, he entered the store. Yes, there was the package jnst where Doc had said it would he. under a small table beside the safe. With the precious parcel in his possession, Durvainc left the building and disappeared into the shadow of the adjacent warehouse. Back at the cafe, Marshall paced the floor impatiently. The ash tray gave evidence of his nervousness. “That fool should be hack by now,’’ he muttered to himself. Sundae “T guess I’ll finish these glasses and dishes,” muttered Ted, the soda-jcrkcr. For two years this had been the tedious task of Ted Price, son of the proprietor of the “Sweete Shoppe,” the favorite high school haunt of the neighborhood. Most of the “dates” ended at the “Shoppe.” Indeed, it served as a part-time residence for the young folks, who liked “to trip the light fantastic” and enjoy the chatter of their crowd. Every week there was an ice cream specialty. This week it was the sundae-special. and its popularity kept Ted behind a mountain of dishes that seemed never to diminish. “Another order for a snndae-speeial.” he groaned, “and I’ll collapse. I must have made a thousand of them tonight.” As he was polishing some glasses. Ted caught sight of a suspicious-looking man approaching. “Tough looking character,” he said to himself. “I wonder if he could be a member of the gang that’s been staging the holdup parties about town.” The newcomer walked slowly to one of the rear booths, seated himself, studied the menu carefully, and gave his order tersely. Then his small, heady eyes darted furtively about as he inspected all parts of the store within his range of vision. In a few minutes, Ten At that instant Durvainc walked in. “Well, Doc, here’s your loot. I don’t know why a man like you wants to rob a store. Hope it’s worth the trouble.” “It is,” retorted the Doctor. “That, my friend, is a rare and valuable parcel — not money — not jewels — but a pound of honcst-to-goodncss coffee — my favorite brand. I haven’t had a good cup of coffee since the rationing started, and I can’t stand it any longer.” John Edmund Crawford, ’43 Special Ted brought his order, and hurried back to his mountain of dishes. On the wall were mirrors in which the boy could watch his customers. While apparently absorbed in his dish-washing activities, Ted's attention was fixed on the back booth. Now and then, he and the stranger would exchange glances in the mirror. Ted grew nervous as he noticed that the customer glared at his plate but did not eat. Suddenly, the man arose and approached the counter. Ted warily watched his movements, and inwardly grew tense. “This is it,” he decided. “Maybe he will make the usual approach; ask change for five dollars and then request the contents of the cash register.” With this, the hoy reached for an empty bottle that was standing near the register and waited for action. The man was now beside him and the clerk asked, “Do you wish something else, sir?” “Yes, I do, and I want it right now. Put down that bottle, too, and listen to me! I ordered a sundae-special and you gave me a banana split. What kind of store is this?” With a sigh of relief, Ted hastened to fill the order, muttering to himself: “Boy, I never thought I’d really get a kick out of making a sundae-special.” Theresa Poysden, ’4i THE MIRROR ABODE OF MEMORIES CRADLED in the hills surrounding Spring Mill is a comfortable, old vellow house of Revolutionary vintage. Encircled by the ancient Barren Hill Road and Hector Street, it gazes down on the Schuylkill River worrying along, twisting, and winding through the valley in the distance. A stone wall, broken by a flight of marble steps, flanks the vine covered porch. The house is outlined against a hack-drop of motley colored hills terraced with graceful white birches, and faces a silver stream that winds its solitary way through meadows and fields, passes an ancient stone mill, crosses under a modern, highway, and ex-! pands, finally, into romantic Bubbling Springs. It is a well-built old house with thick walls and the sloping roof so characteristic of the period. Six heavy doors with iron locks and bolts give access to it. Why anyone needed six doors remains a mystery to this day. The entrance reveals a hall ■which extends the length of the house, southern fashion. There are fourteen rooms in all. They are airy and spacious with high ceilings and deep window sills. Every window frames a picture: dense forests of green clothe the hills; wheat fields, touched with dabs of gold, glimmer in the sun; the river becomes a stream of liquid fire, in the setting sun; and blue swallows dart about under the dusty rafters of the crumbling stone flour mill. A colonial staircase affords a view of old-fashioned bedrooms on the second floor, and an enclosed stairway leads to the third floor, where the busy drone of bees and the domestic chattering of birds can be heard under the friendly eaves. On the ground floor the large, airy living rooms have an air of charm and hospitality. White doors and woodwork and an antique mantle-piece lend the place colonial atmosphere. THE MIRROR ________________________ To the rear of the house, but with no connecting door, is a small square room known as a smoke-house. Here meat was cured and tobacco ripened. Even today the strong odor of tobacco fills the room. Next to this is a kitchen with a big copper sink, deep cupboards, and a Dutch oven built into the wall. Beautifully wrought black iron doors keep in the heat when a roaring fire blazes beneath the oven. Great black pots resembling witches’ cauldrons, speak eloquently of our forefathers’ love of good fare. Tradition has it that Washington gave the house to Lafayette, who had grape vines brought from France and, before he returned to his native land, cultivated a vineyard which covered many acres. The deep purple wine produced from these grapes was well known around the countryside. Even today a few straggling survivors remain of the once great vineyard. Many fruitless attempts have been made to uncover a tunnel which leads from the cellar to the river. In the pre-Civil War days this tunnel was used as an underground railroad by runaway slaves. It extends from the river to the house, and from there to a network of subterranean passages which lead to Plymouth Meeting three miles away. Through this maze of channels, slaves escaped to safety farther north. The house has a witchery all its own, for the cobwebs of antiquity are woven into each corner of it. W’e inherited it, and for three years now it has been to us a haven of love and peace. Our family is large and the big rambling place suits us. We have all our old furniture and the things we like best around us; and these things combined transform the old house into a true and happy home — “the spot of earth supremely blest. A dearer sweeter spot than all the rest.” Patricja Dobbin, ’45 Eleven The Model “A” DEFORE I had my license, when I was young and gay, 1 used to ‘swipe’ a car from the lot behind our house. I always thought that I was fooling my father, hut now I realize that I was mistaken. The car we used to sneak out was a four-cylinder Ford, commonly known as a model “A.” We christened it “Spot Job.” It was a sharp roadster job, with red leather seats, (we painted them red I. During the day, when the “boss” wasn’t looking, we put gas in the car. At night, under cover of darkness, we pushed it out of hearing distance before we started it. The only place we could go was “Conshy,” because we were afraid of the “cops” elsewhere. The model “A” had a top speed of 20 miles per hour. We would put the roof down and ride around, around, and around, that is around the next block, then two squares along the cemetery and two squares hack. Everytime we saw a police car we would stop, and be about to visit the grave of some lately departed friend or inspect an ancient tombstone. One day my father asked me why I always parked the Ford out by the back gate. I told him that it was parked out there so that nobody would sec it and want to buy it. He made no remark, whatsoever, so one afternoon when the printer was painting names on the side of a truck, I tried to imitate him, and I put my name, “Matt” on one side of the car, and McNamara’s nickname, “Toot,” on the other side. The car finally ended up with stripes and designs all over it. Still, Pop said nothing. We were always on the alert for a car with a radio in it, so that we could switch it to “Spot Job,” but we never found one. On a bright, warm Sunday morning, up popped a man looking for a Ford roadster. Within an hour, the “Spot Job” disappeared from my sight, and I have never seen it since. The separation was a tragic episode in my life. I was “mad” at “Pop” for awhile, hut he never noticed it. Now things are different, however. I have a nice new Chevrolet and an honest-to-goodness, authentic driver’s license, hut I fear that I will never again have the fun I used to have driving “Spot Job,” mv good old Model “A.” Matt Moore, ’43 “Blackout” ' I ’HE shrill sound of the sirens brought me back to reality. I could not imagine why all the whistles were blowing. Then it suddenly dawned on me — we were having our first total blackout. The air raid wardens came running out of their homes, putting their identification bands on their arms. They shouted to the people to get off the streets. I decided to make a run for home, but was very rudely stopped by a police car. The officer told me to take shelter at once. I crawled into a factory entrance. I had alwavs thought that I had a fair share of courage, but, being alone in a deserted door way made me shudder. I tried to think of all the pleasant things that had happened to me, but all I could imagine was what awful things might happen to me. Tensely, I waited and, then grew cold, as I heard stealthy footsteps coming close to my shelter. It proved to be only the air raid warden, hut he moved so quietly that he frightened me stiff. I asked him if I could accompany him, hut he only grunted something about my not having an arm identification. So I had to remain alone till the “all clear” sounded. Then I made a dash for the best place on earth to be in a blackout — HOME. Alice Hoy, '43 ——--------------------------------------------- THE MIRROR Twelve LITTLE islands, rising like mountains in the sea, were slowly fading from sight, as I sailed away from the Emerald Isle to America, the land of hope, a few years ago. Visions of the land I love were lingering in my mind, as 1 kept looking hack from the fast moving ship and wondering when I would return to Eire. It was a September evening and the brilliance of the sun casting playful shadows over the lofty roof tops of the many quaint buildings of Queenstown, was a contrasting background for the white foaming waters of the turbulent sea. As I watched, the lofty houses on one side seemed to rise straight out of the water like a wall concealing the richness of natural beauty which is found not only around this harbor hut in all parts of Ireland. On the other side of Queenstown, I could see the roads lined with beautiful trees which formed arches over them; the numerous abrupt turns of the narrow roads winding their way like harmless serpents, to some lone white cottage; the manv - shaped weather-beaten rocks, overhung on the sides with moss and green foliage; the bold cliffs and over them white sea gulls with bosoms of snow hovering with motionless wings, beneath a pale and peaceful sky. I was in tears when the green valleys of Erin faded from my sight and, as the ship glided swiftly from the shore and the land faded into a hazy mist, my inner vision grew stronger, and I remembered the mountains with their THE MIRROR dreamy and holy memories; the melodious ripple of the little streams trickling down the hillsides, the woody paths with the faint rays of the sun showing through the leafy branches of the trees, robins twittering on the fairy hawthorns, and fields of corn, swaying in the breeze like lakes of gold. I envisioned silent brooks flowing through ferny woods and highways, wild flowers growing on the banks, the hollow glens, the cows on the flourishing pastures, and the roads free from hurried traffic. I thought of the happy hours I had spent watching the pure white swans which are so beautiful a part of the water life of Eire. They delight in wading in the shallow, inflowing fresh waters, and picking up delicious tidbits from admirers. All day they are out foraging, and when the little ones are weary they climb upon their mother’s back and she folds her comforting wings about them in such a way as to make a little nook for them to hide in to their heart’s content. As night steals on, the mother draws placidly away to a cozy little corner, in search of shelter and rest. Nor could I forget, the sheep in the tall meadows, the coziness of the white-washed thatched cottages, with the wealth of roses clustering around them, the potato fields with beautiful pale lavendar blossoms, the vegetable garden mingled with flowers, and the rolling hills and fair fields which in summer are dotted with daisies. Thirteen Now here in Conshohocken. I begin to feel less lonely, as I sit in my aunt's garden under the shady branches of a maple tree, and, in the soft summer breeze, feel the perfumed kisses of the flowers on my face. When 1 raise my eyes to the encircling wooded hills, they remind me of the hills of holy Ireland, and my heart goes winging across the seas to the loved ones at home — iny mother — a busy little woman, w hose hands are brown and toil worn — and my five little brothers for whom she works so hard. I often think of the old rambling farmhouse where I spent many happy hours with them in love and laughter beneath a silvery' roof. I miss the kindly spot and the friendly town where everyone was known, and where all the lads and lassies turned out to the lilting tunes of the fiddles at the village dance and fair. Though 1 love my new home amid the Conshohocken hills, part of my heart is still in Erin, and so my dreams lie far beyond the waves. Many a day I long for “Picturesque Ireland,’’ with its strange history and legend, its witching grace and charin. Mary Fitzpatrick, ’44 Brothers 'TWO “regular fellows” are my young brothers, Johnny and George. They live in a world of their own. surrounded by comic books, tin soldiers, and chocolate candy bars apparently unmoved by the ordinary events of life. They judge all persons and affairs by a mysterious standard intelligible only to boys and the gifted few who understand them. Their daily exploits would fill a book. Johnny, the elder, and “wearer of the long pants” is the chief in any enterprise, while Georgie is just the supporting cast. Together they ride the range in our back-yard. From the roof of the garage, they sight hordes of Indians and by blood-curdling yells give warning to the scattered settlers of the approach of the savages. They fight gory battles in our living room, where the sofa and chairs serve as forts, pirate vessels, or medieval strongholds. Both practice the art of fisticuff's on each and every favorable occasion, and blackened eyes, broken teeth, swollen jaws are all part of their happy carefree lives. Mother, however, knows that they are “just boys,” that they “mean no harm,” and that they have “good hearts.” One morning, during Lent, I went into our church before the eight o’clock Mass. As I passed down one of the cloistered side aisles, along the walls of which are arranged the Stations of the Cross, I came upon a small group of children standing before the twelfth station, the Crucifixion. As I drew closer to them, in the minster gloom. I recognized John and George. Their eyes were fixed on the figure of Christ, and on their young faces was an expression of such rapt devotion, such profund sympathy, that I was breathless with wonder. The every-day world had ceased to exist for them. They were on Calvary, outside faraway Jerusalem, and all the intensity of their souls looked from their young eyes as they gazed on our crucified Lord. As I passed them, I whispered, “Say a prayer for me,” and. with utmost gravity, they inclined their heads in assent. The question of today is: “Has Christianity failed?” While there is still a soldier left fighting for the freedom that is America’s heritage and dying on foreign battle fields with the name of God on his lips; while there is still a little boy remaining to lift compassionate eyes to the Cross — who can say that Christianity has failed? Fourteen Francis Ann Botto, ’44 ____ THE MIRROR SCHOLARLY GREMLINS ■COR centuries the world has been acquainted with gnomes and pixies, and has more or less forgotten them. The lagging interest in fairyland cl uracters, how'ever, has been revived lately with the advent of a troublesome little clan, the gremlins, reputed to be the black sheep of the Leprechauns of Ireland. They are generally visible only to the air-minded, but although hitherto scornful of earthly habitats, the famed gremlins of the airw'ays have condescended to inhabit our school .If each misdemeanor perpetrated within our classrooms were to be traced, chances are that a gremlin would be found at the source. These mischievous little elves are about ten or twelve inches in height, and since Walt Disney has drawn a number of them, many people are familiar with their appearance. The little people are adapted to diverse jobs. Students are constantly plagued by the ink-drinking gremlins who delight in draining the last drop of ink from a fountain pen, usually during a test, when the victim has no opportunity to refill it. A particularly troublesome group devote themselves entirely to filching pencils and hiding them in some, as yet, undiscovered cache. The rascals thrive on a diet of chalk, supplemented by loose-leaf paper. This satisfactorily explains the almost constant dearth of these materials. Quite a few gremlins have shown remarkable artistic tendencies and have marked text-books and school furniture. So surreptitously do they work, that many a student lias been astonished to find himself being punished for having damaged school property. When this happens, the little fellows responsible sit back and rock in silent laughter. Of course, the student could explain that the blame should be placed upon “them gremlins,” but since, to date, every teacher is a scoffer and, consequently, has never seen a gremlin, this excuse would be quite useless. Gremlins have, also, a well organized and highly successful Propaganda Division and are thoroughly trained in the Art of Persuasive Speech. Their rumors are well placed, and often result in a susceptible pupil’s absenting himself from school under the pretext of illness, or the urgent need for a trip to Philadelphia. There is, however, one advantage in having gremlins in our school, students, at last, have a never complaining scape-goat upon which they can blame their shortcomings. Ruth O’Bryan, ’44 Playful Moon The Moon tripped up the flagstone Played hide-and-seek with violets walk. That grew near the gardens edge. And, skirting the stately hedge Betty Hf.ffernen. ‘41 THE MIRROR Fifteen Black CERULEAN skies formed a great canopy over the Conshohocken hills; song sparrows warbled in the trees, and the heavy scent of honeysuckle filled the air. In the comfortable lee of a gently undulating pair of wooded hills was a wide expanse of green pasture dotted with daisies and buttercups. Through this rustic paradise wandered a sparkling creek, which widened and formed a little pool at the foot of a great oak. The disreputable figure of a man of about forty sprawled dejectedly beneath the tree. Any passerby would surmise that he was fishing, but, though a pole and line dangled from his hand, he had little of the appearance of an alert angler. A battered black hat crowned his ebony hair; a loose cotton shirt and baggy trousers of identical material covered his lanky but rugged frame. His feet were bare. In repose his visage was harmless enough, but one could imagine the ferocity it might assume if he were The Air ANYONE who has lived in the country will understand the title of this article, “The Air is Good.” I firmly believe that the statement is true: in fact, I think that the air is the only good thing about the country. City dwellers talk dreamily about the quaint well outside the kitchen door, the melody of the woodlands, and the droning of myriad insect choirs. The buzzing of bees and mosquitoes is music to your ears? Yes, if you happen to hear the sounds in the movies, for that is where many “lovers of the country” get their ideas. The truth is that, in the country, life is painfully realistic. It is too warm in the afternoon to sit in the open and enjoy the air, and at dusk the four winged invaders, mosquitoes you know, storm the porch. Screens are a help but the mosquitoes, like the gremlins, are adapted to several Jake aroused. His coal-black moustache, of the handlebar or “Gustavus Adolphus” type, had earned him the soubriquet of “Black Jake.” Several yards from the brook stood his dilapidated shack, which was as disreputable in appearance as its owner. The interior had never seen paint; streaks of daylight showed through the roof, and a single window, devoid of glass, faced the stream. Black Jake, long accustomed to sudden interruptions and split-second decisions, suddenly “froze” as he noticed a furtive movement in the interior of the cabin. Through half-closed eyes, he warily watched as a figure as shabby as his own, though not so sinister, approached the window and thrust through it a lengthy, black tubular object. At the same moment, the intruder’s stentorian shout pierced the tranquil scene: “Hey, Jake, byar’s yer umberella back. I’ll lay it on yer shelf.” Edw. V. Fineran, ’43 Is Good jobs. There are the wire cutting mosquitoes which chisel through the screen, and the ones that can crawl through the tiniest of holes. Fantastic, you murmur? Well, it’s as I say; you know what you see in the movies. We moved to the country and bought a “romantic old farmhouse in a beautiful setting.” “Cool, fragrant woods” lay on one side of the house, and a great field “dotted with daisies and buttercups” on the other. The woods gave us snakes, and the field, mice, and both sections contributed spiders which literally laid seige to the dwelling. It was fun drawing water from the well until we wanted to take a bath on Saturday night; then the clear cold well water nearly finished us. But of course you won’t listen; you’ll go out and buy an old farmhouse. Well, go out and try it; it may be fun. Lawrence Murphy, ’45 ________________ THE MIRROR Sixteen Dreamer’s Refuge EVERY morning, when I awaken, I watch the feathery plumes of the stately willow swaying before my window and every evening, as I retire, I see the graceful branches swinging to a languorous tempo, while the golden moonbeams silently dance upon the slender, tapering leaves. This old tree has been in our backyard for generations. It is situated on a plot of ground sloping downward to the lower level of what is known in our community as the “Baby Jungle,” a wooded section of huge low-branched trees extending north from Fourteenth Avenue to Harmonville. Throughout my childhood this tree was for me an alluring fairyland. Many times I crept into the space encircled by the hanging foliage and, leaning my head against the rough surface of the tree trunk, listened, not with my ear, but with my heart to the varied melodies that echoed in the enclosure as the soft breezes sported about my leafy sanctuary. Curtained off from the rest of the world, I was in a bewitched land at the edge of which the denizens of fairyland held court. As the long feathery plumes swayed in the starlight or quivered in the sunlight, fairies and elves garbed in suits of silver or in rainbow colors held high festival at the rim of this charmed circle. Noiselessly, they moved about, dancing to the stately tempo of the minuet or pirouetting to a lively pixie tune. Oft times I listened to the merry elfland choristers singing the haunting melodies that no one has ever put to music, but that those who have heard carry in their hearts forever. As the years passed, and life grew less fanciful and more realistic, the willow became a place of strategic retreat whenever one of my many pranks was uncovered. Here, guilty and nervous, I awaited the peremptory summons of my mother’s voice calling me to render account for some misdemeanor; here I sought solace when punishment had been meted out to me; here I dreamed dreams of a glorious future. Now, whenever I am puzzled and want to think out some problem, I sit under the willow to ponder and to listen to its voice. I imagine that it possesses the power of understanding my thoughts, and tries to impart to me some of the wisdom it has acquired through the years during which it has silently witnessed life’s great dramas. I love my “old hereditary tree”—I love my enchanted bower under its hanging branches. To it I say: “Willow in thy breezy moan I can hear a deeper tone; Through thy leaves come whispering low. Faint sweet sounds of long ago— Willow, sighing willow! Thomas Walsh, ’45 Manners Today THE clever verses and accompanying sketches by Kay Reilly and Lauren Cook, respectively, which are featured in each issue of “Good Housekeeping” expose bad manners and inconsiderate actions in a pointed and up-to-date manner. Persons who would not spend the time reading formal rules of etiquette find the same ideas conveyed forcefully and concisely in these amusing cartoons and witty verses. The appropriate drawings clarify each situation presented, and satirize breaches of etiquette in an inoffensive manner. The Reilly • Cook feature performs a definite service in a streamlined, efficient fashion. Ruth O’Bryan, ’44 THE MIRROR ____________________________________—----------- Seventeen Great Event T TARRY Davis came roaring around the corner of Elm and Wood Streets at breakneck speed, barely missing the mailman, who was plodding his weary way along the avenue. Harry then began to gather more speed, which made him look like a second Jesse Owens. All this while, he was emitting warlike whoops which terminated finally in a blood-curdling yell as he jumped over the fence surrounding his front lawn. Across the yard, up the steps, he galloped when—wham— he was brought to a halt by the front door. “Well, what do you know?” he demanded, dazedly. “The front door’s locked.” Harry’s nose, which had collided with the door, was sore and so was Harry. He, therefore, proceeded to take his spite out on the hell, which he jabhed viciously. The effect was startling. As if by magic, his sister appeared at the door. Without as much as a smile he dashed past her and promptly proceeded to yell, “Mom, Mom! Where are you?” His sister, Joan, then raised her voice above his and screamed, “Mother isn’t home. What’s the matter with you?” “Look at this. Look! Look!” he shouted. Joan stared in awe. For once in her life she was speechless. She just couldn’t believe her eyes. With another whoop, Harry grabbed her and almost smothered her with kisses. At this juncture, Mrs. Davis walked in and nearly dropped dead at the unwonted display of affection. Harry dashed over to her and handed her a card. M rs. Davis gulped, staggered, and sat down heavily, trying to regain her composure. In complete amazement, she stared at the square of pastboard in her hand. For the first time in his school career, Harry had an “A” on his report card. James Watson, 44 Carefree Dancers 'fcTIMBLY the sparks arise, irend their way swiftly up the flue, and die in the -L v Sooty stillness of the sombre chimney. The multi-colored flames leap high, piercing the enshrouding darkness with brilliant thrusts of shimmering light, and, to the staccato tempo of the night away. River’s Journey Through the leafy forest. Past the old stone mill. Skirting rocks and ■hedges, The river travels still. Little trees that listen To its magic song. Sigh with disappointment When it speeds along. Marie Rotosky, ’45 adding embers, noiselessly dance the Thomas Walsh, ’45 Fall Comes dismal rain. Then frosty sky; The brids fly south And flowers die. The hills look on With stolid face; Awaiting Spring's Returning grace. Mary Ann Ochnich, ’44 ______ THE MIRROR Eighteen t The Smoking Habit MANY a time as I contemplated Grandfather knocking the ashes from his ancient pipe, I observed that at the conclusion of the ritual of cleaning it, he refilled it with fresh tobacco and continued puffing as before. His efforts to keep the pipe lighted always intrigued me, for he burnt more matches than he did tobacco. Now, I do not smoke so I cannot rhapsodize about the joys of the weed, but I find the idiosyncrasies of various addicts quite interesting. In these days of alphabet classification, I think it best to identify the smokers according to the current fashion. There is the smoker of class 1A — the fellow who has a touch of perfection in knocking the ashes into the tray provided for the purpose. The 4F smoker is he who simply lets the cigarette burn away until there’s nothing left hut ashes — on the floor. Just the other day I noticed a young gentleman who was smoking, and he handled the cigarette with such a light touch that I could think of no other name to call him except M. P., Mr. Perfecto. He used a crystalline holder that was the quintessence of elegance. Noted wherever he joins friends in smoking, is the Y. D. B. or Yankee Doodle Boy, who instead of riding to town on a pony, uses a “Camel.” He claims, “These Camels give me a lift when my nerves are all shattered.” The most common smoker, probably. is the young gentleman who enjoys all brands, but never owns any of his own. I refer to Mr. O. P. B., the lovable chap who prefers Other People’s Brands. Many smokers are the C. C. T. or the Choo-Choo Train variety. They are “huff-huff impressarios,” who constantly obscure your vision by pouring forth smoke in any and every direction. I also get a “kick” out of the stylish smokers who use flashy cigarette lighters, for nine times out of ten, their lighters are minus the “flash.”i Older men often use a “Chew as you go” plan; they chew most of the cigar pausing now and then for an occasional puff. One day, my Dad was enjoying a Philly cigar in this manner when Uncle Frank entered our living room and, with an inquisitive stare, exclaimed, “Say, John, your chew’s on fire!” The case against smoking as far as I am concerned, is an open-and-closed affair. I cannot imagine why so many are slaves of the habit. Grandfather tells me that I do not know what I am talking about. He says, “Smoking is a manly habit. You never need fear a man when he’s smoking.” Well, I do not contradict him, but I am convinced that I could not enjoy seeing my money go up in smoke. Perhaps there’s some Scotch in me. Joseph McGuican, ’43 THE MIRROR Vin«t«eit Story of a Boy, His Girl, and His Country THE DAY had come, and Jack was going into the army, hy way of Selective Service. As he and Betty, his best and only girl, sat together in the little railroad station in their home town, they recalled their school days, which they now realized were the most joyful of their short lives. “Remember when we first met, Betty? I came running down the school steps and knocked a load of hooks from your arm. 1 helped you pick them up, and insisted on carrying them for you. You weren’t so happy about my generosity, because you didn’t want to be seen with a mere six-teen-year-old child with freckles on his nose. I bet you thought you were big that day, just because you were seventeen a few days ahead of me.” “Yes, John,” Betty answered. “Do you remember our first date? I was afraid to order a double chocolate malt in Sally’s Sandwich Shop for fear you might not have the money to pay for it. I heard the ‘gang’ ‘ribbing’ you the next day. ‘John, darling, the baby’s crying; would you mind walking him? I have been over a hot stove all day.’ ” “And our first Christmas! You gave me a tie and I gave you a bottle of good five-and-ten perfume. That night 1 got into a fight with one of the ‘gang’, because he said the perfume made you smell better.” “John, how about the night of the senior prom? We didn’t go together because of a quarrel a few days before; but we did come home together.” “Then, graduation, we were both so proud of our diplomas after four years’ bard work. Here comes the train, Betty. Don’t forget to write every day. With your encouragement, I may be a hero yet.” As the train slowed down to a halt, Betty and John exchanged an almost silent farewell. For a year Betty wrote every day and received a letter almost as frequently. Every once in a while, John was home on leave. In his last letter he revealed that he had been promoted to Master Sergeant and that he had had a chance to go to officers’ training school, but had refused it because he wanted to get into the fight as soon as he could. Shortly afterwards, John wrote that he was going overseas. For weeks afterward Betty scanned the papers. She jumped each time the telephone rang; every footstep on the porch made her hasten to the door. She lived for news of John, hut none came. It was raining very hard the day that Betty was called over to the home of John’s parents. When she arrived, there were no smiling faces to greet her. John’s father handed her a communication from Washington, D. C. The message was short and decisive. Two sentences stood out in searing words. “The Distinguished Service Cross for service beyond the call of duty posthumously awarded to Sergeant John Aloysius O’Hara. Killed in action.” William Jerome Johnson, ’43 Memory I HAVE a memory of a cool clear pond with a wall of rock and a green field beyond; of maple trees with branches bending to rippling currents through meadows wending; of ducks gracefully swimming along and robins singing their carefree song; of fishes darting here and there to catch part of their daily fare. All this with heartbreak I remember, as I start back to school the first day in September. Thomas Tammany, ’45 ____________________________________________ THE MIRROR T wenty A SUBTERRANEAN HAUNT On a gently eloping windswept hill with the surrounding knolls for its only companions, lies a lonely heap of white ruins. This pile of ruhble is all that remains of an old farmhouse which was once the proud possession of the late George and Linda Corson of Plymouth Meeting. At the foot of the hill, a creek rushes crazily through a rocky gully, and two quarry holes, believed to have been formed by an ice glacier, flank the stones and add a note of mystery and remoteness to the surroundings. Close to the ruins, is an old stone cave which is reached by a short flight of moss-covered stone steps which go down into the ground. The cave itself is circular and has a fireplace in the rear with a round opening in the roof to allow the smoke to escape. This cavern was formerly a favorite rendezvous for the boys of the neighborhood. Here they met for their pow-wows, and here they spread their banquets. An ancient somewhat rickety horsehair sofa, the only furniture in the cavern, was the seat of honor reserved for the chieftain of the “Skull and Crossbones Club.” Before a roaring fire, these refugees from menial household chores, sat and swapped stories, while potatoes roasted under the glowing coals and pork and beans simmered in an old frying pan held over the fire by a red-faced boy. A feeling of camaraderie prevailed at these meetings, and the club members resented the intrusion of any alien note such as the voices of their sisters and little brothers calling them home to supper or some other phase of their ordinary routine. I often watched them leaving the cave, enveloped in an air of mystery, and I wondered what magic realm they thought they were forsaking as they cautiously crept up the old steps and reluctantly trudged to their prosaic homes. Today, the cave is rapidly deteriorating, and the boys are abandoning it for safer places. Many of those who once held rendezvous in the old vault are with the armed forces all over the world. As they sit down to army pork and beans, I wonder if thoughts of feasts in the glamorous old cave ever intrude upon them? Dorothy Strycharz, ’45 Remembrance Between the yellow pages of a diary I found a tiny rose; its petals faded and crumpled; its fragrance fled. I recalled our parting when in a poignant hour from your golden hair, in a gesture of love you took that lovely flower. It came as a precious gift to me for you were fairest of all 1 knew. I promised to keep your token forever; then you left me and I had only this to remember you. I know that often, dearest, you've given a flower from your hair to the “one you loved best,” but do you think the other “fellows” preserved theirs with such care? Robert Aigner, ’44 Twentyon THE MIRROR Quail Hunting QUAIL or bobwhite abound near my home in Plymouth Meeting, and I have often spent hours watching these clever little birds. They are about the size of robins, with stout bodies and short tails, and are among the most lovable of the denizens of birdland. In this vicinity, quail are hatched in June, and look like little balls of brown feathers. They are able to run and hide at once, and learn quickly to obey the call of the mother. She teaches them to find berries, grass, and seeds, and to “freeze.” This last is a very necessary accomplishment, for quail are mainly terrestrial in habit and huddle on the ground, hiding in hushes and tall grass and, very often, their lives depend on their ability to “freeze,” that is, remain perfectly still. In spite of the charm of my feathered friends I had, for a long time, wanted to have a shot at them and waited patiently for a chance to go gunning. The open season on quail comeB in the autumn when the blue skies shine with brilliant clearness and the first nip of frost striking the trees on the hills and in the valley turns the leaves into the vivid scarlet, rich russet, and gold hues of November’s gorgeous tapestries. The morning dew was still lowering as I set out one brisk November morning in search of a covey of quail that had eluded me for a week. The wheat fields, wild raspberry bushes, and the woodland behind our house furnish ideal hiding places for the canny bobwhite, and I knew that somewhere in the tall grass at the edge of the meadow or under the bramble bushes, my elusive friends were concealed. Suddenly, I stumbled upon a nest containing ten rotten eggs. “Ah,” thought I, “this will he a good place to hide and wait for a few hungry quail,” for nests are generally built near feeding places and this one, right at the edge of the wheat field, was hidden by tall grass. I was day dreaming of quail on toast when my lost covey appeared out of the foliage at my very feet, and flew straight up. I aimed and fired, but, I am happy to say that I missed every bird. Rather smugly, as though they knew that I would not fire a second barrel, they sailed leisurely away. I then and there resolved to confine my hunting to rabbits. For days I had looked forward to shooting quail and, when the chance arrived, “buck fever” arrived simultaneously. In a little while I heard the whistled call of the old bird reassembling the brood, and from the bushes came the repeated responses of the rest of the covey. I have never heard sweeter music. Joseph Hot, ’45 Paradise Lost XifY STORY begins as I am woefully climbing out of bed about ten o’clock after I had been called about eight. So what! It was my last day at home and there was no use exerting myself. I hastily ordered my kid-brother to shine my shoes. My mother took care of the packing, and there was little for me to do except to offer the usual farewell. Well, about four o’clock I left on the train bound for Camp Dix. I arrived at the camp too late to unpack my clothes or to view the surroundings. The next morning, or maybe it was still the middle of night, I was awakened by the infernal blast of a bugle, and I automatically reached for the alarm clock. Instead, a brawny hand took hold of mine and I was helped rudely out of bed. (Continued on Page Thirty) T wentyttco THE MIRROR Nocturnal Scholar The moon, an inquisitive maiden. Crept through the schoolyard fence; And glided across the dusty bricks. Heedless of consequence. She peered through the library casement Into the quiet gloom; Then stepping across the ivindotv sill Drifted into the room. The books lay asleep in the shadoivs After a weary day; She rudely awoke them from their dreams Then teasingly slipped away. Ruth O’Bryan, ’44 Dreaming I love to sit and watch the sky, While fleecy clouds go drifting by; I dream of being way up there Without a trouble or a care. I’d walk upon the mist by day; And help God put the sun away; And then I’d light the moon and stars, And fret the dark with silver bars. I’d ring the chimes in lofty spires; I’d harmonize with angel choirs; And when with travel I was through, I’d ride a rainbow back to you. Peggy McGrath, ’45 Forest Slumber Swaying grasses, silvery waters. Faerie lanterns at my feet; In my forest camp I slumber Far, far from the city street. ’Neath a blanket made of moonbeams Through the starlit night I dream; Till the elfin kiss of morning Wakes me with the sun’s first gleam. Marie E. Lavan, ’44 THE MIRROR _______________________ Princess Night Princess night has come to our valley; She is dressed as a lady of old; In robes of imperial splendor. She’s a vision of beauty untold. Her blue gown is studded with stardust; The moon—a jade clip in her hair: And over her shadowy shoulders Is a mantle of pale moonbeams rare. Though the night is as ancient as time is. Youth eterne in her dark eyes gleams; Serenely she rules through the ages In the mystical kingdom of dreams. Marjorie DeStefano, ’44 Twenty-three Young Love He held my hand and kissed my cheeks softly.....sweetly. He wrote me love notes every week: printed........neatly. For quite some time 1 lived in Heaven; I was six....my beau was seven. Ruth O’Bryan, ’44 Fairy Tale saw a pixie. Beside the brook; And vowed to catch him By hook or crook. So off I hastened In swift pursuit. But he was warned by A wise otcfs hoot. He ran so fast across the stream, I did not know uthere next to look; Then little brother went to sleep And I put down his fairy book. J. McFadden, ’45 Springtime It is springtime in our valley, And the sun peeps o’er the hills, Gleaming with a cheery radiance As it shines on daffodils. Crocus heads of joy and gladness, Dot the green of sylvan dells; And the bushes by the river Hang out gold forsythia bells. Cherry blossoms pink and fragrant. Lean across the garden wall; Yellow sprays of bright genista Groiv beside the hedges tall. But I sit alone with memories ’Neath the old magnolia tree; Whiled I dream of yesteryear, dear When you wandered here with me. Carolyn Ruser, ’43 Modern Design Grandmother called on us today Driving a brand new Chevrolet; Smartly attired in skirts to her knees. Blew through the house like a mountain breeze; Struck a match on the sole of her shoe; Filled the air with the smoke she blew; “I’m off to the shore for a week” she said, “Don’t call me up unless someone’s dead.” I wish that my grandma was old and gray; Sat in a rocker and sewed all day; Wore gingham aprons and snowy caps; And baked us cookies and gingersnaps; Cured our hurts with a kiss or two Just as grandmothers used to do. Let’s hope that the future will make of me The kind of old lady I’d like to be. Vera McPhilomy, ’45 ______________ THE MIRROR T wenty-jour 4 No Regrets Old Man reposing in the sun Are you glad your work is done? Or do you long for your lost youth? Speak up, old man, and tell the truth. The old man pondered for a while. Then slowly answered rvith a smile; “I do not yearn for yesterday; Time in its flight 1 would not stay. For me, the battle’s almost won; For you, the strife has just begun; I’ve had my share of joy and sorrow; Now I await the great tomorrow.” Mary O’Connor, ’43 Lament Oh saddened, weary, worried tree. To think what winter did to thee! He turned thee black and made thee ill. And left thee lonely on the hill; But do not worry; he will pay. When lovely Spring returns this way. Rose Sirchio, ’43 Winter The hills In robes of snow Stand silently before A court of moon and stars tonight Alone. Catherine Shaffer, ’43 Street Light Streets wet With silver rain Reflect the light in rays Of endless golden streams that die At dawn. Edward V. Fineran, ’43 THE MIRROR ________________________ Tabby For hours he stretches in the sun. And sleeps until the day is done; At night he sings a lonesome tune To serenade the yellow moon. Some days he is too bored to eat, And prowls the halls on restless feet; Then looking through the window pane, Sees sirens beck’ning in the rain. For weeks he will remain away. But, when we think he’s gone to stay. Foot sore, hungry, and so shabby Straggles in our vagrant “Tabby.” Mary O’Connor, ’43 Fickle Spring whispered to the dancing brook That she was on her way; Then all the flowers smiled and donned Their very best array. The daffodils and violets Wore gold and purple gowns; And crocuses and hyacinths Put on their bright new crowns. Then fickle Springtime changed her mind As is a woman’s right; And Winter buried every flower Beneath a pall of white. Peggy McGrath, ’45 America At My Door From my doonvay in the morning, I see the wooded hills. And hear the magic melody, That from the forest thrills. The river flows with liquid grace. Past birches on the shore; O, the beauty of America, Lies at my cottage door. James Gordon, ’44 T wenty-five Work WORK., what a silly theme for a high school essay. I certainly think so, but I am not one who would stop writing just because an assignment is silly. I have my own ideas of work, and the motive behind my writing this composition is the fact that last week I had occasion to observe two men whose ideas of work were very different. One of these individuals is a prominent business man who has lived all his life as a worker. He toiled and sweated till he made a fortune. He worked his way through college; he worked overtime in the office so that he would impress his boss; he impressed his boss so much that he is now the boss himself. Now he has to work hard to impress his employees so they, too, will work hard. With all the money he has, he also has his worries; he must figure his income tax—a very sweet headache, indeed. This, you will say, is nothing more than the old success story. It is, in a way, but don’t throw this aside till you read the story of the other man. His name is Joe. He’s Joe to everybody; everybody likes him; everybody trusts him. Joe has never done a good day’s work in his life. He just loafs around. He earns his bread by cutting a few logs of wood for some farmer. He has no income tax worries. In fact he has no worries at all. He is just a “come-day-go-day-God-send-Sunday” fellow, who is welcome everywhere. Has he the right idea about work? I have written this article, and I had to work to do it. So now I have to worry, because I know SHE will not like it. SHE will say I have “subversive tendencies,” and that I am trying “to undermine the principles of the other fellows.” SHE will say, “Work while it is yet day, for the night cometh when no man can work.” It is night now, and I am working all right; and tomorrow I’ll have to do more of the same thing. I cannot bear to think of it. The more 1 think of it, the worse it gets. Personally, I am all for Joe’s way of living, but so far I have been afraid to tell anybody, for I know I shall just be forced to work a little more. Francis Foi.ey, ’44 Cardinal in the Snow THE snow lay on the hills; against the pale blue heavens, the trees stood stiffly, starkly limned. Suddenly, from a great elm that towered above the little houses along the lane, came the clear, mellow whistle of a cardinal. On the topmost branch of the ancient tree, his brilliant plumage and crested head glittering in the pale sunlight was the redbird. .. .a scarlet gem against the white backdrop of the hills... .telling a weary world that Spring teas surely on her way. Catherine Shaffer. ’43 Farewell Today You went away Courageously, but I. Who love you so, ran quickly home To cry. Mary O’Connor, ’43 ____________ THE MIRROR The Dusk The Dusk-Stole softly o'er The waiting hills. The pale Stars watched the moonlight kiss the flowers Goodnight. Marie McCarrick, ’44 T wenty-six CLARA INGERSOLL warbled her sweetest “Number, please” into the transmitter, then sat staring at the switchboard. Distinctly, she heard a moan. “Number, please,” she said again and waited. Another moan — this time more agonized — sounded over the wire. Clara promptly rang the police department. “Hello, 45th precinct station, Cap’n Murphy speakin’,” answered a voice with a slight tinge of Irish in it. “Hello,” gasped Clara, who, by this time was a bundle of nerves — “I—1 think there is trouble at 1570 Fifth Street — the receiver is off the hook —• and someone is moaning — and — “O. K.,” Captain Murphy, rejoined, “I’ll attend to it,” and hung up. “Reilly,” he yelled in stentorian tones. As if by magic, a blue-uniformed, red-faced, heavy-set policeman appeared. “Get Callahan and go down to 1570 Fifth Street, and see what the trouble is,” ordered Murphy; and then, in a few words, he explained the situation. “O. K.,” answered Sergeant Reilly as he turned and steamed out of the room. To Callahan, who was sprawled all over a table in the outer room he said, “Come on, Callahan, we’ll have to finish our card game later.” On the way over to Fifth Street, the two burly officers discussed the situation. “Here’s the place,” rumbled Reilly, stopping the car and cautiously removing himself from behind the steering wheel. “Yeah,” grunted Callahan, stepping out beside him. They started up the steps of a large gray stone house. “Must belong to some rich lug,” mumbled Reilly. “Yeah, probably half shot,” growled Callahan. “They must all be asleep then, you dope, or else they didn’t pay their THE MIRROR ..__________ electric bill, because there’s no lights on,” remarked Reilly sarcastically. “Shut up and try the door,” snapped Callahan. The door was open and in they went. “I got the switch,” whispered Callahan, as he found the electric button and flooded a spacious hallway with light. “Callahan, you take this side of the hail and look in every room. I’ll take the other side. Look for the telephone, especially.” “O. K.,” wheezed his colleague. The two met in the hall a few minutes later, each to tell the other the same thing — “No soap,” in their language. “O. K. upstairs,” commanded the sergeant. Up the stairs they plodded. Callahan snapped on the light in the first bedroom he encountered. As he did so, an overturned telephone and a black object beside it, caught his eye. From the bundle on the floor proceeded low moans. “For the love of Mike; look at this, would you,” groaned Callahan. “I’m lookin’,” retorted Reilly. Both stood staring at the strange sight. On the floor beside the telephone was a small, black Pomeranian, whimpering pitifully. At this moment a slight feminine figure breezed into the room and, completely ignoring the presence of the officers, ran over to the dog and picked it up, crooning: “What’s the matter, Binky? Were you trying to ’phone to Mama. Couldn’t the bad operator understand?” Binky, safe in her arms, was joyfully yelping away. Turning to the officers, “Mama” cooed: “Oh, officers, isn’t she cute? She was just lonesome and tried to call me up. I hope she did not cause you any inconvenience?” “Oh, no, none at all,” Reilly answered in a strangled voice. Twtmty in- Callahan silently picked up the telephone and replaced the receiver on the hook. Hastily, both officers of the law left the scene of the crime and descended the steps muttering incoherent remarks about Mama and her lonely Binky. Francis Foley, ’44 The Landscape of Ireland SOME people think of the Emerald Isle as a fanciful green Island, hut the beauties of Erin stand alone, characteristic, fascinating, and ennobling, and the landscape has different and unique features, reminiscent of the ancient history and tradition of Ireland. It is richly dowered by nature and the climate of the country contributes largely to its beauty, for the generous rains clothe the Island with a continual cloak of green. From my home I could see the mountains, and watch their rugged crests playing with the storms, and the magical shapes of the clouds changing in a slow majestic motion. In the stillness of a summer evening the hills seemed to brood amid the cloud caps or the lower descending 'mists that cover them. They were a constant challenge to my love of beauty and grandeur. The bridges of Ireland stand out more prominently than any other feature. Their structure is almost uniformly of stone arches, and the railings are low and, of course, built of stone. Often, ivy and other vines cover the structure, a stream of broken water flows beneath, and a stone cottage, or an old castle, monastery, or abbey stands at one end of the bridge. Aside from the green fields and beautiful trees, stone walls which line so many roadways in the Emerald Isle provide an unmatched feature of the Irish landscape. These walls are topped with grass and the daintiest little daisies grow in great abundance upon them. The roadsides, too, are bordered with violets and primroses of various hues. The fields are broken up into small sections, giving a sense of neighborliness and friendship. About large estates there are, frequently, finished stone walls terminating in small gateways of wonderful artistic charm. With their variety of design they give no end of scope for architectural genius. Old monasteries and abbeys, many of them now in ruins are another feature of old Irish architecture. Outside some of these ancient buildings are stone crosses, covered on all sides with sculpture and inscriptions that give evidence that they have stood for many centuries. Their size is impressively great, often reaching to a height of thirty feet. Around places such as Dublin and Waterford, stand fortresses which once defended the valuable harbors. Ireland is: dotted with pictureque ruins of ancient feudalism. When the marauding Danes and pirates occupied the land they built castles in many parts of the Isle. Some guarded the estuaries of rivers, while others protected the passes in the mountains. “Ross Castle”, picturesquely situated on the lower lake of Killarney and dominating the sparkling waters, is a beautiful relic of medieval times. The Irish castles, too, add a romantic touch to the Celtic landscape. Washed by the river’s flood, and crowning the crest of some old cliff, covered with mantling ivy, they give the last necessary charming feature to a countryside abounding in natural beauty. The spirit of the Druids and Monks of old still haunt the ruins of “Dark Rosaleen.” Mary Fitzpatrick, ’44 ____________________ THE MIRROR T tuanty-eight Perseverance TOTHING to the game at all; it’s easy.” This is what the country club “pros” say when talking about golf. But just you make a “stab” at this simple game. First of all you pay a fortune for clubs, balls, anti lessons taken from that man who makes the game sound so easy by his smooth “malarky.” After a few introductory maneuvers you are ready for action. You get out to the course betimes to “get an early start,” as you say. You really want to get there before your fellow club members, so that you may practise a bit. Bravely you march up to the first tee. While planting the tee in the ground, you rehearse the “pro’s” instructions; “Relax; fix the feet firmly; now, a slow backswing.” You follow these instruction perfectly, as you think, but when you look to see that little white pill floating through the air all you see is the blue sky. What has happened? The question is easy to answer; you never came near the ball. Don’t give up yet, though; you’ll learn. Next time you at least dribble the balj off the tee. Then you get a smug satisfied look on your face, and decide to set a new course record. You strive hard for about four hours and, at last, you finish. But where is that course record? The “pro” says it’s easy. Well, I wish you luck; maybe in about thirty years you will set a record. If you do, I beg you never to talk as those easy going “pros” do, and get some other “hackers” like yourself worked up about setting a record. It may be good golf, but it is “not cricket.” Joseph Foley, ’44 Twilight Between the time when Daylight leaves the wood, And o’er it Darkness slowly drops her hood. With sandled feet, the Twilight, for a space Walks through the woodland with unearthly grace Bill Johnson, ’43 The Wind’s Invitation The wind came out of the hills today And whispered softly, “Come and play Among the fleecy clouds with me. I’ll take you far out o’er the sea. And show you magic barques that sail Forever down the rainbotv’s trail. You’ll ride upon a gently breeze High over virgin-forest trees; Life’s hidden beauties you shall vietv, A privilege that’s giv’n to few; And. when we’ve crossed the farthest plain. You’ll find that you are home again.” Mary O’Connor, ’43 THE MIRROR T wenty-nine The Perry Jewels SITUATED in as gloomy an atmosphere as that which surrounded the “House of Usher” is the old Perry mansion. The murky air seems exactly fitted to the shadowy place. The house is of imposing proportions even by daylight, but in the fog it seems actually enormous as it sprawls atop a small hill. The architect, apparently, was a pessimist for the gables, bay windows, and other protrusions glare in contempt at human beings. We approached the house with some trepidation and, halting at the door from which the plate glass had been removed, gazed into the large colonial reception room whose broken window-panes and half-crumbling walls presented a scene of desolation. A huge chandelier dangled periously from the weakened ceiling. The villagers had described this chandelier to us. In fact, they had given us an account of the entire house, including the tale of the missing Perry jewels. According to legend, the sale of the bankrupt Perry family’s goods, to pay off debts accumulated by the last of the clan, had not included the famed Perry jewels. No amount of investigation disclosed any trace of the gems. After the sale, the house was left to decay, and again and again marauding searching parties had explored the old home, hoping to find the treasure, but all failed. Actuated by curiosity, we decided to do a little exploring ourselves. While we hesitated at the door, uncertain about entering, a sudden storm arose with the violence of a tempest. The old house shook, the weakened walls trembled dangerously, and the chandelier swayed with the increasing velocity of the wind. Suddenly a great crack appeared in the center of the ceiling and slowly widened. Even as we watched the gigantic candelabrum broke loose and came crashing down. The floor gave way beneath it and part of the fixture sank below the surface leaving the uppermost portion at floor level. Fascinated, we gazed at the sight that met our eyes. Lined around the circular iron flange at the top of the chandelier were bracelets, necklaces and rings — a wealth of glittering gems. The mystery of the Perry jewels was solved at last. Edward V. Fineran, ’43 Paradise Lost (Continued from Page Twenty two) Then, came the inevitable meeting with the top-sergeant. Well, maybe the stories about these men are a little exaggerated, but I still believe that to be a top-sergeant you have to have a stone heart and the loudest voice in the camp. The food was delicious, but I soon got tired of beans three times a day. Then I received my equipment which consisted of a rifle and a few other necessaries. These I was ordered to place neatly in a pack, and report for drill. Drilling in the hot sun in the parade ground with rifle and pack was the most gruesome of the labors at the camp. After a century our platoon was dismissed, and we prepared for supper by peeling a few hundred potatoes. We were, at this point, entitled to an hour of relaxation, but I had to fix my belongings in a locker, which contained one-half of the space I needed. But, “where there’s a will, there’s way,” and I really accomplished a packing miracle. As I was very tired, I prepared to retire for the night, but this was not to be. To make the day perfect, I was ordered to go on guard from ten to twelve. Well, I didn’t collapse as I thought I would, but it was then and then only that I realized how easy I had had it at home, and that I had lost paradise when I entered the Army. James McFadden, ’45 _________________________________________________________ THE MIRROR Thirty TRADITIONAL DUST Light of Other Days SPRING Mill, a charming village adjoining Conshohoekcn on the east, has recollection of some of the most famous people in the early history of our country. Among those whose names are connected with the locality is Benjamin Franklin, who often visited this vicinity. One day he noticed a stream rippling rhythmically through the meadows, playing hide-and-seek among the moss-covered rocks. It looked like a ribbon of quick silver thrown over the emerald green of the valley. The water was so remarkably clear that lazy lizards, resting at the bottom of the brook, resembled lovely pieces of old jade lying on bottle-green velvet, and the water plants, miniature forests in a glass case. Franklin was enchanted by the crystal clearness of the water and by its icy temperature and conceived a plan of piping it to Philadelphia. This idea, however, was never carried out. Today, Hamilton Paper Mills utilizes this stream in the manufacture of its famous product and the quality of the water plays an important factor in the manufacture of Hamilton Bond Papers. Another famous Spring Mill personage was Peter Le Geaux, who lived in THE MIRROR ____________________ the house now known as Colonial Inn. Washington and Lafayette often visited him at his home and tradition says that he discussed with them the possibilities of transforming the encircling hills into vineyards. He intended to use the grapes for making champagne and envisioned the district as the nucleus of a great champagne industry in America. Both Franklin’s and Le Geaux’s plans were doomed to failure. Although Lee Tire and Rubber Company, Walkers, and other important industries are located here, some persons still mourn idyllically beautiful .Spring Mill as a land of lost opportunity. Bernadette Clark, ’45 Gulph Mills GULPH MILLS is a small settlement lying southwest of Conshohocken. The name is an intriguing one to the ordinary observer, and for a time, puzzled even terminologists. “On very old documents the place is usually called ‘Gulph’. In the 19th century the preferred spelling was ‘GulT, but today there has been a return to the earlier orthography.” Once “Gulf”, or “Gulph” meant not only an indentation on the coast of a Thirty-one body of water, but also a deep cleft, chasm, or abyss in the land. This latter meaning is now obsolete, but the early settlers apparently had the old significance in mind when they called the settlement “the Gulph” for it is a deep cleft or chasm in the hills. There is a stream flowing through the cleft called Gulph Creek. Years ago several mills were built close to the brook so as to utilize the water power, and the vicinity around the mills was named “Gulph Mills.” The place is mentioned in the diary of Dr. Albigence Waldo, who was surgeon of a Connecticut regiment during the Revolutionary War. He was evidently impressed by the forsaken character of the region and wrote: “The Gulph seems well adapted by its situation to keep us from pleasures and enjoyments of this world or being conversant with anyone in it. It is an excellent place to raise the ideas of the philosopher beyond the glutted thoughts and reflections of an Epicurean. It cannot be that our superiors are about to hold consultations with spirits infinitely beneath their order by bringing us into the utmost regions of the Terraqueous Sphere. No, it is for many good purposes that we are in Winter here.” Among these “good purposes,” he listed “plenty of wood and water, few families to steal from, warm hillsides on which to erect huts and an incentive toward heavenly mindedness because at the Gulph the soldier would be like to Jonah in the belly of the great fish.” It is a far cry from the time that Dr. Waldo wrote his jeremiad till now and today Gulph Mills is a quiet little settlement of about sixty families. The most prominent building is the Gulph Christian Church to which most members of the community belong. Those who live in the village enjoy a singularly beautiful bit of countryside, a rural Paradise unmarred by the encroachment of commerce and trade. Ballygomingo Lake BALLYGOMINGO LAKE, called the “Bal” for short, lies about a quarter of a mile northwest of the Gulph Mills P. and W. Station, in one of the many beautiful valleys formed by the Blue Ridge Mountains. The lake is oval in shape, the upper end being narrower than the rest of it, and is about a half a mile long and an eighth of a mile wide. The thick growth of trees that covers the hills isolates the water from the rest of the world to such a degree that a stranger passing by would never know it was there. It is hard to believe that this beautiful lake was once the site of a baseball diamond. Years ago, however, it was the only field of the kind for many miles around, and, because of this, most of the baseball games between neighboring districts were played here. As the sport grew in popularity, other districts built diamonds of their own and this one fell into disuse, until finally, the field and the upper valley were bought by a brewery. A dam was constructed at the lower end. where the batter’s dug-out had been, and then the watercourse of Gulph Mills Creek was turned from its original path so that it would empty into the lake and keep it supplied with fresh water. This was done for the purely commercial reason of procuring ice. When this need disappeared, the inhabitants of the Gulph Mills district and many others began to use the lake as a swimming pool, but Mr. Decker, the present owner, restricted the swimming to dwellers in Gulph Mills for he feared accidents. The cool freshness of the water provides an excellent escape from the heat of a summer afternoon. Though the lake is not equipped with any elaborate means of pleasure, a diving board, raft, and row boat provide means for Bernadette Clark, ’45 (Continued on Page Thirty-nine) Thirty-two THE MIRROR Big Rock IN the woods between Conshohocken and Plymouth, there is a huge rock about sixteen feet high and ten feet wide. Because of its size, it is called “Big Rock” by the natives of these parts. The “Rock was carven by nature into a throne-like shape, and legend says that it was once the dais of the Lenni-Lenape Indian chiefs whose braves once lived upon the Con-shocken hills. Surrounding the large boulder are many slightly smaller seats of stone which were the places of lesser chiefs and courageous warriors. At the foot of the “Rock” there is a spreading valley where the women and children of the tribe either stood or squatted on the ground and listened to the men. Behind the rock, in semi-circle fashion, rises a tapestry Secrets of the Hills Old hills Adorned with trees. You keep locked in your heart The loveliness of centuries Of spring! Marie McCarrick, 44 THE MIRROR _______________________ of tall stately cherry trees, which, in early spring, form a background of pale pink and white beauty. Many times in the evening, as I stand beside the ancient throne, I imagine that the Indians, in blankets of scarlet and gold, are holding conclave in the light of the setting sun, and the noble chiefs allow me to participate in their ancient ceremonies upon the “Rock.” Then, invariably, when my dream is deepest, a hearty call from my companions drives the Indians back to their “Happy Hunting Ground,” and with the rest of the “fellows” I resume pioneering in the woods. James P. McFadden, ’45 Sunset Sunset, The magic hour Which lights the purple sky, Bends low to kiss the cobalt earth Goodnight. Alice M. Powers, '44 Thirty-three Feline Trek “'T’HE altruism of a cat seldom reaches beyond her kittens; but she is capable of heroic unselfishness where they are concerned.” Not long ago a mother cat made the headlines of a great metropolitan newspaper when she started a trek through the busy streets of New York in an evident effort to lead her kittens to the higher things of life. Born, probably, in a crate in some filthy, garbage-can infested alley, where no law existed except that which is decided by the most Herculean cat. our heroine soon became inured to the sordid conditions of her life. Despite prevailing circumstances, she passed from the kitten stage to mature cathood, and then took to herself a partner from one of the alleys of New York. Soon, thereafter, occurred a “blessed event,” and five kittens were added to the family. Then to our Feline Friend, as to all mothers, no matter what their status, came a strong desire to see her children progress toward social stability in the world about them. One day, deciding that their environment was a serious obstacle to their cultural advancement, she gathered her little ones together and began to migrate toward the more socially minded districts of New York, where a cat’s chief occupation was not breaking the matutinal milk bottles or disturbing the nocturnal peace with resounding howls, hut where, amid the refinement of Park Avenue, her young Reville An angel tiptoed among the stars And took them all away; And dawn crept silently o’er the hill To start a brand new day. The sunbeams crept o’er my window ledge And danced across my bed; Like little fairies, they seem to sing “Wake up, you sleepy head.” Dolores Reagan. ’44 might learn the social amenities. All went wrell until the migrants reached Broadway, the busiest street in New York. Here they were faced with the perplexing problem of attempting to cross New York’s main thoroughfare. The mother hesitated. After admonishing her family to remain on the corner till her return, she bravely attempted to cross the street herself. Several times she emerged from behind a car only to find it quite necessary to retreat quickly so as to avoid the streamlined masses of steel that came hurtling at her from all directions. A firm believer in the proverb. “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again,” she once more attempted this very dangerous procedure, hut found herself unable to discover a safe route for her kittens. Finally, a Celtic traffic officer, a typical “far-downer,” perceiving her plight, stopped all traffic and, despite the constant hooting of automobile horns and the raucous shouts of the proletariat, watched carefully while the valiant mother carried her kittens, one at a time, across the “Great White Way.” As she deposited the last of her precious litter on the distant sidewalk, she turned, and with a gracious nod of gratitude to her benefactor, resumed the task of leading her loved ones to further adventure in their journey to social heights. Thomas Walsh, ’45 Draft Mother did her very best To get poor me deferred; But I’ll be marching with the rest For that’s wliat I preferred. Paul Delaney, ’43 Thunderstorm The heavy haze of leaden skies Obscures the glow of April’s sun; Beneath, the earth expectant lies Then suddenly the raindrops fall. Edward Fineran, ’43 Thirty-Jour THE MIRROR EDITORIALS Words Webster, the grand old standby, defines a word as “the spoken sign of conception or idea; the constituent part of a sentence.” H. W. Beecher wrote: “All words are pegs to hang ideas on;” and the wise Confucius declared that, “Without knowing the force of words, it is impossible to know men.” At no time, perhaps, has a knowledge of words been more important than now, when, in a world at war, every man’s best is needed in widely diversified fields of endeavor. A vast number of men, no more naturally endowed than others, owe their successful careers to the thorough knowledge and proper use of words; to the ability to express their thoughts in clear, forcible language. “Thought in the mind may come forth gold or dross; when coined in words, we know its real worth.” In the streamlined world of today, brevity of speech saves time and energy. Orders, reports, letters, and government communications must he lucid and concise if they are to be intelligible to the average individual. Clearly worded messages will secure speedy cooperation; vague hazy ones will lead to confusion and disaster. High school students have, for the most part, woefully inadequate vocabularies. They have developed a sort of patois of their own. composed of a jargon of sounds intelligible only to the initiate. Their ideas are befuddled in a maze of inaccuracies. They are not quite clear regarding the difference between a paragon and a polygon, an accelerator and an exhilara-tor, oscillations and osculations. The inarticulate, careless, student is missing big opportunities. Government programs are offering tremend- THE MIRROR _______________________ oub educational advantages. Every examination contains a vocabulary test, and frequently, a man’s knowledge of words is taken as an index to his ability. “Self-protection as well as self-realization requires that the boy and girl of today be skilled in language,” and there is no better way to acquiring that skill, than the old dictionary habit combined with the lost art of reading. Proficiency in the use of words should take precedence over all other studies. High school students can make themselves more valuable to their country by acquiring good working vocabularies. Their efforts will be well repaid. Knowledge of words is the “Open Sesame” to the future. Edward V. Fineran, ’43 Manners “Manners are happy ways of doing things; each one, a stroke of genius or of love. If they are superficial, so are the dew drops which give such depth to the morning meadows.” Good manners spring from thoughtfulness, from charity, and are the flower of noble character. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, many high school students act as though politeness is a sign of weakness and so practise boorishness to a remarkable degree. At home mother and father are denied the simplest acts of courtesy. They must take whatever chair is not occupied by son or daughter, be satisfied with any part of the paper left for them, listen to a radio program chosen hv the younger element, and take a subordinate part in every conversation. Young people answer ques- Thirty-five lions in monosyllables, without the courtesy of proper address. When they are corrected, they caution their parents, “don't he funny.” In school it takes a courageous student to say, “Please,” or “Thank you,” to carry the teacher’s books, or put her desk in order, to pick up a piece of chalk, to erase the work from the blackboards, to give precedence to elders, or to stand when addressed. Boys fear to he considerate, and girls dare not be gracious because they will be mocked by the “wise guys” who are above all such “sissy stuff”; wrho pride themselves on being “natural when they are only coarse.” A disparaging smile or sarcastic laugh brings the blush of shame to the cheeks of the well bred student who tries to do the correct thing. Frequently, he sinks to the level of the rude, whose ridicule he cannot endure. Friction would be minimized, harmony promoted, school life made hap- pier if simple ordinary good manners were practised, if boys and girls would accord to their own, to their companions, and to those whose lives are spent in their service, the politeness they show to strangers, the ordinary social amenities, the simple kindness that is part of gentle living. “Good manners are, indeed, made up of petty sacrifices, but they are worth the little they cost for they give their whole form and color to our lives.” If high school students realize that “a man’s manners are a mirror in which he shows his likeness to the intelligent observer,” they will not conceal their really good dispositions under an uncivil, cynical exterior, but will take care to display those qualities which our fellow-creatures love and respect. They will remember that “.. .manners are not idle, but the fruit Of loyal nature and of noble mind.” Gertrude M. Durkin, ’43 Wintertime Magic A LMOST imperceptibly, the snow began to descend upon the barren earth below as the last leaves of the strong old oak solemnly took wing, and the first stars tip-toed into the spacious palace of heaven. The moon whose rays had, a few minutes before, immersed the world in silver, was content to remain almost hidden behind the translucent curtain which descended with ever increasing rapidity upon the valley below. The last dahlias, remnants of Indian summer, had long since been tenderly kissed and tucked into their winter beds by their ever thoughtful though aged mother. Night trudged slowly over the hills, and, as the white canopy ceased to fall upon the earth, the moon triumphantly rose to the apex of the heavens and smiled contentedly on the enchanted kingdom below. The earth lay quiet and serene, and silence reigned in the white fairyland. The reflection of the stars glistened like diamonds on the fleecy blanket of snow as, high in the heavens above, the scintillating asters darted to and fro in their midnight playground, while the sly old moon nodded approvingly. A crisp breeze played havoc with the tousled heads of the evergreens dotting the slopes. Tranquilly, the night glided away; the lights of heaven were mysteriously extinquished by an Almighty hand; and the penetrating beams of Old Sol climbed hastily over the eastern hills to shed their golden light upon the magic contentment of the winter wonderland below. Edward V. Fineran, ’43 _________________________________________________ THE MIRROR Thirty six Flying Fortresses QUEENS DIE PROUDLY. By William L. White. Published in “The Reader’s Digest.” April-May, 19JfS. Reviewed by Edward V. Fine ran, ’£■ “Queens Die Proudly,” the battle record of American Flying Fortresses in the Far East, is the tragically beautiful and profoundly inspirational story of the valiant men who fought in the skies above the Philippines, Java, and Australia. Written by Roving Editor William L. White, for the “Readers Digest,” it is a fitting successor to his heart-moving epic of the PT boats, “They Were Expendable.” The tale is narrated by Lieutenant Colonel Frank C. Kurtz, pilot of “The Swoosc”, and by five others who “sit in the shade of her wing.” It is a thrill-packed saga of heroism, and the tremendous sacrifices and indomitable courage of the valiant band of stranded helpless airmen, fighting and waiting for the help that never came, drive home the war's cynical phrase, “Its later than you think.” The attack on Pearl Harbor and other naval bases, and the fall of Java are presented in stark, stunning reality, in words that sear. Lieutenant Kurtz ran to Clark Field on that memorable December 8th to reach his fortress. Old 99, and there saw his crew lying on the ground “eight in a line,” victims of the dastardly Japanese invaders. From that moment till the day he telephoned Margo, his wife, from San Francisco, the account is filled with drama. Colin Kelly, Shorty Wheless, Buzz Wagner, Captain Duke Du Frane, Major Robinson, and all their gallant men who THE MIRROR dared so magnificently in the tradition of American soldiers the world over, and who died so silently for us, march across the pages and leave behind them a blaze of everlasting glory, that is an inspiration to Americans the world over. Never-to-be forgotten incidents are related of soldiers and civilians, who meet terrible tests of courage. The cruelty and treachery of the Japanese, the lack of awareness of Americans whose responsibility was to know, the self-abnegation of the air men who are the heroes of this work are presented in simple and potent manner. The language is restrained and forceful and plain enough for the everyday man to understand. It is hard to write a review of this book. It speaks to the heart of America. Apostolic work lies before this revelation of American selfishness: this tribute to American greatness. South of the Border THE DAYS OF OF ELI A. By Gertrude Diamant, Boston Houghton Mifflin Company, 1942. 266pp., illustrated. $2.75. Reviewed by Mary Moore, ’43. A delightful, graphic picture of modern Mexico is interestingly painted by Gertrude Diamant in her nonfiction work, “The Days of Ofelia.” Miss Diamant went to Mexico to give intelligence tests to the Otomi Indians. She rented an apartment in Mexico City and there met the lovable Ofelia Escoto, aged ten, whom she engaged as a maid, for everybody who is anybody in Mexico must have a maid and it is the ambition of practically all the poor girls to serve the rich. Thirtysevtn Ofclia is a charming child, a typical Mexican peasant, unaware of the tragedy of her squalid surroundings. Her everyday life, her thoughts and opinions, her wise sayings, her indifference to the abject poverty around her are sympathetically recorded by the author. Miss Diamant tells of the home life and customs of the Mexican people with realism and tenderness. She says what she has to say directly and clearly, for the hook is the result of her own observations and experiences. Charming as Ofelia is and colorful as is the book, Mexico is not rendered particularly appealing. The absence of medical care, the poor diet of the people, their distrust of modern education, and their lack of ambition retard them physically and intellectually. The report is well written and beautifully illustrated. The style is easy and conversational; the humor, kindly and sympathetic. Those who read this book will not easily forget the Escotos; Senor Escotos, the handsome father; Senora Escotos, the tall mother in her long, black skirt and black rebozo, “like some figure from mythology;” Daniel, and his unfortunate love affair; and above all Ofelia, “Dear Ofelia,” with her resignation and wisdom, her completely lovable personality. The Story of Lourdes THE SONG OF BERNADETTE. By Franz Werfel. New York: The Viking Press. 1942. 575pp. S-l Reviewed by Camilla Rossi, '43 In “The Song of Bernadette”. Franz Werfel has written the story of Bernadette Soubirous, the little French peasant girl to whom Our Lady appeared in the cave at Massabielle, and the melody of his lay rises in serene cadence amid the awful din of war. The author is a Jew yet no more beautiful tribute to Mary Immaculate has ever been written. It breathes a spirit of faith and reverence. When, in 1940, Franz Werfel, a refugee from Nazi cruelty, was in hiding in Lourdes, he learned in detail the story of Bernadette, and promised that if he reached the safety of American shores he would lay aside all other tasks and write the story of Lourdes. He has fulfilled his vow magnificently. The reader is carried hack eighty years to the, then, little known town of Lourdes. The officials of Church and state, the villagers, the ladies of Nevers, and the humble Soubirous family, sketched by the hand of a master, come to life before the reader’s eyes. Reverently and simply the story of the apparitions is unfolded, with Bernadette and “the Lady” the central figures in the moving drama. In his preface, Mr. Werfel declares: “All the memorable happenings which constitute the substance of this book took place in the world of reality. Since their beginning dates back no longer than eighty years, there beats upon them the bright light of modern history, and their truth has been confirmed by friends and foe and by cool observers through faithful testimonies.” Bernadette is the central living character in the book and she is simple and lovable. A soul set apart, she leads the ordinary life of convent routine. Her submission to the stubborn Sister Marie Thercse Vauzous, her affection for her family, whom as Sister Marie Bernard, she saw too seldom, her grieving because her mother “had had to work so hard,” make the little saint very human and bring her very close to us. The whole story is written with an understanding that could have been given to Franz Werfel only by “the Lady” and her whose song he has sung to immortal music. He deserves to take place with Mary’s knights of all ages, with Bernard of Clairvaux, and Alphonsus Ligouri, with all who have made the pages of literature bright with the praises of her who is “our tainted nature’s solitary boast.” THE MIRROR Thirty ighl Francis of Assisi THE LARKS OF UMBRIA. By Albert Paul Schimberg. Milwaukee: The Brure Publishing Co. 1943. $2.75. Reviewed by Mary O’Connor. ’4-3 The simplicity and joyfulness of the spirit of St. Francis of Assisi has attracted to him an untold number of disciples. Many have been his biographers. Nevertheless, because Albert Paul Schimherg in presenting to us this great saint through the heartte of those who were near and dear to him, has captured the true spirit of the Poverello, he deserves to take his place among the foremost of Franciscan hagiographers. “The Larks of Umbria” gives the reader an intimate insight into Francis’s least-known moods, and fosters an appreciation of his all-embracing love, for this “Troubadour of God” loved every creature with an affection that was as tender and ecstatic as the song of the lark. Paul Schiinberg takes us to the wooden shelter of the Portiuncula, and shows us the small, dark, rope-girded figure with flashing brown eyes sitting beside a loathsome leper, placing his arm about the latter’s shoulder, calling him “brother,” and eating from the same bowl with him. The reader will better understand the little “Poor Man” when, with Mr. Schimherg, he traverses the centuries hack to that tiny moonlit woodland which nestled beneath the hills of Assisi. Once again Brother Leo will set out from the “Little Portion” on his nightly walk. Once again he will come upon the “Caballero of Christ” sitting on the forest floor, surrounded by the forest folk . . . the speckled fawn that gently nuzzled Francis’s shoulder, the rabbit that played with the rope at his side, and the graceful larks that fluttered in and out of his cowl, and then soared aloft to form a living cross . . . the symbol of Francis’s faith. There is a perennial charm about the little man of Assisi who loved Christ and the Lady Poverty so passionately. Men of all stations have succumbed to the fascination of his personality, and hundreds have forsaken the world to follow in his footsteps. Here is a “down to earth” account of the great mystic by a 20th century admirer who “has recreated the spiritual romance which made a great saint out of a gay and carefree youth.” It is a stimulating refreshing narrative of the 13th century friar whose life and work have affected the world down to the present day.” Balagomingo Lake (Continued from Pnfte Thirty-two) many hours of recreation. Swimming is not the only sport enjoyed here, however, for those who like turtle soup and know how to catch turtles, may obtain huge snappers in the depths of the lake and fish at the upper end where swimmers seldom go. In the winter time, the water becomes a thick sheet of ice and a great silvery moon shining through the ghost-like trees lining the shore, casts weird shadows upon its glassy surface. Boys and girls from far and near come here to skate then, and their gay laughter echoes along the shore as they glide along in the moonlight and enjoy their favorite sport in th« pine-scented atmosphere of “Old Bal.” Thomas Tammany, ‘45 War Sitting in the parlor Sister’s very lonely With the lights turned low. For she has no beau. Eleanor Heller. ’44 THE MIRROR Thirty-nine Patrons and Patronesses I Rev. William A. O’Donnell Rev. Christopher J. Gibney Rev. Joseph L. King Rev. James McCall Rev. Fabian Anderko Rev. James V. McEnery Rev. John H. Crawford Miss Anna Aigner Miss Marie Albright Mr. Mrs- E. H. Balcer Baldwin Flowers Mr. Mrs. Harry Barrett Mr. Richard Bates Mr. Leonard Bell Mr. Mrs. John Berish Miss Camilla Bernot Mr. Mrs. John Berryman The Best Shop Mr. Mrs. Ray A. Blake Mr. Mrs. Arthur Blanche Mr. Mrs. L- Blanche Mr. L. Blaszezyk Mr. F. J. Bobenrieth Miss Nan Bolger Ed. Borzellcca Miss Catherine A. Botto Mr. Mrs. John Botto Mr. Mrs. Joseph Botto Mr. Mrs. M. Bowduniak Miss Loretta Bower Mrs. E. Bowers Mrs Mary Boylan Donald Boyle, U.S.M.C. Mrs. Jean Boyle Mr. Mrs. Charles H. Brady Mr. Mrs. Joseph Brady Mr. Mrs. William Brady Dr. Anne E. Brandt Mr. Mrs. Raymond Brandt Mr. Mrs. C- Brennan Mr. Mrs. John Brennan Mr. Richard Brennan Mr. Mrs. Frank Brown Miss Elizabeth Bums Miss Mary Bums Mr. Mrs. R. Bums L. G. Burt Frank Butera Mr. Mrs. J. Cappallitti Francis Carr Mr. Mrs. William Carr W'illiam H. Carr, Jr-Mr. Thomas J. Carroll Miss Mary D. Casey Mr. Mrs. Thomas Casey Francis Ciccanti Mr. Mrs. J. Donald Clark Mr. Mrs. William Clark Mrs. Eliz. Cody Mr. Mrs. Harry A. Collins Conshohocken News Agency Conshohocken Post, 1074, V. F. W Mr. Mrs. John F. Cook John W. Cook Mr. Mrs. James Coonan Mr. Mrs. John Costello Mr. Mrs. Martin Costello M iss Catherine Coyne Mr. Philip Coyne Mr. Mrs. Thomas Coyne Mr. Mrs. Geo. Craven Mr Mrs. John Crawford Mr. John E. Crawford Miss Julia Crowley Mr. Bernard Curran Miss Madeline Daly Miss Mary Daly Miss Margaret Daly Mr. Mrs. Walter J. Daly Mrs. William Daly Dan’s Barber Shop Mr. James Darby Mr. Mrs. Joseph F. Darby Mr. Mrs. R. DeHaven Mr. Fred Delaney Mr. Fred Delaney, Jr. Miss Joan Delaney Mrs. W Dennison Mr. Mrs. S. Desimone Albert De Stefano Mr. and Mrs. H. De Stefano Charles A. Dillon Francis E. Donovan Janice Donovan Mr. Mrs. Thos. Donovan Wm. F. Doran Mr. Edward J. Doran Mr. Frank J. Doran Mr. Mrs. Edw. Dougherty Mr. Mrs- Thomas Durkin Mr. Mrs. A. Dylba Mr. Mrs. Martin Early Miss Kathleen Eckert Mr. Mrs. Wm. Edwards Mr. Mrs. John Eliff Mr. Mrs. Thomas Eliff Mr. Mrs. Michael Estock Mr. Mrs. Robert J. Farrell Mr Walter Faulke Miss Catherine B. Fennell Mr. Joseph M. Fennell Mrs. John J. Ferry Miss Helen T. Fineran Miss Jane Fineran Miss Elizabeth Finnin Mr. Mrs. John Fisher Mr. Mrs. A. Flad Mr. James Flannery Mr. Francis Fleming Mr. Mrs. Philip Fondots Mrs. Ford Mr. Mrs. J- Freas Mr. Mrs. E. Gallagher Mrs. John Gavin Wm. Joseph Gavin, Jr. Mrs. W. S. Gavin Miss Helen Gaynor Mrs. Helen Gaynor Mrs. James E. Gibbs Mrs. Alice Gillespie Mrs. Alfred Giovanazzi Miss Nellie E- Gowran Mrs. M. Grib Mrs. John Gross Miss Marie Gross Grade 9, Room 15 Bernard Hagan Mrs. J. Hagan Mrs. Catherine Hanna Mr. Mrs. Peter Hanna Mr. Mrs. Robert Hanna Mr. Joseph C. Hanlon Miss Mary Harrington Miss Mary Hayes Mr. Mrs. Herman Hebling Mr. Mrs. James Heffemen Mr. Mrs. Joseph Heffemen Miss Hickey Mrs. J. F. Hickey Mr. John Hickey Mr. Mrs. Harry Hoy Miss Dorothy Hurley Hymie’s Market Dr. Mrs. G. Irwin Mr. Jos. Irwin Miss Nancy Irwin Miss Rita Irwin Mr. Mrs. Wm. Irwin Mr. Mrs. Jacobs Merrill Jacobs Misses Mildred Marion Jacobs Felix Jamionek Mrs. F. J Johns George Johns Miss Mary Johns Miss Rita Johns Mrs. Dora Johnson Mrs. Jones Mrs. Kearney Mr. Mrs. Wm. Kearney Mr. Mrs. G. Kehoe Mr. Mrs. John Kehoe Mr. Emanuel Kelly Mr. Mrs. John Keltz Mrs- Margaret Kelly Miss Margaret Kelly Mr. Mrs. John Kelly Mr. Mrs. Paul Keller Mrs. A. M. Kennedy Miss Margaret Kennedy Miss T. A. Kennedy Mr. Edward D. Kilcoyne Miss Margaret M. Kilcoyne Mr. Mrs. E. J. Kirkpatrick Mr. Mrs. Walter J- Knapp Miss Frances Koldys Mr. Mrs. J. Kom John P. Kulick Kuseks Store Ladies Auxiliary _ THE MIRROR Forty Patrons and Patronesses Misses Alberta Mary Lanahan Mr. Mrs. Charles Larkins Mrs. Mary Langhlin James T. Lavan, 2c S Dorothy Lawler Pvt. Fc. Joseph Lawler Mr. Mrs. Joseph Lawler Mr. Mrs. John Lawler Mr. Mrs. Albert Lendacky Mr- E. A. Lorenz Mr. Mrs. George Luther Mrs. Margaret Luther Mr. Mrs. J. Lynch Mr. Mrs. F. Mack Mr. Mrs. 0. C. Mac-Farland Mrs. A. Mager Mr- Mrs. F. Maloney Mr. Mrs. Thos. Maloney Miss Jean Malaspino Mr. Mrs. Sullivan Marine Mrs. Mary Marks Mr. Mrs. Matteo Dr. Mrs. B. J. Martin Mr. Mrs. S. Martino Mrs. Mary Marwood John James McCann Mr. Mrs. Wm- McCarrick Mr. Hugh McCartney Mr. Mrs. Joseph McCauley Mr. Mrs. D. McCloskey Miss Isabelle McCoy Mrs. James McDade. Jr. Mr. Mrs. Jas. McDade, Sr. Miss Alice R. McDonnell Miss Elizabeth McDonnell Mr. Mrs. Jas- F. McEvoy Miss Matilda McEvoy Mr. Mrs. Geo. McFadden George McFadden, Jr. Mr. Mrs. D. McGonigal Mr. Mrs. Geo. McGonigal Miss Jean McGrath Mr. Mrs. John McGuigan Mr. Mrs. Thos. McGuigan Mrs. Margaret McIntyre Mr- Mrs. W. McMahon Mr. • Mrs. J. McNamara Mrs. Helen McNeelis Mrs. Della McPhilomy Mr. Mrs. James Mellon Albert Mesaros Mr. Mrs. Mieczkowski Mrs. Paul Miraglia Mr. Mrs. Jas. Moore, Jr. Mr. Mrs- E. F. Moore Mr. Mrs. W. Moore William Moran Miss Kathryn Morley Mr. Mrs. G. W. Moser Miss Ann Muhall Mrs. Mulkay Mr. Mrs. Charles Mullen Murray’s Cale MrB. Barbara Murphy Mrs. Catherine Murphy Mrs. George Murphy Mr. Mrs. John L. Murphy Mr. A- Neri Mr. Mrs. B. Nagle, Jr. Mrs. Wm. F. Norton Miss E. Nugent Mr. Mrs. G. P. Nugent Mrs. J. Nugent Miss R. Nugent Mrs. Kathryn Nungesser Miss Mary Nugent Mr. Mrs- Ed. O’Brien Mr. Mrs. James O’Brien Mr. Mrs. John O’Brien Mr. Mrs. L. O’Brien Mr. Mrs. Maurice O’Brien A C John J. O’Connor Miss Mary A. O’Connor Mr. Mrs. M. O’Connor Miss Tereas O’Connor Mr. Mrs. John Ominski Mr. Mrs- Michael Ominski Mrs. Dennis J. O’Donnell Mr. Mrs. John O’Neill Wm. J. O’Neill Mr. Mrs. Thomas O’Bryan Mr. Mrs. F. Palacio Mrs. Payne Mr. Mrs. H. Peiffer Peoples Drug Store Ann E. Pollard Mrs- Harry Pollard Mr. Mrs. James Powers Anne M. Poysden Mr. Mrs. Alfred Poysden Professional Shoe Repair and Hat Cleaner Joseph Prostack Mr. Mrs. J. Purcell Miss Claire Psculkowski R. E. Rome News Agency Mr. Mrs. Joseph Rascicot Mrs. Harry Reagan Miss Anne Redmond Mr. Mrs. Leo Redmond Miss Madeline M. Redmond Dr. H. C- Reichard Mr. Mrs. Robert Reilly Mr. Mrs. Wm. M. Reilly Mr. Mrs. Clayton Richards Mr. Mrs. F. Richardson Mr. J. Ristine Mrs. J. Rodebask Mr. Arthur Rogan Mr- Joseph Rogan Mr. Mrs. Charles Roop Mr. Mrs. James Rossi Mrs. Anna Roth E. Roth Mr. Mrs. S. Rotosky Mr. Mrs. H. Raquet, Jr. Mr. Mrs. Jacob Ruser Mr. Mrs. Ryan Miss Mary A. Ryan Michael Saboe Mr Mrs. Sadowski Mr. Mrs. John Safko Mr. Mrs. Clayton Sarvey Mr. Mrs. Fred Sawyer Mrs. Eliz. Scanlon Mrs. Louise Schank Mr. Mrs. Francis Scharff Mr. Mrs. John Scharff Mr. Mrs. Gus Schneider Mr. Mrs. Thomas Schrader Erwin J. Schweiss Pvt Jos. Schaffer, U.S.M.C. Mr. Mrs. W. Shaffer Mr. Mrs. Benj. Shimer Mrs. Della Sirchio Mr. Mrs. George Smith Miss Mary Jane Smith Mr. Mrs. Paul Smith Snare’s Drug Store Mrs. Spangler Mrs. Margaret Stackhouse Miss Mary Steiner James Stemple, U. S. N. Mr. Mrs. Adam Strycharz Mr- Mrs. E. Swalla Mrs. Swift Mr. Mrs. John Taglieber Miss Talone Mr. Mrs. Thos. Tammany Mr. D. Tancini Mr. Taylor Mr. Mrs. James Traill Mr. Mrs. Herbert J. Tole Mrs. H. Vercoe Robert Valyo John F. Vandergrift J. A- Logan Vink Miss Mary Wallace Mr. Mrs. Thomas Walsh Mr. Mrs. Thos. Watson Dr. Mrs. S. Weiss Mrs. Helen Wertz Mr. Joseph Wertz Mrs. Robert Wesley Mr. Mrs. John Whalen Mr. Mrs. H. Williams Mr. Mrs- Geo. Wilson Mr. Mrs. Winters Mr. Mrs. F. Wolper Mrs. Woodward Mr. Mrs. J. F. Yeakle Mr. Mr6. Wm. Yenca Mr. Zadioga Dr. Zakreski John Zaleski Mr. Mrs. H Zeigler THE MIRROR Forty-one F. . J. H. DAVIS CONSHOHOCKEN RECORDER Dealers in All the News of Your Coal, Ice and Fuel Oil Home Community Yard and Office: Elm and Cherry Streets For Only 1.50 Per Year Conshohocken, Pa. Every Tuesday and Phone 443 Friday COATES-WAFER S. SZMIGIEL Wholesale and Retail POST 840 Tobaccos VETERANS OF 310 East Elm Street Conshohocken, Pa. FOREIGN WARS Phone 1559 Bridgeport, Pa. HENRY I. FOX, JR. Insurance .:. Security McCOY’S DRUG STORE Bonds Fourth Avenue and Fayette Conshohocken, Pa. 319 Swede Street Norristown, Pa. Phone 3735 FIRST NATIONAL BANK DELL’S BEAUTY SHOP Conshohocken, Pa. 826 Fayette Street Member of Conshohocken, Pa. Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation Phone 1330-J THE CLAIRE HOSIERY SHOP 200 West Seventh Avenue Conshohocken, Pa. CLEANERS AND DYERS Mrs. F. Leddy, Manager 15 East First Avenue Conshohocken, Pa. CODER’S ESSO SERVICE North Lane and Butler Pike Day Phone 1578 Night Phone 973-J For Ladies’ Children’s Wear See— REA FASHION SHOP 64 Fayette Street Conshohocken, Pa. The Store That Serves You Right James Bondi Furniture Store 625-27 Arch Street, Norristown, Pa. 334 DeKalb Street, Bridegport, Pa. Phones 4089-J — 40089-W Quality Is Not Rationed At FOGARTY’S 48 Fayette Street WILLIAM NEVILLE, Ph.G. Registered Pharmacist N. E. Cor. First Ave. and Fayette St. Conshohocken, Pa. A. IRVIN SUPPLEE Grain, Feed, Flour, Hay, Straw and Salt 14 East Elm Street Phone 24 FRANK BATDORF Home Decorator 204 DeKalb Street Norristown, Pa. Phone 0642 JOHN GIANIOGLU Restaurant and Refreshments 42 Fayette Street Conshohocken, Pa. WM. DAVIS, JR. CO. Lumber - Coal - Building Material Millwork - Fuel Oil - Paints West Conshohocken, Pa. Phone 17 Conshohocken Veterans Association 14 East Elm Street Conshohocken, Pa. LOUIS NARDI 4th Avenue and Maple Street Fresh Meats - FYoduce - Fruit Conshohocken, Pa. Phone 1504 Men's Wear Boy’s Wear GILBERT’S Now — Two Good Steres 132 W. Main St. Main and Cherry Norristown, Pa. Victor, Decca and Columbia Records Wall Paper and Paints CHAS. HICKS MUSIC STORE Conshohocken, Pa. Phone 1545 FELIX BORAWSKI Shoe Repair Koppers Coke Fuel Oil NATURE’S REFINED E. F. MOORE Anthracite Old Comfort Coal Chevrolet and Oldsmoblle Sales and Service Incorporated 12th Avenue and Fayette Street R. LINCOLN HAIN Conshohocken, Pa. Telephone 127 General Manager Phone 777 Night 1263 PHILADELPHIA LEE UNIFORM CO. of Conshohocken Conshohocken, Pa. Tires .:. CONTINENTAL CAFE MOSER 201 East Hector Street GLASS JOSEPH RATH, Prop. WORKS Phone 1093 MR. WILLIAM C. MARTIN NEIL C. O’BRIEN Makers of School and College Jewelry Atlantic Service Station 908 Chestnut Street Philadelphia, Pa. Pennypacker 6748 North Lane and Fayette Street Conshohocken, Pa. Phone 1480 WALLACH’S FOOD MARKET and General Merchandise Germantown and Chestnut cSreet Lafayette Hill, Pa- DAVE NANASKO Meats and Groceries 314 East Elm Street Conshohocken, Pa. Phone Orders Accepted Phone 549-W MILL’S CANDY SHOPPE Home Made Candies Light Lunches Ice Cream 521 Fayette Street Conshohocken, Pa. Phone 1415 STEMPLE’S TAXI SERVICE Call 522 Day and Night RUEBEN STEMPLE FRISCO’S BEAUTY SALON 401 Fayette Street Conshohocken, Pa. Phone 1769 MICHAEL FREDERICK General Auto Repairing 931 Spring Mill Avenue Phone 1413 ALTOPEDI’S MARKET Meats and Groceries 4th Avenue and Maple Street Conshohocken, Pa. Phone 1128 F. M. PHILLIPS SON Hector and Harry Streets Conshohocken, Pa. “Fill the Home with Phillip’s Furniture” Conshohocken Flower Shop Flowers for All Occasions 111 Fayette Street Conshohocken, Pa. Phone 302 BENNY REDS Barber Shop 26 Fayette Street Conshohocken, Pa. FLUCCO SHOE REPAIR SHOP 103 Fayette Street Conshohocken, Pa. SANDLER’S Wallpaper Paint Supplies Penn and Cherry Streets Norristown, Pa. BUNNY’S BEAUTY SHOP 9 West Elm Street Conshohocken, Pa. Phone 1431 Gifts for All Occasions RYKOWSKI SONS Watchmakers and Jewelers We Buy Old Gold Watch, Clock, Optical, Jewelry Repairing 28 Fayette Street BOCCELLI’S Sandwich Shop 53 Fayette Street Conshohocken, Pa. JOHN BROTHERS 1, PATER’S BAKERY Buy with Confidence At Wedding Cakes a Specialty BLOCK’S 38 Fayette Street Norristown, Pa. Conshohocken, Pa. Selling Merchandise of Merit Phone 752 Since 1844 J. A. WARRELL CHICCO BEVERAGES Norristown, Pa. 23 Fayette Street Conshohocken, Pa. Tire Capping, Expert Workmanship, Quality Materials “SPENCER” Compliments of Individually Designed Abdominal, Back and Breast Supports WILMER DAIRY Doctor’s Prescriptions Filled HELEN M. GALY MOORE’S TRADESMEN’S NATIONAL FUNERAL HOME BANK of CONSHOHOCKEN 708 Fayette Street Automobile Financing Phone Conshohocken 6 Personal Loans 5% To a Fine Bunch of Boys and Girls Doing a Swell Job W A L K E R OF CONSHOHOCKEN CONSHOHOCKEN MOOSE No. 283 TOMPKIN’S RUBBER CO. POLLACK DAIRIES Milk and Cream Telephone 1043 710 Maple Street Conshohocken, Pa. W. H. WALLACE .:. Jewelers .:. 113 Fayette Street Conshohocken, Pa. SUNNY SLOPE DAIRY Cox and Sands Phone 685-J THE SPOT 30 Fayette Street Conshohocken, Pa. FRANCIS R. FLEMING Funeral Director 802 DeKalb Street Norristown, Pa. PHILA. TOBACCO STORE Good Cigars and Cigarettes 194 East Main Street Norristown, Pa. BLUE JAY RESTAURANT 104 East Main Street Norristown, Pa. MEET ME AT BILL’S SANDWICH SHOP 201 Fayette Street Conshohocken, Pa. STATIONERY, MAGAZINES and GAMES Baseball Gloves, Bats and Balls Greeting Cards for All Occasions GEORGE W. TAYLOR 50 Fayette Street CAMEO BEAUTY PARLOR Fayette Street Conshohocken, Pa. G. J. RAFFERTY, Ph.G. 49 Fayette Street Conshohocken, Pa. Prescriptions Cut Price Phone 27 NORRISTOWN SPORT CENTER 149 West Main Street Norristown, Pa. MATRICARDPS 637 Spring Mill Avenue Conshohocken, Pa. WEST END GARAGE 1024 Ford Street West Conshohocken, Pa. LAFAYETTE HOTEL Barren Hill HALE FIRE PUMP CO. Conshohocken, Pa. J. McGonigal, Prop. MIKE TOSE 4th Street F. J. JOHNS Bridgeport, Pa. Life Insurance THE PAPER STORE Newspapers .:. Magazines .:. MORRIS JEWELERS Fountain Service 88 East Main Street Corner Ford and Front Streets West Conshohocken, Pa. Norristown, Pa. CONSHOHOCKEN POLICE R. J. HISSNER DEPARTMENT Conshehocken Motor Freight X -