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

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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

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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

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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«