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

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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

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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

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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