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

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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

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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

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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