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

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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

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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

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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