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

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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

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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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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