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

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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

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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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Story of a Boy, His Girl, and His Country THE DAY had come, and Jack was going into the army, hy way of Selective Service. As he and Betty, his best and only girl, sat together in the little railroad station in their home town, they recalled their school days, which they now realized were the most joyful of their short lives. “Remember when we first met, Betty? I came running down the school steps and knocked a load of hooks from your arm. 1 helped you pick them up, and insisted on carrying them for you. You weren’t so happy about my generosity, because you didn’t want to be seen with a mere six-teen-year-old child with freckles on his nose. I bet you thought you were big that day, just because you were seventeen a few days ahead of me.” “Yes, John,” Betty answered. “Do you remember our first date? I was afraid to order a double chocolate malt in Sally’s Sandwich Shop for fear you might not have the money to pay for it. I heard the ‘gang’ ‘ribbing’ you the next day. ‘John, darling, the baby’s crying; would you mind walking him? I have been over a hot stove all day.’ ” “And our first Christmas! You gave me a tie and I gave you a bottle of good five-and-ten perfume. That night 1 got into a fight with one of the ‘gang’, because he said the perfume made you smell better.” “John, how about the night of the senior prom? We didn’t go together because of a quarrel a few days before; but we did come home together.” “Then, graduation, we were both so proud of our diplomas after four years’ bard work. Here comes the train, Betty. Don’t forget to write every day. With your encouragement, I may be a hero yet.” As the train slowed down to a halt, Betty and John exchanged an almost silent farewell. For a year Betty wrote every day and received a letter almost as frequently. Every once in a while, John was home on leave. In his last letter he revealed that he had been promoted to Master Sergeant and that he had had a chance to go to officers’ training school, but had refused it because he wanted to get into the fight as soon as he could. Shortly afterwards, John wrote that he was going overseas. For weeks afterward Betty scanned the papers. She jumped each time the telephone rang; every footstep on the porch made her hasten to the door. She lived for news of John, hut none came. It was raining very hard the day that Betty was called over to the home of John’s parents. When she arrived, there were no smiling faces to greet her. John’s father handed her a communication from Washington, D. C. The message was short and decisive. Two sentences stood out in searing words. “The Distinguished Service Cross for service beyond the call of duty posthumously awarded to Sergeant John Aloysius O’Hara. Killed in action.” William Jerome Johnson, ’43 Memory I HAVE a memory of a cool clear pond with a wall of rock and a green field beyond; of maple trees with branches bending to rippling currents through meadows wending; of ducks gracefully swimming along and robins singing their carefree song; of fishes darting here and there to catch part of their daily fare. All this with heartbreak I remember, as I start back to school the first day in September. Thomas Tammany, ’45 THE MIRROR T wenty