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

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A SUBTERRANEAN HAUNT On a gently eloping windswept hill with the surrounding knolls for its only companions, lies a lonely heap of white ruins. This pile of ruhble is all that remains of an old farmhouse which was once the proud possession of the late George and Linda Corson of Plymouth Meeting. At the foot of the hill, a creek rushes crazily through a rocky gully, and two quarry holes, believed to have been formed by an ice glacier, flank the stones and add a note of mystery and remoteness to the surroundings. Close to the ruins, is an old stone cave which is reached by a short flight of moss-covered stone steps which go down into the ground. The cave itself is circular and has a fireplace in the rear with a round opening in the roof to allow the smoke to escape. This cavern was formerly a favorite rendezvous for the boys of the neighborhood. Here they met for their pow-wows, and here they spread their banquets. An ancient somewhat rickety horsehair sofa, the only furniture in the cavern, was the seat of honor reserved for the chieftain of the “Skull and Crossbones Club.” Before a roaring fire, these refugees from menial household chores, sat and swapped stories, while potatoes roasted under the glowing coals and pork and beans simmered in an old frying pan held over the fire by a red-faced boy. A feeling of camaraderie prevailed at these meetings, and the club members resented the intrusion of any alien note such as the voices of their sisters and little brothers calling them home to supper or some other phase of their ordinary routine. I often watched them leaving the cave, enveloped in an air of mystery, and I wondered what magic realm they thought they were forsaking as they cautiously crept up the old steps and reluctantly trudged to their prosaic homes. Today, the cave is rapidly deteriorating, and the boys are abandoning it for safer places. Many of those who once held rendezvous in the old vault are with the armed forces all over the world. As they sit down to army pork and beans, I wonder if thoughts of feasts in the glamorous old cave ever intrude upon them? Dorothy Strycharz, ’45 Remembrance Between the yellow pages of a diary I found a tiny rose; its petals faded and crumpled; its fragrance fled. I recalled our parting when in a poignant hour from your golden hair, in a gesture of love you took that lovely flower. It came as a precious gift to me for you were fairest of all 1 knew. I promised to keep your token forever; then you left me and I had only this to remember you. I know that often, dearest, you've given a flower from your hair to the “one you loved best,” but do you think the other “fellows” preserved theirs with such care? Robert Aigner, ’44 Twentyon THE MIRROR

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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

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Quail Hunting QUAIL or bobwhite abound near my home in Plymouth Meeting, and I have often spent hours watching these clever little birds. They are about the size of robins, with stout bodies and short tails, and are among the most lovable of the denizens of birdland. In this vicinity, quail are hatched in June, and look like little balls of brown feathers. They are able to run and hide at once, and learn quickly to obey the call of the mother. She teaches them to find berries, grass, and seeds, and to “freeze.” This last is a very necessary accomplishment, for quail are mainly terrestrial in habit and huddle on the ground, hiding in hushes and tall grass and, very often, their lives depend on their ability to “freeze,” that is, remain perfectly still. In spite of the charm of my feathered friends I had, for a long time, wanted to have a shot at them and waited patiently for a chance to go gunning. The open season on quail comeB in the autumn when the blue skies shine with brilliant clearness and the first nip of frost striking the trees on the hills and in the valley turns the leaves into the vivid scarlet, rich russet, and gold hues of November’s gorgeous tapestries. The morning dew was still lowering as I set out one brisk November morning in search of a covey of quail that had eluded me for a week. The wheat fields, wild raspberry bushes, and the woodland behind our house furnish ideal hiding places for the canny bobwhite, and I knew that somewhere in the tall grass at the edge of the meadow or under the bramble bushes, my elusive friends were concealed. Suddenly, I stumbled upon a nest containing ten rotten eggs. “Ah,” thought I, “this will he a good place to hide and wait for a few hungry quail,” for nests are generally built near feeding places and this one, right at the edge of the wheat field, was hidden by tall grass. I was day dreaming of quail on toast when my lost covey appeared out of the foliage at my very feet, and flew straight up. I aimed and fired, but, I am happy to say that I missed every bird. Rather smugly, as though they knew that I would not fire a second barrel, they sailed leisurely away. I then and there resolved to confine my hunting to rabbits. For days I had looked forward to shooting quail and, when the chance arrived, “buck fever” arrived simultaneously. In a little while I heard the whistled call of the old bird reassembling the brood, and from the bushes came the repeated responses of the rest of the covey. I have never heard sweeter music. Joseph Hot, ’45 Paradise Lost XifY STORY begins as I am woefully climbing out of bed about ten o’clock after I had been called about eight. So what! It was my last day at home and there was no use exerting myself. I hastily ordered my kid-brother to shine my shoes. My mother took care of the packing, and there was little for me to do except to offer the usual farewell. Well, about four o’clock I left on the train bound for Camp Dix. I arrived at the camp too late to unpack my clothes or to view the surroundings. The next morning, or maybe it was still the middle of night, I was awakened by the infernal blast of a bugle, and I automatically reached for the alarm clock. Instead, a brawny hand took hold of mine and I was helped rudely out of bed. (Continued on Page Thirty) T wentyttco THE MIRROR