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

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Nocturnal Scholar The moon, an inquisitive maiden. Crept through the schoolyard fence; And glided across the dusty bricks. Heedless of consequence. She peered through the library casement Into the quiet gloom; Then stepping across the ivindotv sill Drifted into the room. The books lay asleep in the shadoivs After a weary day; She rudely awoke them from their dreams Then teasingly slipped away. Ruth O’Bryan, ’44 Dreaming I love to sit and watch the sky, While fleecy clouds go drifting by; I dream of being way up there Without a trouble or a care. I’d walk upon the mist by day; And help God put the sun away; And then I’d light the moon and stars, And fret the dark with silver bars. I’d ring the chimes in lofty spires; I’d harmonize with angel choirs; And when with travel I was through, I’d ride a rainbow back to you. Peggy McGrath, ’45 Forest Slumber Swaying grasses, silvery waters. Faerie lanterns at my feet; In my forest camp I slumber Far, far from the city street. ’Neath a blanket made of moonbeams Through the starlit night I dream; Till the elfin kiss of morning Wakes me with the sun’s first gleam. Marie E. Lavan, ’44 THE MIRROR Princess Night Princess night has come to our valley; She is dressed as a lady of old; In robes of imperial splendor. She’s a vision of beauty untold. Her blue gown is studded with stardust; The moon—a jade clip in her hair: And over her shadowy shoulders Is a mantle of pale moonbeams rare. Though the night is as ancient as time is. Youth eterne in her dark eyes gleams; Serenely she rules through the ages In the mystical kingdom of dreams. Marjorie DeStefano, ’44 Twenty-three

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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

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Young Love He held my hand and kissed my cheeks softly.....sweetly. He wrote me love notes every week: printed........neatly. For quite some time 1 lived in Heaven; I was six....my beau was seven. Ruth O’Bryan, ’44 Fairy Tale saw a pixie. Beside the brook; And vowed to catch him By hook or crook. So off I hastened In swift pursuit. But he was warned by A wise otcfs hoot. He ran so fast across the stream, I did not know uthere next to look; Then little brother went to sleep And I put down his fairy book. J. McFadden, ’45 Springtime It is springtime in our valley, And the sun peeps o’er the hills, Gleaming with a cheery radiance As it shines on daffodils. Crocus heads of joy and gladness, Dot the green of sylvan dells; And the bushes by the river Hang out gold forsythia bells. Cherry blossoms pink and fragrant. Lean across the garden wall; Yellow sprays of bright genista Groiv beside the hedges tall. But I sit alone with memories ’Neath the old magnolia tree; Whiled I dream of yesteryear, dear When you wandered here with me. Carolyn Ruser, ’43 Modern Design Grandmother called on us today Driving a brand new Chevrolet; Smartly attired in skirts to her knees. Blew through the house like a mountain breeze; Struck a match on the sole of her shoe; Filled the air with the smoke she blew; “I’m off to the shore for a week” she said, “Don’t call me up unless someone’s dead.” I wish that my grandma was old and gray; Sat in a rocker and sewed all day; Wore gingham aprons and snowy caps; And baked us cookies and gingersnaps; Cured our hurts with a kiss or two Just as grandmothers used to do. Let’s hope that the future will make of me The kind of old lady I’d like to be. Vera McPhilomy, ’45 THE MIRROR T wenty-jour