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

Page 27 text:

 4 No Regrets Old Man reposing in the sun Are you glad your work is done? Or do you long for your lost youth? Speak up, old man, and tell the truth. The old man pondered for a while. Then slowly answered rvith a smile; “I do not yearn for yesterday; Time in its flight 1 would not stay. For me, the battle’s almost won; For you, the strife has just begun; I’ve had my share of joy and sorrow; Now I await the great tomorrow.” Mary O’Connor, ’43 Lament Oh saddened, weary, worried tree. To think what winter did to thee! He turned thee black and made thee ill. And left thee lonely on the hill; But do not worry; he will pay. When lovely Spring returns this way. Rose Sirchio, ’43 Winter The hills In robes of snow Stand silently before A court of moon and stars tonight Alone. Catherine Shaffer, ’43 Street Light Streets wet With silver rain Reflect the light in rays Of endless golden streams that die At dawn. Edward V. Fineran, ’43 THE MIRROR Tabby For hours he stretches in the sun. And sleeps until the day is done; At night he sings a lonesome tune To serenade the yellow moon. Some days he is too bored to eat, And prowls the halls on restless feet; Then looking through the window pane, Sees sirens beck’ning in the rain. For weeks he will remain away. But, when we think he’s gone to stay. Foot sore, hungry, and so shabby Straggles in our vagrant “Tabby.” Mary O’Connor, ’43 Fickle Spring whispered to the dancing brook That she was on her way; Then all the flowers smiled and donned Their very best array. The daffodils and violets Wore gold and purple gowns; And crocuses and hyacinths Put on their bright new crowns. Then fickle Springtime changed her mind As is a woman’s right; And Winter buried every flower Beneath a pall of white. Peggy McGrath, ’45 America At My Door From my doonvay in the morning, I see the wooded hills. And hear the magic melody, That from the forest thrills. The river flows with liquid grace. Past birches on the shore; O, the beauty of America, Lies at my cottage door. James Gordon, ’44 T wenty-five

Page 26 text:

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

Page 28 text:

Work WORK., what a silly theme for a high school essay. I certainly think so, but I am not one who would stop writing just because an assignment is silly. I have my own ideas of work, and the motive behind my writing this composition is the fact that last week I had occasion to observe two men whose ideas of work were very different. One of these individuals is a prominent business man who has lived all his life as a worker. He toiled and sweated till he made a fortune. He worked his way through college; he worked overtime in the office so that he would impress his boss; he impressed his boss so much that he is now the boss himself. Now he has to work hard to impress his employees so they, too, will work hard. With all the money he has, he also has his worries; he must figure his income tax—a very sweet headache, indeed. This, you will say, is nothing more than the old success story. It is, in a way, but don’t throw this aside till you read the story of the other man. His name is Joe. He’s Joe to everybody; everybody likes him; everybody trusts him. Joe has never done a good day’s work in his life. He just loafs around. He earns his bread by cutting a few logs of wood for some farmer. He has no income tax worries. In fact he has no worries at all. He is just a “come-day-go-day-God-send-Sunday” fellow, who is welcome everywhere. Has he the right idea about work? I have written this article, and I had to work to do it. So now I have to worry, because I know SHE will not like it. SHE will say I have “subversive tendencies,” and that I am trying “to undermine the principles of the other fellows.” SHE will say, “Work while it is yet day, for the night cometh when no man can work.” It is night now, and I am working all right; and tomorrow I’ll have to do more of the same thing. I cannot bear to think of it. The more 1 think of it, the worse it gets. Personally, I am all for Joe’s way of living, but so far I have been afraid to tell anybody, for I know I shall just be forced to work a little more. Francis Foi.ey, ’44 Cardinal in the Snow THE snow lay on the hills; against the pale blue heavens, the trees stood stiffly, starkly limned. Suddenly, from a great elm that towered above the little houses along the lane, came the clear, mellow whistle of a cardinal. On the topmost branch of the ancient tree, his brilliant plumage and crested head glittering in the pale sunlight was the redbird. .. .a scarlet gem against the white backdrop of the hills... .telling a weary world that Spring teas surely on her way. Catherine Shaffer. ’43 Farewell Today You went away Courageously, but I. Who love you so, ran quickly home To cry. Mary O’Connor, ’43 THE MIRROR The Dusk The Dusk-Stole softly o'er The waiting hills. The pale Stars watched the moonlight kiss the flowers Goodnight. Marie McCarrick, ’44 T wenty-six