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

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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

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 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

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CLARA INGERSOLL warbled her sweetest “Number, please” into the transmitter, then sat staring at the switchboard. Distinctly, she heard a moan. “Number, please,” she said again and waited. Another moan — this time more agonized — sounded over the wire. Clara promptly rang the police department. “Hello, 45th precinct station, Cap’n Murphy speakin’,” answered a voice with a slight tinge of Irish in it. “Hello,” gasped Clara, who, by this time was a bundle of nerves — “I—1 think there is trouble at 1570 Fifth Street — the receiver is off the hook —• and someone is moaning — and — “O. K.,” Captain Murphy, rejoined, “I’ll attend to it,” and hung up. “Reilly,” he yelled in stentorian tones. As if by magic, a blue-uniformed, red-faced, heavy-set policeman appeared. “Get Callahan and go down to 1570 Fifth Street, and see what the trouble is,” ordered Murphy; and then, in a few words, he explained the situation. “O. K.,” answered Sergeant Reilly as he turned and steamed out of the room. To Callahan, who was sprawled all over a table in the outer room he said, “Come on, Callahan, we’ll have to finish our card game later.” On the way over to Fifth Street, the two burly officers discussed the situation. “Here’s the place,” rumbled Reilly, stopping the car and cautiously removing himself from behind the steering wheel. “Yeah,” grunted Callahan, stepping out beside him. They started up the steps of a large gray stone house. “Must belong to some rich lug,” mumbled Reilly. “Yeah, probably half shot,” growled Callahan. “They must all be asleep then, you dope, or else they didn’t pay their THE MIRROR .. electric bill, because there’s no lights on,” remarked Reilly sarcastically. “Shut up and try the door,” snapped Callahan. The door was open and in they went. “I got the switch,” whispered Callahan, as he found the electric button and flooded a spacious hallway with light. “Callahan, you take this side of the hail and look in every room. I’ll take the other side. Look for the telephone, especially.” “O. K.,” wheezed his colleague. The two met in the hall a few minutes later, each to tell the other the same thing — “No soap,” in their language. “O. K. upstairs,” commanded the sergeant. Up the stairs they plodded. Callahan snapped on the light in the first bedroom he encountered. As he did so, an overturned telephone and a black object beside it, caught his eye. From the bundle on the floor proceeded low moans. “For the love of Mike; look at this, would you,” groaned Callahan. “I’m lookin’,” retorted Reilly. Both stood staring at the strange sight. On the floor beside the telephone was a small, black Pomeranian, whimpering pitifully. At this moment a slight feminine figure breezed into the room and, completely ignoring the presence of the officers, ran over to the dog and picked it up, crooning: “What’s the matter, Binky? Were you trying to ’phone to Mama. Couldn’t the bad operator understand?” Binky, safe in her arms, was joyfully yelping away. Turning to the officers, “Mama” cooed: “Oh, officers, isn’t she cute? She was just lonesome and tried to call me up. I hope she did not cause you any inconvenience?” “Oh, no, none at all,” Reilly answered in a strangled voice. Twtmty in-