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

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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-

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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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Callahan silently picked up the telephone and replaced the receiver on the hook. Hastily, both officers of the law left the scene of the crime and descended the steps muttering incoherent remarks about Mama and her lonely Binky. Francis Foley, ’44 The Landscape of Ireland SOME people think of the Emerald Isle as a fanciful green Island, hut the beauties of Erin stand alone, characteristic, fascinating, and ennobling, and the landscape has different and unique features, reminiscent of the ancient history and tradition of Ireland. It is richly dowered by nature and the climate of the country contributes largely to its beauty, for the generous rains clothe the Island with a continual cloak of green. From my home I could see the mountains, and watch their rugged crests playing with the storms, and the magical shapes of the clouds changing in a slow majestic motion. In the stillness of a summer evening the hills seemed to brood amid the cloud caps or the lower descending 'mists that cover them. They were a constant challenge to my love of beauty and grandeur. The bridges of Ireland stand out more prominently than any other feature. Their structure is almost uniformly of stone arches, and the railings are low and, of course, built of stone. Often, ivy and other vines cover the structure, a stream of broken water flows beneath, and a stone cottage, or an old castle, monastery, or abbey stands at one end of the bridge. Aside from the green fields and beautiful trees, stone walls which line so many roadways in the Emerald Isle provide an unmatched feature of the Irish landscape. These walls are topped with grass and the daintiest little daisies grow in great abundance upon them. The roadsides, too, are bordered with violets and primroses of various hues. The fields are broken up into small sections, giving a sense of neighborliness and friendship. About large estates there are, frequently, finished stone walls terminating in small gateways of wonderful artistic charm. With their variety of design they give no end of scope for architectural genius. Old monasteries and abbeys, many of them now in ruins are another feature of old Irish architecture. Outside some of these ancient buildings are stone crosses, covered on all sides with sculpture and inscriptions that give evidence that they have stood for many centuries. Their size is impressively great, often reaching to a height of thirty feet. Around places such as Dublin and Waterford, stand fortresses which once defended the valuable harbors. Ireland is: dotted with pictureque ruins of ancient feudalism. When the marauding Danes and pirates occupied the land they built castles in many parts of the Isle. Some guarded the estuaries of rivers, while others protected the passes in the mountains. “Ross Castle”, picturesquely situated on the lower lake of Killarney and dominating the sparkling waters, is a beautiful relic of medieval times. The Irish castles, too, add a romantic touch to the Celtic landscape. Washed by the river’s flood, and crowning the crest of some old cliff, covered with mantling ivy, they give the last necessary charming feature to a countryside abounding in natural beauty. The spirit of the Druids and Monks of old still haunt the ruins of “Dark Rosaleen.” Mary Fitzpatrick, ’44 THE MIRROR T tuanty-eight