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

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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

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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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Perseverance TOTHING to the game at all; it’s easy.” This is what the country club “pros” say when talking about golf. But just you make a “stab” at this simple game. First of all you pay a fortune for clubs, balls, anti lessons taken from that man who makes the game sound so easy by his smooth “malarky.” After a few introductory maneuvers you are ready for action. You get out to the course betimes to “get an early start,” as you say. You really want to get there before your fellow club members, so that you may practise a bit. Bravely you march up to the first tee. While planting the tee in the ground, you rehearse the “pro’s” instructions; “Relax; fix the feet firmly; now, a slow backswing.” You follow these instruction perfectly, as you think, but when you look to see that little white pill floating through the air all you see is the blue sky. What has happened? The question is easy to answer; you never came near the ball. Don’t give up yet, though; you’ll learn. Next time you at least dribble the balj off the tee. Then you get a smug satisfied look on your face, and decide to set a new course record. You strive hard for about four hours and, at last, you finish. But where is that course record? The “pro” says it’s easy. Well, I wish you luck; maybe in about thirty years you will set a record. If you do, I beg you never to talk as those easy going “pros” do, and get some other “hackers” like yourself worked up about setting a record. It may be good golf, but it is “not cricket.” Joseph Foley, ’44 Twilight Between the time when Daylight leaves the wood, And o’er it Darkness slowly drops her hood. With sandled feet, the Twilight, for a space Walks through the woodland with unearthly grace Bill Johnson, ’43 The Wind’s Invitation The wind came out of the hills today And whispered softly, “Come and play Among the fleecy clouds with me. I’ll take you far out o’er the sea. And show you magic barques that sail Forever down the rainbotv’s trail. You’ll ride upon a gently breeze High over virgin-forest trees; Life’s hidden beauties you shall vietv, A privilege that’s giv’n to few; And. when we’ve crossed the farthest plain. You’ll find that you are home again.” Mary O’Connor, ’43 THE MIRROR T wenty-nine