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

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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

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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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The Perry Jewels SITUATED in as gloomy an atmosphere as that which surrounded the “House of Usher” is the old Perry mansion. The murky air seems exactly fitted to the shadowy place. The house is of imposing proportions even by daylight, but in the fog it seems actually enormous as it sprawls atop a small hill. The architect, apparently, was a pessimist for the gables, bay windows, and other protrusions glare in contempt at human beings. We approached the house with some trepidation and, halting at the door from which the plate glass had been removed, gazed into the large colonial reception room whose broken window-panes and half-crumbling walls presented a scene of desolation. A huge chandelier dangled periously from the weakened ceiling. The villagers had described this chandelier to us. In fact, they had given us an account of the entire house, including the tale of the missing Perry jewels. According to legend, the sale of the bankrupt Perry family’s goods, to pay off debts accumulated by the last of the clan, had not included the famed Perry jewels. No amount of investigation disclosed any trace of the gems. After the sale, the house was left to decay, and again and again marauding searching parties had explored the old home, hoping to find the treasure, but all failed. Actuated by curiosity, we decided to do a little exploring ourselves. While we hesitated at the door, uncertain about entering, a sudden storm arose with the violence of a tempest. The old house shook, the weakened walls trembled dangerously, and the chandelier swayed with the increasing velocity of the wind. Suddenly a great crack appeared in the center of the ceiling and slowly widened. Even as we watched the gigantic candelabrum broke loose and came crashing down. The floor gave way beneath it and part of the fixture sank below the surface leaving the uppermost portion at floor level. Fascinated, we gazed at the sight that met our eyes. Lined around the circular iron flange at the top of the chandelier were bracelets, necklaces and rings — a wealth of glittering gems. The mystery of the Perry jewels was solved at last. Edward V. Fineran, ’43 Paradise Lost (Continued from Page Twenty two) Then, came the inevitable meeting with the top-sergeant. Well, maybe the stories about these men are a little exaggerated, but I still believe that to be a top-sergeant you have to have a stone heart and the loudest voice in the camp. The food was delicious, but I soon got tired of beans three times a day. Then I received my equipment which consisted of a rifle and a few other necessaries. These I was ordered to place neatly in a pack, and report for drill. Drilling in the hot sun in the parade ground with rifle and pack was the most gruesome of the labors at the camp. After a century our platoon was dismissed, and we prepared for supper by peeling a few hundred potatoes. We were, at this point, entitled to an hour of relaxation, but I had to fix my belongings in a locker, which contained one-half of the space I needed. But, “where there’s a will, there’s way,” and I really accomplished a packing miracle. As I was very tired, I prepared to retire for the night, but this was not to be. To make the day perfect, I was ordered to go on guard from ten to twelve. Well, I didn’t collapse as I thought I would, but it was then and then only that I realized how easy I had had it at home, and that I had lost paradise when I entered the Army. James McFadden, ’45 THE MIRROR Thirty