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

Page 5 text:

SENIOR CLASS On Ground (scaled, left to right Matthew Moore, Clara Ann Johns. Catherine Shaffer, Margaret Gibbons, Alice Hoy. John McNamara. First Row—Martin Early, Elizabeth Safko. Joseph McGuigan, vice president; Mary O’Connor, secretary; Edward Fineran, president: Carolyn Ruser, co-treasurer; John Crawford, co-treasurer; Mary Moore, John Coyne, Second Row William Brady. Helen Traill. Agnes Nolan, Edward Reagan. George Donovan, Rose Sirchio (rear), Teresa English, Rita Kehoe (rear). Helen Eliff. Camilla Rossi (rear), James Watson, Joseph W ilson. Kathryn Murphy, Kathleen Reilly. Joseph Nagle. Third Row—Margaret Logan. Howard Noble, W illiam Johnson. Ann Kirkpatrick. Fourth Row—Kathleen Sarvey, George Mc-M onigle. Joan Gillespie, Harry Schank. Eleanor Brennen, Joseph McCauley, Gertrude Durkin, Paul Delaney, Elizabeth Schneider. Absent Patricia Gavin, Catherine Nunges-ser, Martin Costello. Sursum Corda LIFT up your heart; the world is not all drab. The lovely, heartening things of everyday lie at your door. Your home is filled with faith and love to keep you safe, and strength and courage compass every hour. There are eyes that grow brighter at your smile. and hearts that beat with quickened tempo at your footfall on the walk. These things are yours today. Oh! keep them safe. George McMomgal, ’43 THE MIRROR Three

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Our Boys ryHEY have left us—one by one, the boys, our boys—gay and debonnaire—shy and different—serious and thoughtful— and their going has left a great void in our hearts, an emptiness in our lives. We miss them at every turn—the blue-eyed, grayeyed, brown-eyed boys—the tall, the short, the thin, the chubby boys—the grave boys and the merry boys—our own. All their young laughter, their gay persiflage, their lighthearted badinage is silent. Gone is their jaunty step along the lanes, their merry, whistled tunes, the raucous greeting of their blatant automobile horns as they riotously saluted the passing hour. They have traveled far from the rolling fairways, the winding roads, the quiet streets of Conshohocken. When the hour struck, they were eager to be up and away. Quietly, gravely, they laid aside their carefree youth. Today, they are all over the world—in frozen Alaska—in the sultry Solomons—in the blistering heat and penetrating cold of North Africa—fighting on land and sea and in the air—wherever the red, white, and blue banner of freedom calls them. They left us with smiles on their lips, dreams in their eyes, and courage in their hearts—left us to travel the charted and uncharted ways of the world—so that we might keep the things we love—that America might remain a refuge for the oppressed, a place of security, a haven of peace, a land of faith and hope and charity. They left us to keep safe American ideals, American homes, the great American pattern of life—freedom under God. For them we wait and work and pray. ★ ★★★★★ THE MIRROR Two

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The House of Hoy IN THE midst of tlie quaint little settlement of Plymouth Meeting, resolutely facing the heat of summer and the hitter cold of winter, stands the Hoy house, remarkable for nothing but the size of the large amicable family which it shelters, six girls and five hoys ranging in age from five to eighteen. Members of the household pass in and out continuously, some seeking refuge within the sheltering walls when danger threatens and some searching for a sanctuary outside when housework is imminent. The architecture dates back to a period before the Civil War and the place has not been changed much since then except that during the past decade it has been repapered and painted. Throughout the house the floorboards are wide and the window sills are broad and deep. The sleeping quarters consist of six spacious rooms painted or papered according to the occupants desires. On winter nights the favorite gathering place of the clan, however, is before the open fireplace in the living room, and it is here that the joys and sorrows of the day are discussed. When the chores and lessons are completed, everyone indulges in his or her favorite pastime. The younger children play games and crack nuts on the hearth, while waiting for apples to roast. The older and more sophisticated minds turn to reading, knitting, or pinochle. Father plays the violin or piano and strains of “I'll Take You Home Again. Kathleen,” “Tales of Vienna Woods” and other old sweet melodies echo through the room. Mother sees that fair play is shown, and, at the same time, tries to enjoy the evening paper. Perfect harmony reigns until an over-enthusiastic member takes a game too seriously; then the room is in an uproar until my father catches the eye of the ring leader when the noise subsides instantly. Just before Christinas, Francis, the eldest, (Mother’s pet we all say) enlisted in the Field Artillery. Today, he is overseas somewhere. His going made the first break in the Hoy family, and while we all miss him, Bobbie, the youngest, is loneliest. He keeps asking, “When’s Bud coming home?” Mother’s eyes fill with tears, but her voice is always steady when she answers, “in a little while Bobby.” Before we disperse for the night we say the rosary, the five oldest each saying a decade. Francis gets a special remembrance now. and Hoys, big and little, pray that victory will soon he ours, that God will protect our eldest wherever he is, and that soon he and all other American boys all over the world may come home again to those who love them. We want Francis hack in his place at the fireside. Joseph Hoy, ’45 Morning rT ' RACES of night still lingered in the gray sky — to the west the town stretched away into shadow over the eastern hills hung a slender, fading crescent moon — a solitary pale gold star shot- wanly beside it...Through the clouds broke a tenuous line of rose that outlined the bare trees against the slowly clearing backdrop. The houses lay asleep in the cool, thin air. . .a sacramental silence shrouded the valley. . .Quietly, the convent door opened and the nuns — on their way to early Mass — emerged from the shadowy portal. Noiselessly, they hastened through the tranquil street — to keep tryst with the great Creator of day. Catherine Shaffer, ’45 THE MIRROR Four