Harcum College - Purple Patches Yearbook (Bryn Mawr, PA)

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7-'urple Tatclzes but the sacrifice was dearly paid forg she promised to marry the brave, whom she detested. She made her lover reluctantly go back to the valley that needed him, but did not mention what his freedom cost her. Years passed. Dickewamis learned the customs of the Indians, as well as their language, but she never forgot her home and all that the valley meant to her. Her two sons made life bearable, and bound her to the redmen. Although she secretly saw her White lover several times, she refused to go back with him to civilization, Without her children. Stout-heartedly, she sent him back for the last time to her beloved valley and lost the last ray of hope in her sad life. It was just three years ago, in October, that lovely Mary Jamison returned to Buchanan Valley, not as a broken-hearted squaw, but as a beautiful, young virgin in budding Womanhoodg came back, a Woman of bronze, to live among her magnificent Blue Ridge Mountains, and the friends Who cherish her. CATHERINE HARTMAN. I met my double in the dusk Striving like me to reach some goal, Striving like me to gain some end, Striving like me to Win his soul. I spoke: G-ood friend, in sadness, when Thou seest a fate more sad than thine, Speak to him then,-encourage him: G-ood cheer to thee, thou friend of mine. U As to my double thus I spoke Showing him the nearer goal, My listless, Weary self dropped off- I had begun to win my soul. - MARY LOUISE CHAMBERLAIN. S

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Turple Tatclzes 6DazZy Themes The Red .Qzly of6Buchfmcm Talley S A perfect gem carefully kept within nature s treasure-chest Buchanan Valley surrounded by the Blue Ridge Mountains of southern Pennsylvania can scarcely be surpassed This secluded vallev 1S not appreciated unfortunately by many people But the inhabltants who live within the shadows of romance whlch haunt the valley verltably worshlp 1tS eXqu1s1te beauty In a clearing there stands today an old Jesuit M1ss1on which has served for over one hundred years as a place of worship for the descendants of the original Irish and Dutch settlers The m1ss1on itself IS fasclnating but it seems insigmficant compared to the memorial which the inhabitants have erected ln front of the church to immortalize a pretty young Irlsh girl who l1V6d 1n the valley about 1758 The statue which faces the valley IS palnted in natural colors and IS most inspiring when one understands 1tS significance Before me now I see the sweet face of Mary Jamison endearxngly called The Red Llly or White Squaw with her deep blue eyes fair skin and auburn hair dressed 1n the costume of an Indian squaw and wears elaborately beaded moccaslns on her tlny feet It was the events 1n this voung girl s life that Wove the web of romance about the valley almost two hundred years a o The story of the White Squaw takes us back to a spring day 1n 1758 when a sudden attack bv Indians was made upon the settlers of Buchanan Valley The Jamison family happened to be the victims and Mary the eldest daughter was taken captive with the rest of the family Forced to tramp through the forest led by her captors Mary found at the end of two days that she alone remained to face the ordeal before her The graceful glrlish form did not escape the eager eyes of Black Coals a brave who soon showed that he meant to take her for himself Mary was brought to an Indian camp where she was carefully guarded ln Black Coal s Wigwam Almost immediately she was clothed in Indian finery and named Dlckewamis which was to be her name in the future spelling 111 the Indlan tongue Pretty Gir Durlng the following months Mary s fortltude was severely tried but the greatest test came when she found her lover who had followed her about to be tortured before her eyes frantically she promised anything 1f the Indians would release him and finally secured his freedom 7 U ff ' JJ . . , 3 3 3 , . , s s ' 3 , . 3 . 9 3 3 . . . gg - as GC ' 95 ' , ' ' ' 3 ' 5 7 hanging in two braids below her delicately molded shoulders. She IS . . . . . , . g . cc ' vs: ' ' 5 ' ,, ' ' 7 3 9 C ' 1 ' S 3 U' . , x , . . 9 5 1 ' , . , . . . . . ,, . . ,, . 9 . . . . ,, A- 1 as 3 . . , . . 9 5 , . . 9 C ' 1

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Turple Tatches HERE was a lovable, squatty apple tree in the backyard of my grandmother's home in Pasadena. I adored it with a sort of fierce pride, for it was the only tree in the world that I could climb. It had kindly put its branches and bumps in just the right places where the littlest', legs could reach them, after a start from the stone bench at its feet. I used to beg cakes from my grandmother,s cook, scramble up the tree, crouch on my favorite branch, and munch happily. My favorite branch was broad, with not too many bumps and jutted out over a pond next door which was full of little flashes of color. I suppose they must have been fishes, for they always came to the surface and gulped at the cake crumbs that fell-and flashes of color would never have done that. But if they were fishes, they were lovelier than any I had ever owned, except when they gulpedg and if theyfwere, I knew that they had once been baby twilights that had got lost. In the yard next door a boy came to play sometimes. He used to feed the flashes too, but I never watched him do that, for I didn't like to see them gulp. But when he played out in the garden I used to peer at him from between the leaves of my tree, and he saw me too, very often. When he knew I was looking at him he became very busy carrying huge flower pots back and forth from the pergola to the garden house. I thought he was very strong. Once he looked directly up at me and spoke, Look,,, he said, I'll bet you canit do this. And he jumped over a bed of calla lilies. Then, in a fiash, he ran into his house and I was still staring at the place where he had been. I never saw him again. Perhaps it was because I went home the next day, and when I came again the next year I didnit climb up into my apple tree quite so often. And when I did go up the flashes seemed just a tiny bit more like fishes to me and my favorite, dependable branch creaked just a little. Oh, I hate to grow up. . BETTY DAv1s. ,-,,i.1- ID you ever have an idea, one that beat upon your brain, crying for freedom-freedom that you could not give and made you, as the poet said, like a tongueless nightingale, striving to sing, void of the most essential? If you have, you know exactly how I feel, when I sit for hours and try to find some hidden door where I may free my thoughts from the darkened prison of myself. But I shall not despair for sometime, perhaps tomorrow, or even when I am old, With. thin gray locks, a rocking chair, and long-sleeved flannel night-gown, I know I'll watch in ecstasy, my whole self humbly bow to the long-imprisoned thoughts BECKY TARWATER. 9