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

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Tuerple Tatches S olztude I know I am alone and vet Whose finger scratches on my w1ndow pane Whose breath dlsturbs the dlm and slender flame Of my candle? Is It wmd 1n the dead tW1gS outslde my w1ndow9 Or have I a phantom for a guest tomght? I know I am alone and yet Whose shadow fl1ts so near me on the wall? Whose hand whlle passmg by has brushed my cheek In qulck caress? Is lt the bat that hovers 1n the rafters? Or would a Splrlt now commune w1th me? I know I am alone and yet 9 BETTY DAVIS HEN my grandmother was a young glrl there exlsted a charm mg fad of collectlng teacups Thev were often g1ven at partles as favors or lf one happened to be engaged to an unusually extrax agant young man there was always a pOSS1b1l1ty that when he called some evenmg he would brmg a present ln the form of a teacup It was not considered effemlnacy 1n those days for a man to wander through the shops and personally choose a glft for h1s sweet heart but rather as a thoughtful quallty 1n h1S affectlon though small lt IS very quamt My fav or1te cup IS a very frag1le one so th1n that the llght can almost shme through and dehcately sprlnkled wlth blue and 5 ellow flowers The mam attractlon however IS a dragon fly whose outspread wlngs touch the br1m of the cup and whose long body curves to form the handle Another IS decorated wlth tlny butter fl1es placed 1n qualnt prec1s1on and the one that grandfather gave grand mother IS a French teacup of whlte w1th small blueb1rds palnted here and there I suppose he chose blueb1rds for purely sentlmental reasons When I look at the cups I like to lmaglne the ladles wlth b1llow1ng hoopsklrts s1tt1ng 1n grandmother s stately parlor s1pp1ng tea That day must have been a pleasant one In whlch to l1ve wlth 1tS plcturesque settmgs and quamt customs REBEKAH SHOPE 12 3 9 9 . 7 9 9 I 3 , . . . . I My grandmothefs particular collection always lnterests me. Al- a - I '- . 7 u . . , , . - 5 3 g - . . . . , . . , .

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'Turple 'Patches Market Tay in Lancaster HEN I came to Lancaster from New York where one markets ' e by telephone exclusively, the thought of carrying a basket to market was most distasteful and I was reluctant to join the procession that passed my windows on Wednesdays and Fridays. But before long my curiosity was sufficiently aroused and with a gay looking basket I soon became part of the parade. i The market is operated by Mennonite men and women. The men bring their products to market and are accompanied by the women who assist in selling. As they live some distance from the city they are obliged to rise at two oiclock in order to reach market by four in the morning. This, however, is only done twice a week. Some stalls temptingly offer golden brown cakes, iiaky pies, crisp sugar cookies and home made bread. Others are like fairy bowers, so bedecked are they with roses, phlox, gladiolas, potted ivy and ferns. At these attractive stalls one may buy exquisite bouquets of sweet peas, lilies of the valley, and, if one is particularly fortunate, some dainty tea roses. On all sides one sees numerous other stalls equally attractive, some displaying gorgeous hooked rugs and jars of red and gold preserves and jellies, silent testimonies of how these stern-faced women spend the long winter nights. One woman has taken advantage of the number of children who come to market and lures them to her stall with gingerbread men, sugar-coated camels, chocolate bears, candied birds and chickens coated with yellow frosting and stuffed with marshmallow. Anovice marketing inLancaster must observe the rules of etiquette here as she would in no other market that I know of. She must not inquire about the age of the eggsg if she does she is instantly recognized as a Hforeigneri' and is treated as such. A true Lancastrian knows the age of the eggs and if she is in doubt, passes on until she meets someone who does know. The Garden Spot of the Countryi' is enclosed in a severe looking building in harmony with its tenants. For a few hours each week, the gate to the garden is opened and its intriguing nooks and corners proudly displayed. Whatever the season one will always iind this garden bloom- ing with unusual flowers. K. KEELER. 11

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Turple Tatches QA GBug in Tarticular WAS destitutefa theme to write and no subject, I arose early this morning, and glided to and fro in my half-illuminated room like a restless spirit. A theme to write and no subject, a theme to write and no sub--. I saw, I stopped, I turned white, my mouth turned upward indicating joy, my eyes gleamed, I think, with something of a sparkle. I uttered a satisfied ejaculation, bounded to my desk, and began to write the following: '6The Meditations of a Bug While Crossing the Floor. The coast seems to be clear, Ah, now to advance to the crack on the other side of the room? I guess I,ll make that lavender tulip near this side first. Here goes-Safe! This business of having a great many legs has its advantages, as well as its disadvantages. Well, I'm not here to soliloquize. Iim here to cross the floor. A FOOT. Wheeeeeeee, talk about your narrow escapes, that surely was one. ' Here I am back at my old crack, safe and soun---Darnit, one leg gone. Oh well, plenty of legs left. Advantage number one of having a lot of legs. Ah, there goes the retreating FOOT. Guess Iill try to get to that cerise rose next, itis nearer the wall. Here I am sans any further dismemberments. Might as well follow the edge on this carpet. It's dark, and will camou- flage my further movements. Believe I move just as fast without the other leg as I did with it. There is a yellow chrysanthemum ahead of me. I hope Iget by without being seen. Oh well, here goes. Confound that kid, she is the only one who saw me. What right has an eleven- year-old to play on the floor? A second move and I will be home. This night life is certainly wearing on one's nerves. Here comes a FOOT. Guess I will have to snap into it if I want to get home safely. Believe me, this is the last time I stay out after two P. M. in the morn. . . . Requiescat in pace! ELENOR LUST. My Loved One O LET me tell you, for just a few minutes, about one of my very dearest friends. He is rather large, very strong, but not par- ticularly handsome. However, beauty is only skin deepf' Saturday night should be his time for calling, but we meet CI shall never tell you wherej every day-for just a few minutes. Just long enough for me to look at him, smile, and feel his strong, protecting arms about me! I look forward to this pleasant Hrendezvousi' as the most delightful part of each day. I know he loves me-for he was my dearest friend in Toledo, and here he is now in Bryn Mawr. Oh-what should I do if anything should ever come betweenu me and dear old Joe Bath-tub? ETHEL Conncmovn. V 13 .