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

Page 53 text:

Turple Tatches 0477, Experiment NN decided to rent an apartment and to experiment in furnishing it on a limited amount of money. As it was an efficiency apartment, of one room and bath, the one room served a two- fold purpose. In the evening a door was opened and out from the wall swung a hanging bed, which, when lowered to the Hoor made a most comfortable sleeping compartment. Early in the morning the room went through a complete metamorphosis, the exit of the bed being the signal for the entrance of the living room. Draperies of blue and gold print were hung and cocoanut shells holding tiny pots of trailing ivy hung from the window. A couch, the iirst of many purchases at an uantique' shop, was made more inviting by its new skirt of black sateen topped off with many gay colored pillows. Aquaint-looking mirror and chest of drawers were the next acquisitions. After they had received a new coat of red lacquer, they lost their quaint, demure look, becoming really arrogant and loudly clamoring for attention. A pair of reed chairs, quite subdued in color, succeeded in softening their clamor and reducing their arrogance to a gentle appeal. Bayberries hung from the wall, conveying an amateur attempt at artistic carelessness. One branch hanging between a pair of apple-green Sconces must have looked particularly realistic, because a little boy, visiting with his mother, inquired if they had grown there. Two rugs were next bought, one a lovely hooked rug, the other, by necessity, a rather unlovely Wilton. Bright colored hats were bought for the wrought iron lamps which, as if to show their appreciation for their new bonnets, shed a soft, golden glow over the entire room. As a desk was necessary and the wherewithal', lacking, a large flat-top trunk was enlisted, its identity completely concealed behind a cover of gay print. Brass Candlesticks proudly supporting a pair of blue candles, a sweeping pheasant pen, and a blue desk set, made this nook a most inviting retreat in which to send off neglected missives. An electric waflie iron was the one luxury indulged in because Ann hasarecipe for delicious waffles and is expecting her school friends to call. However, a word of warning is necessary, Ann may not be so fortunate in experimenting with waffles as she was with her apartment. ICATHARINE KEELER. Tearls The string is snapped And one by one, the pearls, Perfect spheres of a frosted rainbow, Drop off. And then- A lady sighs and stoops to pick them up Like broken bits of fragile dreams. BECKY TARWA TER.

Page 52 text:

Turple Tatches IG-HT in California has a fragrance all its own, a tantalizing, ' tranquil scent that makes one breathe in deep, greedy drafts, but with half-closed eyes. I know that in the magic formula for California night, are piquant orange blossoms, strange eucalyptus and a tang of the salt from the sea, but what the elusive ingredient is that binds the formula together and makes it different from any other, no one will ever know. It is an undiscovered element. W Years ago two little girls, with whom I played, and I, walked away one hour of a California night. VVe were strangely old that evening and instead of running and laughing shrilly as was our custom, we walked down the dusty roads with a new-found dignity. Our arms were wound around each otherss waists and the silence of the night was broken only by the crunch of pebbles that scurried from beneath our feet and the whisper of the breeze nestling in the tops of the lombardies whose tall, misty shadows swayed beside us. We did not talk but sometimes we softly hummed bits of melodies that we thought we had forgotten. The road was bordered with peach orchards and it was fun to walk under the low, fragrant trees and try to find sweet, ripe peaches to suck. At the top of a hill we found a reservoir. It was low and covered, but by lying on our stomachs on the moist, mossy earth we could press our faces against a screen and peer into the blackness where we heard the weary waters slowly heaving against the stone sides. That gaunt reservoir was mystic and terrifying to us, with its impenetrable darkness and its unseen waters , but we stayed there for many minutes and listened to the soft lapping. At last we arose and went away and the reservoir melted into the night around us. I never saw it in the daytime-and I am glad. A BETTY DAVIS. The Toppy Do not touch the scarlet petals Lest your finger-tips be singed. G-lance only on its dusky soul Of purple midnight, fringed. 'Tis out of place in this trim garden, Better suited, so it seems In Oriental gardens, Enticing stealthy Eastern dreams. REBEKAH SH OPE. 6

Page 54 text:

Turple Tcztches I deal Guests HAVE built a little house. Because it is spring there is a soft fuzz of grass in the garden and blossoms on the roof. The East WVind comes and cries silveryf tears down my window panes. I welcome her but she cannot stay. Soon it will be summer. There will be butterflies in the garden and sunshine on the roof. The South Wind will dance merrily between the hollyhocks, right up to my front door, breeze in and play with my white curtains, and when he is tired he will waft out the kitchen door, taking with him the spicy smell of ginger cookies. Then autumn will come. There will be leaves in the garden and frost on the roof The VVest Wind will come sweeping through the trees, turning the leaves to scarlet and the grapes to purple. He will not come into my house for he likes better to blow dust down the dry road and dull the swaying golden-rod. Winter will come. There will be snow in the garden and snow on the roof. The North Wind will come and rattle the shutters with his long icy fingers. He will moan in the bare branches and try to frighten me, but I shall light a fire in my little house and its glow will mock the North Wind. I shall laugh at him and remember other winds. - REBEKAH SHOPE. To One I Loved You stole into my heart With the first November windg And you stayed there Throughout all the whistling cold Of Winter. Like a leaping, yellow flame You stayed there And tried to warm my frigid heart. But when the warm spring breeze Swept softly throu.gh my heart And melted it, it swept your flame away, And left my heart a cinder: A warm and crumbling ash. BETTY DAVIS, S