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

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Turple Tcztches On Teing Famous HAVE no desire to be famous. If I were a celebrity I should feel obliged to fill my mind with thoughts so magnanimous that there would be no room left for the little lovely ones which are my own, my eyes would be searching so far ahead for grander views that they would not notice the pretty ones close by, my ears' would be so strained to catch diviner melodies that they could not hear the low chirping of the cricket, and my feet would be hurrying so fast toward my goal that they could not stay to feel the softness of the grass on which they tread. REBEKAH SH oPE. E LAY on the beach and lazily watched the lashes of brilliant flame rip the dusk on the top of the hill. We knew that the flame meant a camp-fire and that the fire meant tiny, golden- crisp perch and baked beans steaming and bubbling in a crock of earthen- ware. But still we lay there, stretched out like young animals, digging our toes and fingers into the warm sand and feeling the moist coolness underneath. In a few minutes Mother would call us and we would not be reluctant to run up the hill, but until she did, we lay there in indolent happiness and watched the twilight spread over us and dim the shining water. Finally the shrill halloo came floating down to' usg we stumbled to our feet and felt the sand trickle down our backs and our legs. How cool and soft the ocean looked, how different from the sparkling sea we had scrambled out of an hour before! VVe ran into it and with squeals of delight and childish abandon gave ourselves to the swells and let them roll us to the shore and cast us up on the beach like limp masses of kelp. There we slipped on our sandals and ran across the beach, night close upon our heels. Our dripping bodies were-whipped dry and tingling by the wind as we raced up the hill shouting with the hoarse lustiness of youth. In sheer exhaustion we dropped within the fireis pro- tecting circle of warmth. All outside this magic ring was dark and alien world and we could no longer see the ocean but could hear its deep breath- ing below. VVe smelled the fire and the perch sizzling over it, we realized that we were famished, and we ate with a gusto unusual even for us. Afterwards, snug and weary, we sat and watched the glowing, tumbling coals of the fire and the shreds of smoke that grew and were swallowed by the blackness that pressed down on us. We listened to the crack of the burning wood, to the whispering sea, and to a night bird's wailing cry out in the dark. And then, we must have dozed-. BETTY DAVIS. s

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Turple Tazfclzes 6Daily Themed' i Land Ahead! EOPLE in various conditions staggered to the railing and gazed at the landscape. An island was just visible. It was a drab uninteresting green with no signs of habitation anywhere. Oh, hecklv a little child in front of me muttered. Itoo, shared his disillusion- ment. Where, oh where, was the bright sun which had been painted in such glowing colors to me? Where was the tropical scenery? I fully expected to see monkeys chattering away at each other in the date palms, or cocoanuts dropping on warm pink sands. I returned to my deck chair meditating upon several ways to torture the person who had inveigled Mother into purchasing the tickets-I dozed off-Somebody was shak- ing me. Hamilton, Missf' I arose leisurely, collected my various personal belongings and then deigned to look at Hamilton. ' I received a pleasant shock. All the buildings were white. Some communicative person at my elbow' told me that rain water is the only kind of water the Bermudians have to drink, therefore the law requires all the owners to white-wash their roofs. However, I was downhearted, even the white buildings seemed squalid to me. No sun, no monkeys, no cocoanuts, no anything I had anticipated. I did ind some amusement in watching the negroes tie the boat fast when we docked. They called to each other in a sing-song and I gathered that they were recently imported Africans. The loquacious gentleman also informed me that thc population was three-fourths colored. As I descended the gang-plank, I was dazed, and overwhelmed at the number of cycles and carriages I saw. Not an auto on the whole island. I was intrigued by the customs and felt rather important when I had to open my suitcase to show that I wasnit smuggling anything in. After an especially good lunch I went wheeling. The sun came out and some of the charm of Bermuda began to insinuate itself into me. I wheeled by numerous cabbies, and other cyclists, I noticed the queer English names, Trimingham, Shaklefoot,', and Butterball , I admired the almost turquoise sea, I forgot to keep to the left, I snickered at the uniforms of the English bobbies,', I tried to memorize the rate of exchange, I wheeled down the numerous by-paths and discovered quaint spots, I ate some lichee nuts, I nearly ate an unripe banana for curiosity's sake, and I wondered at the fact that both pines and palms rubbed elbows. That evening I returned to the hotel bubbling over with news, and much excited by the unusualness of Bermuda. ELENOR LUST. 7

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Turple Tatclzes My 6Diary I POEM which I especially love, by Sara Teasdale, expresses exactly my conception of an ideal diary: Into my heart's treasury I slipped a coin That time cannot take Nor a thief purloin,- Oh, better than the minting Of a gold-crowned king Is the safe-kept memory Of a lovely thingf' A diary does not mean to me a mere leather-bound book in which one records the daily events of one's life. My diary means ininitely more to me. It is a treasury, in my estimation, not only unbound but unbounded, more spacious than any book can be. It is a secretly guarded recess in my heart which is already filled with many golden coins, golden memories, if you like, untarnished by the hand of ruthless Time. . In my treasury I have accumulated precious coins from various placesg some are old, others new, they vary in size and value, but all add to that invaluable hoard which glistens with the radiance of joy, or weighs heavily with the gravity of sorrow. It is with an almost miserly love that I delve into the depths of that golden fortune and fondly pore over the innumerable dates. One coin which now attracts my eye, dated 1921, brings to my vision the massive peaks of the White Mountains. It recalls a trip to Mt. Washington with its snow-capped summit, the mirror-lakes below. Rising above the trees, outlined against a turquoise sky, I clearly discern the rugged features of the Great Stone Facef, If you have never seen this gorgeous play- ground of Mother Nature's in New Hampshire, you can scarcely appre- ciate the ardor with which I feel the golden touch of this coin. Here and there I see the familiar edges of various coins which glow with the excite- ment of a visit to Washington, with the eagerness of school-life, with the beauty of the scenes of The Wild Rosef' and the remembrance of the golden days of vacation. G-littering beside a golden heap, I see a coin whose stamp is obviously foreign. As I hold it before my eyes there is reflected all the beauty of the Canadian woods, with their rivers, its rapids, and waterfalls. I can point out almost every landmark along the banks of the Magog as I paddle by again, in a gliding canoe. On my right and left are birch and pine forests, with barren spots here and there marking the sweep of a forest fire. Now cleared lands come into view and finally a village appears. I feel again the comforting assurance of rest after a long day's paddle, and the refreshing amusement 9