Northwestern State University - Potpourri Yearbook (Natchitoches, LA)

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ADMINISTRATION

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POTPOURRT Those Friends of Long Ago By Kearnie Keegan, ' 27 When you re sittin ' in the evenin As the quiet shadows fall, An the birds in the tree tops, Are a-chirpin their soft call. An the minds a-fyind a-sighin An singin soft and lorv— That ' s when you think of friendships. Of those friends of long ago. When you re rvalkin in the moonlight ' Neath the moonbeams mellorv gleam, An you listen to the drippin An the babblin of the stream. An you Wonder as you ' re Tvab in, Jus ' Tvanderin ' long the sho ' , If they ever, ever think °f V ou Those friends of long ago. When you tvaf e up in the mornin As the sun comes up from rest. An it starts its daily journey From East toward the West, There ' s a question you ' d be asking; The answer you ' d like to k n °u) ' Where are ' those dear ole Normal friends, Those friends of long ago? 1928

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Grand Ecore LOUISIANA! The land of sunshine and flowers— The land of legends and folklore— The land of love and romance. Dear old Louisiana. How we love her. Just three miles from the home of State Normal there is a spot of such exquisite beauty as to inspire the meekest to become bold; such as to arouse within one all the finer desires of life. This spot is a high bluff which overlooks Red River and is called Grand Ecore. As one stands upon the top of this bluff, he is filled with awe at its beauty— a true masterpiece of the Creator, whose very soul seems to have planned the beauties of the spot. It is to Grand Ecore that the artist takes his canvas and brush— the violinist his violin. There in utter silence, but for the gushing of the water against the banks of the bluff, or the murmur of the pines as the soft wind passes through them, or the song of some bird, calling his mate— there in such a spot the world ' s master- pieces are created. So it is that when the truck, full of Normal girls, winds its way slowly up the curved path— a hush comes over the group. Each girl is reminded of the legend of Grand Ecore and of the Indian Princess whose romance was not a happy one. It is a beautiful though pathetic story— one which always causes a tinge of sadness. It was toward the close of a bright Sunday afternoon during the moon of strawberries; the brightness of the sinking sun vied with that of the luscious fruit. A canoe, steadily advancing, was a growing speck in the distance. Nothing was heard save the rhythmical dipping of the oars and the gentle lap of waves. Don Fernando sat at the bow. He was gazing pensively at the ominous hue of the bloody stream known at this day as th e Red River. The canoe shot quickly around the curve, bringing its occupants in view of the steep, clear-cut bluff rising majestically it 1928