spring House Cleaning EVERY YEAR as soon as the snow begins to melt and the spring gives a hint of her coming, my mother gets bitten by the house cleaning “bug”. Just as I begin to perk up after the long winter and plan to spend my leisure time enjoying nature, my mother de- cides that the... Show morespring House Cleaning EVERY YEAR as soon as the snow begins to melt and the spring gives a hint of her coming, my mother gets bitten by the house cleaning “bug”. Just as I begin to perk up after the long winter and plan to spend my leisure time enjoying nature, my mother de- cides that the curtains need washing, the walls need painting, the pantry needs cleaning, and the windows need polishing. She thinks of a dozen other unpleasant jobs far from the realm of na— ture study. If winter comes can spring house cleaning be far be- hind? As far back as I can remember, every spring our house has been in an uproar. Oh, what fun it is to come home from school every afternoon, change into old clothes, and get busy with some disagreeable task, when the sun is shining brightly, urging me to come out and enjoy her warmth! Instead I must stay in our paint— smelling house and do what my mother orders. During spring house cleaning, home is just no longer home. How can I relax when there is wet paint everywhere, and I am constantly told, “Don’t touch the table, and don’t go near that door, and for goodness sake, don’t sit on that chair”? All the chairs that are not wet with paint are piled high with every object imaginable. The bed is the only place where I can be without get— ting into harm’s way; and it is no pleasure to be there either, for the paint smell is so strong that I cannot sleep in comfort anyway. Every spring my mother plans just how everything is going to be remodeled. She has glowing visions of a house made mi— raculously beautiful by a can of paint, a brush, and as she says, “good hard work”. But it seems that something always goes wrong. The paint that was bought for the woodwork in the kit— chen just does not match the paint on the walls. Or else the wall paper that seemed so appropriate when it was in the sample book does not suit now that it is on the walls. My mother looks dole— fully about her unharmonious house, and her glowing visions of the “house beaudful” go topphng nno the dust She nghs and asks herself why she did not leave it as she said she was going to do after the same sad experience the spring before. She then makes 23 DIAL Show less
“Not to be on time is the sign of very bad education. Remem- ber that! I’ll mark you late. Don’t let it happen again in any of my classes. You may sit down now." Katja sat down quickly, but with a loud bump she landed on the floor. A girl had quickly pulled her chair away. A little trick they... Show more“Not to be on time is the sign of very bad education. Remem- ber that! I’ll mark you late. Don’t let it happen again in any of my classes. You may sit down now." Katja sat down quickly, but with a loud bump she landed on the floor. A girl had quickly pulled her chair away. A little trick they often played against one another. The girls giggled. Katja got up, fished for her chair and sat down. “Last time,” Miss Petrovna began, “I told you about the life of our great Tsar Peter 1, today I will discuss —” It was the word Tsar which finally upset Katja completely. Again the girl was reminded of her father. Suddenly she started crying and sobbed passionately. Her head dropped on her arms. The class giggled. “Crybaby,” one of the girls whispered loudly enough for Katja to hear. Miss Petrovna became nervous. There was too much commo- tion in her class today. Apparently she would have to be more strict. Therefore she said sharply, “Girls, quiet now immediately or you will have to stay overtime. And Katja, if you are unable to control your emotions, you better leave class till you have re- gained your self-control.” Katja felt relieved to get out of the room, terrified to walk through the sneering glances. She was utterly ashamed. For a while she sat in the hall not dating to go back to class. She did not cry any more, she just felt dejected. She wouldn’t return to class, she decided; she would go home. She could not stand those laugh- ing faces any longer. No sense of going to school, after what happened to Father. But no, she couldn’t go home yet. Mother would ask why she was so early. She would have to wait until school was over. For- lornly she walked around. Time crept slowly that morning. Finally, the first chattering group left the school. Katja hid in a hallway; she did not want anybody to see her. Finally, when the last girl was out of sight, she ran home. At home Mother’s thoughts were far away in Siberia. “Katja,” she said wearily, “I had your dinner on the table half an hour ago. At least you could be considerate enough not to cause me any more work.” Katja said nothing. — HENRY STAUB, ’43 Show less
7/Ie Service Flag Red! White! Blue! It hangs upon the wall. The Service Flag. Emblem of the ultimate in selflessness and love. Each star a flaming heart, A hero for his country given. Red! White! Blue! Colors of a nation’s birth. Symbol of the blood by patriots shed; Symbols of purity and truth.... Show more7/Ie Service Flag Red! White! Blue! It hangs upon the wall. The Service Flag. Emblem of the ultimate in selflessness and love. Each star a flaming heart, A hero for his country given. Red! White! Blue! Colors of a nation’s birth. Symbol of the blood by patriots shed; Symbols of purity and truth. Youth lives again, loves again, dies again. New flags are made for old, Blue stars replaced by gold. And hearts bow down. Red! White! Blue! and Gold! Emblem of the ultimate in selflessness and love. — CLODAUGH NEIDERHEISER, ’44 DIAL Show less
Spring The warm glow of the sunshine, The raking of the lawn, The scent of burning leaves and grass Tell me that winter’s gone. The whistling of a school boy, As happy as you please, Tells to me the same story As the budding of the trees. The coming of the robin, The blue, blue of the sky, Now... Show moreSpring The warm glow of the sunshine, The raking of the lawn, The scent of burning leaves and grass Tell me that winter’s gone. The whistling of a school boy, As happy as you please, Tells to me the same story As the budding of the trees. The coming of the robin, The blue, blue of the sky, Now covered with fleecy clouds Tell me that spring is nigh. —ARLENE OLSON, ’44 you Said A Word Today you said a word that hurt. It nestled in my bosom And pricks my heart. I tell myself, “You feel too much — Life is like that.” But oh, it hurts; It makes the stinging tears come to my eyes; It makes my heart feel sad and all alone. You say you love me, yes, But oh, the hurt— It lingers there. -—CLARA GUDIM, ’45 DIAL Show less
To Blur/I Or Not 70 Blusll IF I WOULD HAVE been born an animal, I'm certain to have become a member of the phylum mollusca, a Lodigo pealu — alias a squid. The squid is noted for its color changes; I am noticed for mine. The difference between the squid and me is that the squid changes color to... Show moreTo Blur/I Or Not 70 Blusll IF I WOULD HAVE been born an animal, I'm certain to have become a member of the phylum mollusca, a Lodigo pealu — alias a squid. The squid is noted for its color changes; I am noticed for mine. The difference between the squid and me is that the squid changes color to match the background, while my color-changes form a definite contrast. I once thought that the reason for my blushing was the fact that I am part Irish. I have since concluded that this is not the case because I am only one-fourth Irish and I blush three-fourths of the time. And it would never do to stoop so low as to blame this inheritance to my proud Norse lineage. So I say that heritage and nationality have nothing to do with the matter. Have you ever blushed? If so, you will agree that there is nothing under the sun as disconcerting and terrifying as a blush. All the bombs from Hitler’s planes, all the gangsters in the world — nothing can compare with the fright and fear which this disease compels one to go through. Have you ever stood before the class — poised and dignified and authoritative-looking —only to feel the faint pink blush slowly creeping o’er your ears? At first you dis- regard it. Then the pink travels quickly over the cheeks and fore- head and assumes a rosy hue as of a sunset on a late autumn day. You shuffle your feet nervously and look longingly for an open window. Then you try in vain to wiggle your arms and stir up a cool breeze. The faint pink tinge turns to a deep tomato-red and slowly covers your entire face so that the class thinks it is waiting for a traffic signal. This causes irritation on the part of the class when the traffic signal fails to change, and the deep tomato—red becomes a sickly purple. Your eyes water, and big tears roll down your cheeks in tiny rivulets. As the boiling water strikes the desk, invisible steam—clouds arise, and your mind wan- ders around in a mist. This is continued until you take your seat, and then you sit there sullen and mortified. Yes, I have blushed. All through my life I have been followed by the evil curse. Lately, however, I have resigned myself to my fate and have silently yielded to this predestination. And so I con- sole myself with the fact that this would be a dull world without that great corps of blushers that seem to do so much to make life interesting. After all, what would those thousands who have never DIAL 20 Show less
“I quit my job!" Little Emil couldn't sit down for a few days after this episode, but he did get what he wanted. He stayed at home after that. - Roan-r NELSON, ’45 from Mot/m World It’s not so long ago since he ran lightly down the campus walk \Vith laughing eyes, and little time for serious... Show more“I quit my job!" Little Emil couldn't sit down for a few days after this episode, but he did get what he wanted. He stayed at home after that. - Roan-r NELSON, ’45 from Mot/m World It’s not so long ago since he ran lightly down the campus walk \Vith laughing eyes, and little time for serious thought, For life was gaiety and song and love, And people far away were in another world. I saw him yesterday and talked to him, What could I say? My words seemed only empty, useless things. For now I saw within his eyes a hidden thing, A deeper light I could not understand but only vaguely grasped. I think it is because while I have stayed in shelter here, \Vith lm'e and happiness Within my reach, The path of life for him has led to Southern Seas, And he has seen those far.ofl‘ waters stained with blood of dying men, And stood himself, perhaps, one short step From that great endlessness we call eternity. —IR£.VE HCGLEN, ’43 Summer Mfg/If At nightI sit alone Enwrapped in blended earth and sky, And seek to pierce the great unknown My Maker to descry. I soar through realms of space And God’s magnificence explore. When humbly I my paths retrace, Christ meets me at my door. — BORGHILD ESTNESS, ’43 DIAL 14 Show less
fliey Say / Kim Nor Ric/7 They say I am not rich — That I am poor. ’Tis erring man has twisted meaning there, Has coupled it with clink of coin on coin. But as for me— Who owns the treasure of new-fallen snow But he who opens his eyes to perceive its beauty? To whom belongs the unfathomable... Show morefliey Say / Kim Nor Ric/7 They say I am not rich — That I am poor. ’Tis erring man has twisted meaning there, Has coupled it with clink of coin on coin. But as for me— Who owns the treasure of new-fallen snow But he who opens his eyes to perceive its beauty? To whom belongs the unfathomable wealth of a dewdrop But to him who sees therein the heavens mirrored? I have stood in a dingy street And marvelled at the sky; I have sat in crowded streetcars And quivered to a bare tree’s filigree. Is there no worth? They say I am not rich— That I am poor, But they are wrong— God is not miserly with beauty. —DOROTHY LOVAAS, ’45 DIAL 18 Show less
7/ze Passing Era of 7/13 Pocket Wafc/I I CANNOT HELP but deplore the passing of the old dignified pocket watch. It was so many more things than a device for tell- ing time. It was responsible for the gold chain which adorned the gentleman’s vest so majestically; it was the most alluring play—... Show more7/ze Passing Era of 7/13 Pocket Wafc/I I CANNOT HELP but deplore the passing of the old dignified pocket watch. It was so many more things than a device for tell- ing time. It was responsible for the gold chain which adorned the gentleman’s vest so majestically; it was the most alluring play— thing Grandpapa could dangle before the eyes of the tot on his knee; it was — in its one dollar, unbreakable, nickel form — the first symbol of manhood, the worthy forerunner of long trousers. And what is a watch today? It is only something to be used for telling time. It is a little mechanical doiigger that prods man on to his never ending work and committee meetings and social events. Gone is the glory of the pocket watch! Slowly but surely the race of mankind is bowing to the convenience of the wrist watch, and nowadays everything has to be convenient or we will have none of it. The farmers’ wives have traded their homey, black, temperamental, wood burning ranges for gleaming white porce— lain stoves that operate by pilot lights. But the farmer’s children no longer come in from sliding on the hills to crowd up to the stove and toast their backs. There can be no friendship between a lifeless gas range and a child. Or look at the automobiles. They are growing more and more to be miracles of modern convenience. We would hate to think of driving from one end of town to the other in a car that was not equipped with a radio, a clock, and a heater. Twice this win— ter I had to suffer the intolerable inconvenience of riding for five miles in an open cutter behind frost—covered horses when it was twenty degrees below zero. It took a long time to bundle up that morning, but somehow we actually managed to get the young- sters to school on time, and we even contrived to leave the cream cans at the creamery before it closed for the day. And I was de- lighted! ButI can apologetically explain that; it was so much fun “flying” between snow—covered fields that were sparkling in the winter sun, with our ears filled with the crackle of the cold air and the rhythm of the pounding of the horses’ hoofs and the DIAL IO Show less
A librarian’: Prob/em: IT Is A QUARTER T0 TEN. And if I have counted them correctly, there are still eleven reserve books checked out. \Vell, while I wait for these studious Augsburg coeds to turn in those books I may as well make my nightly rounds. I take my long, brown, gold—tipped, hooked pole... Show moreA librarian’: Prob/em: IT Is A QUARTER T0 TEN. And if I have counted them correctly, there are still eleven reserve books checked out. \Vell, while I wait for these studious Augsburg coeds to turn in those books I may as well make my nightly rounds. I take my long, brown, gold—tipped, hooked pole (which makes me feel so official and grandiose) and clomp across the floor. By means of deft and ex- pert manipulation I get the gold—tipped hook firmly secured in the notch provided for that purpose, and push for all I’m worth (vainly trying to look as though I am not pushing for all I’m worth). The window does not move, except to sag slightly in the left corner. This is exasperating. I notice that all of the other win— dows are closed and sigh with relief. Perhaps it will be all right to leave this one window open. One must always take care that the place is freshly—aired and well—ventilated so as to be conducive to study. Still those students sit poring over their books. The long, brown pole wavers suggestively in my hand and I am tempted to pick up the notebook that Helen is writing into and knock it over her head. This is a delightful idea, and the corners of my mouth turn up as I contemplate its delightful execution. But no, I divert my energies into more “socially acceptable” channels. I shove the chairs vigorously under the tables, pick up the Morning Tribune and bits of scattered paper, climb up one or two rungs of a chair and pull the lights off. There, that ought to bring them out of their lethargy. As the lights blink off, there is a definite and noticeable rustle of paper. But they are just turning a page. Disconsolately, I pick up my pole and clomp back to the ' desk. All the shelving has been done, the day’s charges have been soned and ananged,the “findouw have been Ckwed,the chaks have been pushed under the tables the nexvspaper has been re- covered and macked,rny hoursfor the day have been recorded. I have even put on my overshoes and changed the number in the date stamp. Slowly the minute hand ticks off the minutes and indicates the approach of the zero hour. I cross my arms, as I stand behind the desk, and prepare, exultantly, to say: “Friends, Romans, and fel- DIAL 26 Show less
forever and ever. Amen”—in the chapel, then you will never really leave Augsburg, and the echo of your voice shall make richer and deeper the youthful voices that are raised to God within those walls in the years to come. -—IRENE HUGLEN, ’43 7/113 Day This day has spent its life In giving unto me... Show moreforever and ever. Amen”—in the chapel, then you will never really leave Augsburg, and the echo of your voice shall make richer and deeper the youthful voices that are raised to God within those walls in the years to come. -—IRENE HUGLEN, ’43 7/113 Day This day has spent its life In giving unto me, A treasure that will live Until eternity. But what can live you say, Until eternity? One answer only can there be: A soul that Jesus Christ sets free. — GLORIA BURN'rvmyr, ’43 DIAL 32 Show less
My Country Road BUT THIS ROAD IS ALIVE. I know every crook, tree, and rut in stormy fury or sunny peace. It continues to be my silent com- panion, heedless of worldly affairs. I have complete confidence in my road. How often I have labored on a perplexity amid the con- fusion of life, and sought... Show moreMy Country Road BUT THIS ROAD IS ALIVE. I know every crook, tree, and rut in stormy fury or sunny peace. It continues to be my silent com- panion, heedless of worldly affairs. I have complete confidence in my road. How often I have labored on a perplexity amid the con- fusion of life, and sought my road and found that everything straightened out miraculously. I cannot feel it is inorganic and dead, for it responds to my feelings periodically during the day. “To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy. . . .” How well William Cullen Bryant felt the response of nature and how ably he constructed it on paper! If dawn finds me refreshed and eager to accomplish a long day’s work, I View the waking road with its pastel glory in silent contemplation and prayer. And during my noon siesta I find it has exchanged its cloak of gray for brilliant sunshine and green foliage. While the clouds shift lazily about, I thoroughly enjoy idling. When the day is over, my road is most precious, for then it instills peace and joy into my soul. How that sunset glows through the patterns of those old oaks! I trudge slowly homeward, thinking of all the good things the day has brought and how thankful I am for my road! —MARY LOU MORTENSEN, ’45 DIAL 28 Show less
To A [one Star So far above this earth— Above all strife, You may not see What hearts you cheer. You may not know that here, in darkened vale, Your soft, benignant radiance Blesses souls, and makes us feel That God is near. —RU'm WELTZIN, ’45 Snow The world is clean and beautiful this morning;... Show moreTo A [one Star So far above this earth— Above all strife, You may not see What hearts you cheer. You may not know that here, in darkened vale, Your soft, benignant radiance Blesses souls, and makes us feel That God is near. —RU'm WELTZIN, ’45 Snow The world is clean and beautiful this morning; New fallen snow lies deep and crystal white, It covers with a dreamy, soft enchantment The mystery and darkness of the night. — CLARA GUDIM, ’45 flpri/ I knew that She had come: For everywhere the quivering air Among my curls played hide and seek, And blew light kisses on my cheek. — GLORIA BURNTVEDT, ’43 DIAL 30 Show less
"You want I should stay at the hospital with you or should I go stay with the kids? Never thought to tell nobody to go over.” "Stay with the kids, will you? I’ll be all right.” They lapsed into silence and Clara’s mind returned to its remi— niscing. "Clara, honest. I’ll never drink again. Marry... Show more"You want I should stay at the hospital with you or should I go stay with the kids? Never thought to tell nobody to go over.” "Stay with the kids, will you? I’ll be all right.” They lapsed into silence and Clara’s mind returned to its remi— niscing. "Clara, honest. I’ll never drink again. Marry me, please. I haven’t had a drop for three months now. Isn’t that enough sign that I mean it?” And Mark had been so contrite the first time he had come home drunk. "Clara, I didn’t mean to, honest. Please say you don’t hate me for it.” Their fifteen years of married life swirled around inside her, making her dizzy. "Floyd, don’t tell the kids. None of ’em know, so just say Mark is sick. Don’t even tell Sonny.” She had worked hard to keep her three kids from knowing that Mark drank, and they weren’t going to find out now. "Mark, if you come home drunk once more I’ll take the kids and go. You think I want them to know their dad comes home drunk all the time? Mark, shut up, won’t you? You’ll wake ’em up.” "I’ll go—upstairs—and—bring—’em—down—so—they—-can— see me.” “Mark—” her voice was horrified. uClara, I’m -— sorry — Guess—I’ll—go—sleep—now. Won’t— drink—again—ever—honest.” “Well, you ever do and we leave. Just remember that.” ——“We’re almost there now, Clara.” Floyd’s voice interrupted her again. "You sure you don’t want me to stay?” “Nope, you go on home.” The car stopped with a jerk. Clara forced herself to smile at Floyd. Her lips felt stiff and odd, but she thought they did turn up a little bit. “Tell the kids not to worry, won’t ya? Bye.” Her rubber heels made a soft plodding noise as she walked across the lobby of the hospital. She didn’t know what she said to the receptionist, but in a matter of minutes she was in the elavator on 60 Show less
SEARCH The wind grapes wildly Through the trees And shudders To find nothing there. I look s/zyward And see Only the bare stars— Until, Closing my eyes, I see the sun, too. ~—HELEN HAUKENESS + Comin’ [at to Cauy Men. I awoke and sat up. It came to my mind faintly where I was, then again, I did not... Show moreSEARCH The wind grapes wildly Through the trees And shudders To find nothing there. I look s/zyward And see Only the bare stars— Until, Closing my eyes, I see the sun, too. ~—HELEN HAUKENESS + Comin’ [at to Cauy Men. I awoke and sat up. It came to my mind faintly where I was, then again, I did not know for sure. There was a sense of stillness about me. I could hear the water gliding past the ship’s sides, the bunk labored on with the gently roll of the skies, and the steady hum of the turbines stood out like a bass drum. It was quiet, yet so weird. It was never like this at home. Then the Negro troop, up on deck, started tossing. You could hear the melody drift from the bow to the stern. Maybe it was because they were only six days away from their destination, may- be because of the submarine contact four hours ago, or maybe it was because they received an answer. A summer Sunday morning back home came to my mind. I re— membered that as I walk by they were walking into the church. Some had on white suits that seemed to get whiter at every look. What a contrast I thought. They were singing as the church doors closed. Now they were singing again. This time they were singing for something that was in the minds of every man on the ship. I know it was in mine. It did not sound the same as it did on that Sunday morning though. It seemed to be more earnest and more sincere. I guess it is because they new, too, there are no cars, buses, or trol- leys outside to take us there. —KENNETH FAGERLIE 36 Show less
her way up to see Mark. She leaned against the wall of the elevator to steady herself. It was cold and comforted her. Without noticing what direction they walked, she followed the nurse through the many turns in the corridor till at last she stood outside Mark’s door. “You realize your husband... Show moreher way up to see Mark. She leaned against the wall of the elevator to steady herself. It was cold and comforted her. Without noticing what direction they walked, she followed the nurse through the many turns in the corridor till at last she stood outside Mark’s door. “You realize your husband isn’t conscious, Mrs. Mickelson. Of course, there is the possibility he might regain consciousness at any time. You can go in now.” The nurse’s eyes smiled reassuringly. To Clara, however, she was only a chunk of white clay with a streak of red for a mouth and tiny dabs of blue for eyes. Everything was blurred as she walked slowly towards the bed. She felt as though she were alone with Mark, though she knew a nurse was standing across the bed from her, keeping constant check on his condition. “It’s so unreal. That isn’t Mark. They’ve just bandaged some— one up and are trying to fool me. Mark’s probably home now wondering where I am.” She picked up his hand which lay lirnply on the bed. One glance and she knew. It was Mark. Only he had hands so large and worn, and only he had a wedding ring that wide. He’d wanted a wide ring.— “So people can tell from far away that I’m married . . . I’m proud of it, Clara.-—A ring as wide as we can find.” A choked sob forced its way out from deep within her. The room wavered back and forth before her eyes. She leaned heavily on the bedstand. In a few moments she again had her emotions under control. She swallowed hard before she whispered, "Is he any worse?” The nurse shook her head. Clara ached to ask if he were better but lacked the courage to do so. She was afraid to know the answer. “If only he gets well—I’ll never say another thing about his drinking. It doesn’t matter anyhow. We’ve never gone hungry— we’ve always eaten, and nothing else matters. The kids really don’t care if they don’t have all the things the other kids have. We can get along. I’ll never nag him about drinking. Never!” Her lips silently formed the words she was thinking. Her cheek tickled. She touched it with her hand and realized 61 Show less
dwelling, where the buffalo lay all day and soaked, and where the women of the village washed their clothes, and where the ashes of the dead were sometimes thrown. He must be clean and purified be- fore he started work on his gift to the god Siva. In the darkening twilight, when birds twitter... Show moredwelling, where the buffalo lay all day and soaked, and where the women of the village washed their clothes, and where the ashes of the dead were sometimes thrown. He must be clean and purified be- fore he started work on his gift to the god Siva. In the darkening twilight, when birds twitter drowsily and leaves whisper, and the river gurgles over the stones, Narayan be- gan his present. Slowly and steadily rose the clay under the touch of the master’s hand. Once, twice, three times; he began again. And once the vase stood proudly on its platform, tall and beautiful. Narayan spied a tiny stone in the gently curving lips of the vase. He picked it out and patiently began again. His slender brown fingers stroked the submissive clay into fascinating shapes. His thumb made a lit- tle series of spirals about the wide base. His gentle hands eased the clay up and up—another curve, another spiral. His hand hollowed it out till it was tall and delicately thin. A touch of his finger and the top curved outward into a smooth rounded ellipse. A few more touches and the vase was complete. Narayan sat back and gazed at it. He had never executed such a perfect bit of work before. He knew he could never do it again. He was awed by its beauty. That night he baked it in his hottest brick oven. In a few days it was ready. The outside was painted with artistic loveliness in many rainbow hues. The inside was afire with golden paint. So Narayan made preparations to take his dedicated vase to the temple at the edge of the holy Ganges river. He laid it down carefully to kiss his little son goodbye. The little boy danced about it excitedly. The father beamed upon his two treasures—his son, the gift of the gods, and his exquisite vase, the work of his own hands. The boy’s foot accidentally tipped the sacred vase. It reeled giddily as if to save itself, and tipped over. There before N arayan’s horrified eyes lay his masterpiece. It was shattered into a hundred glistening fragments! -—RUTH AMSTUTZ THE PHILOSOPHER’S DILEMMA I can’t help but think— And thinking doesn’t help. ——ROBERT G. KRAUSS Mam Show less
