7chdu Awake at night with restless head Pillowed deep in my sleepless bed, With visions that the moonlight brings I wonder on the strangest things. I wonder what the front door thinks of its squeeky hinges? the door bell thinks of the fingers that press it? the flowers think as they bend in the... Show more7chdu Awake at night with restless head Pillowed deep in my sleepless bed, With visions that the moonlight brings I wonder on the strangest things. I wonder what the front door thinks of its squeeky hinges? the door bell thinks of the fingers that press it? the flowers think as they bend in the breeze? the porch swing thinks of the young lady’s boy friend? I wonder what the microbes see in their sphere of life? the angleworm sees as it bores in the earth? the car wheels see in a hot dusty road? falling stars see as they shoot through the sky? I wonder what the rain drops say as they fall on the roof? the west wind says when it howls through the trees the pigeons say when they coo to each other? the angry fly says when stuck to fly-paper? I wonder what the artist would do without his paints? the sculptor would do without his chisel? the piano would do without its keys? Uncle Tom would do without little Eva? I wonder why it is so light, For surely it must still be night; But no, I see the sun is up— I wonder why I don’t get up? OLAF G. JOHNSON, ’39. THE DIAL____ 7 Show less
Slowly you turned, the song ending . . . And the breezes inspired come near, Softly and gently pretending At playing with your moon crowned hair; And now when the dew is glistening And the stars overhead dance slow; And the wind sighs gently . . . I’m listening To your voice in my dreams sing low... Show moreSlowly you turned, the song ending . . . And the breezes inspired come near, Softly and gently pretending At playing with your moon crowned hair; And now when the dew is glistening And the stars overhead dance slow; And the wind sighs gently . . . I’m listening To your voice in my dreams sing low. LE ROY ELSTER, ’39. skit? God gives, man takes, and returns what He doesn’t want for Himself. MARION LUND, ’39. *xi‘ri’): Tribute to Father Old, gnarled? Perhaps—yet the years have been kind to you. They have softened that rough exterior and pol- ished to a burnished gold that heart of yours. You still say time has been harsh? Well—your fingers are knotted and your limbs are stiff, your hearing isn’t as it used to be, and you do wear spectacles, but I still insist—- You are being shaped for a statue whose memory shall stand in Eternity. , The marble has been tough, but the more the beauty of the finished product. The sands of time have continually chiseled away until the specimen is nearing completion. This frame may be forgotten by all save one, two, or pos- sibly three, but your spirit shall live on forever. INEZ HINRICHS, ’40. THE DIAL_____ 21 Show less
bit hole under a dewberry bush. But a gettin’ back ta the story. Like I said, George was right handsome . . . and a ladies’ man, remember that. Course there was no gettin’ round the fact he was a man’s man too. Thar weren’t no- body ’round har what could take him in the knuckle game. He was tops... Show morebit hole under a dewberry bush. But a gettin’ back ta the story. Like I said, George was right handsome . . . and a ladies’ man, remember that. Course there was no gettin’ round the fact he was a man’s man too. Thar weren’t no- body ’round har what could take him in the knuckle game. He was tops at that. The boys down at the old Settlement sure respected George, but I ain’t sayin’ they like him none. No sar! his habits were against him . . . a habit o hittin’ first and apologizing latter, when he got around ta it. His fist felt like quarry rocks when they plopped my nose out . . . that’s what makes me look not so good. All I can say is that George was built most like the front end 0 a steam boat. But like I says, he sure was a man’s man, too. “Well, one day Hank and George come ta town an’ like as usual Hank takes off for the tavern and get hisself loopy, while George loafed ’round the streets . . . you know, like as if he was lookin’ for somebody. Course I knowed who it was he Were lookin’ for. Anyhow, ’bout noon George was gettin’ sort 0’ impatient, and makes off for the tavern. Granpappy an’ me was sittin’ in front 0’ the general store a watchin’ him, an’ as George come by Granpappy’s foot sort 0’ stuck out in George’s way, and George splayed his- self out on the plankin’. I ain’t a saying Granpappy knowed it was out thar, but it riled George some, an’ for a moment it looked like as if Granpappy was a goin’ ta get a boot in the face. But Granpappy was lookin’ so innocent like . . course maybe the sheriff over across the street had some- thin’ ta do with it . . . that George just cussed a bit and took off. I could see that George was sure enough burnin’ up about somethin’, and the way he went through them doors 0’ the tavern, he weren’t fit company for a bobtail. But George didn’t stay in thar long . . . guess the somethin’ was bother- in’ him ta much. Like I says I knowed who it was George was a lookin’ for, an’ Granpappy knowed it too. It was this young Jim fella what was goin’ with this Loleta gal. “I guess I told ya George was a ladies’ man, well, any— how, he got along fine with them . . . that is all ’cept this Loleta gal I mentioned. She was livin’ in the little white THE DIAL 11 Show less
You’d think they were wig-wagging Mars, or trying to smoke out all the bugs in Minnesota. Um-m . . . those eggs smell good though, and the coffee. Ah-h-h-h . . . here it comes. Now for a drink of coffee. Say, do they call this coffee? It tastes as if it were scorched . . . how it’s possible, I... Show moreYou’d think they were wig-wagging Mars, or trying to smoke out all the bugs in Minnesota. Um-m . . . those eggs smell good though, and the coffee. Ah-h-h-h . . . here it comes. Now for a drink of coffee. Say, do they call this coffee? It tastes as if it were scorched . . . how it’s possible, I don’t know? I’ve heard that college girls scorch water every time they boil it, but I’d never believe it if it weren’t for this coffee. It’s definitely no good. What? Are they through with their hike so soon? Oh, well, here I go . . . back into the bag. Back on the shelf, and I can still smell smoke. HAZEL WILLARD, ’41. Tm, My Wu When on earth I struggle far Striving for some far-off star, Hopelessly I try in vain Seeking goals I can’t attain; When I am at utter loss, Jesus, then I see the Cross, See Thy blood stains on the tree And Thee suffering there for me. May I always see Thee there, Lest I fall in more despair, May these earthly crowns just be Stepping stones, 0 Lord, to Thee. FERN O. HANSON, ’41. THE DIAL___.___ 27 Show less
For a long time the child sat motionless. Then she walked dully out into the meadow. Her heart felt dead and cold. At length, slowly, the tears came, and a great sob rose from far down in her bosom. It swelled, and broke, like a wave, and was followed by another, and another. The child stumbled... Show moreFor a long time the child sat motionless. Then she walked dully out into the meadow. Her heart felt dead and cold. At length, slowly, the tears came, and a great sob rose from far down in her bosom. It swelled, and broke, like a wave, and was followed by another, and another. The child stumbled on, madly, and fell. When at last the sobs ceased it was dusk. Slowly she arose and went home, still and calm. They had taken away the little bed she had made, but said not a word when they saw her. For Floppit was dead. MABLE NELSON, ’41. The winter came and spring comes on as well . . . The empty, patting space, and silent skies, The vacant stare of frozen streets and parks . . . All gain again their features, known and loved. The winter landscape’s silvered silhouette In black and white will quickly gray and fade, Then helpless, like a newborn babe, she’ll cower And scream once more with lusty March wind’s voice; Till April with her tears of loving joy Will wrap in living green the naked world. And freed by warm embraces of the sun, Returning to this northern hemisphere, Earth reasserts her innate fecund power And doffs her desert rags to don a bower. JOEL LUNDEEN, ’40. THE DIAL______ 23 Show less
The flowers blooming in valleys green Reveal the beauty of life unseen; The smallest bud that burst between Bright leaves are signs of God. We cannot see the diamond-stone, Where crystalline it lies alone; But deep down in that hidden zone It is a sign of God. The soul, that fills the body’s frame... Show moreThe flowers blooming in valleys green Reveal the beauty of life unseen; The smallest bud that burst between Bright leaves are signs of God. We cannot see the diamond-stone, Where crystalline it lies alone; But deep down in that hidden zone It is a sign of God. The soul, that fills the body’s frame, And looks beyond with conscious flame, Beholds with joy from whence they came, These myriad signs of God. P. A. SVEEGGEN. THE DIAL_____s 17 Show less
DEDICATED IN RECOGNITION of PROFESSOR CARL FOSSE “Find me a man,” the angel cried, “One in whom great truths abide; Seek me a man among the wise, Such a one who’ll not despise Even the meanest work of men And I this day will honor him!” L. E.
and listening to the sounds of the night. Soft and low the dark whispering waters of the lonely river murmured to the darkness, keeping time to the gentle creaking of the long looping vines swaying back in the bayue . . . all this was music to the old man’s ears as he sat like the others, swaying... Show moreand listening to the sounds of the night. Soft and low the dark whispering waters of the lonely river murmured to the darkness, keeping time to the gentle creaking of the long looping vines swaying back in the bayue . . . all this was music to the old man’s ears as he sat like the others, swaying in his old rocker, his feet propped carelessly on the railing. Occasionally he paused in his movements, leaned back a little and spit a streamer of tobacco juice into the river. If one were to watch him closely for a time, one would come to the conclusion that he was aiming at his big toe, for he would bend it ever so little to let the rifle-like barrage of fluid glide by. Just why he was called Granpappy, no one seemed to know. True he was an old man, but spry,—-that is when he so chose. Otherwise he was no different from the rest of the Shanty folks, easy going, except there was no one who could spit like he could. It was Grandpapy’s boast that he could outspit any man from one end of the river to the other, both for accuracy and distance, and drive a tenpenny nail for good measure. Perhaps he was right in his claim, for there were times when he would sit all day in the shade of his shanty with his eyes half closed as if dreaming, but if a bluebottle fly lit on the plank within ten feet of him, Granpappy would lazily open an eye and take aim. From his puckered lips would squirt a thin streamer of tobacco drowning the poor unsuspecting fly. It was this tobacco spitting ability of Granpappy’s that was the subject of talk between “Catfish” Jones and the city stranger sitting on “Catfish’s” porch. The stranger went by the name of Lory . . . down for his health as he put it, and had been rather amused at the uncanny accuracy Granpappy displayed. “Does the old man over there ever miss and splatter his foot?” Lory had asked. “Catfish” rubbed his whiskers with the back of his hand and grinned slowly. “Well, can’t say as if I knowed of him a missin’ his aim on his toe, but he sure enough did miss once. A right tragic affair it was.” Lory sensed the story he hoped would come, for he felt there must be a story somewhere in these romantic sur- THE DIAL______. 9 Show less
20 ZheSongoFCadcu-e Once when the great moon was gleaming And the breezes murmured so low; Through the trees a star was peeping Like a rogue winking its eye slow; And the fragrant summer flowers Like incense was scenting the air; Till stopped was time and its hours Bewitched by your song of Cada... Show more20 ZheSongoFCadcu-e Once when the great moon was gleaming And the breezes murmured so low; Through the trees a star was peeping Like a rogue winking its eye slow; And the fragrant summer flowers Like incense was scenting the air; Till stopped was time and its hours Bewitched by your song of Cada-re. Softly you sang of the evening, 0f flowers, the birds, and the trees; Till hushed was the night by your singing, And still was the murmuring breeze. Ah, what a picture you made there . . . Your face turned into the night; A goddess you were with your dark hair Aflame by the silvery light. Like songs of brooks in the forest That tumble and leap to the sea, Wildly singing of their conquests . . . Your song, like their music, was free; Like winds that blow a wild tempest Your song was of things that men fear; Filling with unrest and conquest Till moved by your song to a tear. Then . . . suddenly . . . like oceans in motion . . . Your voice was like waves on a shore, Telling of strife and commotion, That have been but can be no more; Its message like fires of sunsets Was setting my soul all aflame, And naught but your voice could quench it . . . Or my thoughts all aflight reclaim. ___THE DIAL Show less
tied about Granpappy. He weren’t nohow happy which he should have been with that masterpiece 0' his. It weren't till a couple 0’ days later he had the courage ta tell me, in fact it was when I was a goin’ ta give him the plug 0’ to- bacco, that he told me what was eatin’ him. He just sat that in... Show moretied about Granpappy. He weren’t nohow happy which he should have been with that masterpiece 0' his. It weren't till a couple 0’ days later he had the courage ta tell me, in fact it was when I was a goin’ ta give him the plug 0’ to- bacco, that he told me what was eatin’ him. He just sat that in his chair, his chin on his chest, and then he looks at me sad like an’ says, ‘ “Catfish” you know! I can’t take that plug 0’ yours. It ain’t fair, cause I got my direction all mistaken and hit the wrong eye.’ Yup, it was a tragedy . . . but it were right comical, too.” LE ROY ELSTER, ’39. 7mm Noiselessly within the heart of me God’s fingers move; he is creating there His Holy Kingdom; t'is with finest care He takes His first creation’s majesty And builds a conscious life of charity. For out of time with fear and deep despair He still createth, and, with peace will dare To build a sunset o'er a wavering sea. How could it be that this eternal God Completes each new creation well, and looks But one brief moment at the work so done, Then hides us in the earth as one by one An author files away his finished books, Forgetting us forever ’neath the sod? MARGARET CHRISLOCK, ’40. Reminiscence The humid air; the constant drone of the listless bee; the whirring of the farmhand’s mower; an occasional bleat of a lamb who wandered too far from its mother; the gentle whispering of the leaves, eagerly spreading the news the south wind brought them; a rumble of thunder in the dis- tance predicting soothing rain to freshen the tired earth.— Things such as these inspire the poet, yet seem so common- place to ordinary man. INEZ HINRICHS, ’40. 14 ___THE DIAL Show less
The City’s Symphony The raucous sounds of the city create a harmony all their own. The hum of industry proceeds from the mills, fac- tories, newspaper plants, foundries, and other business establishments. The variant noises, for such they are when analyzed separately, combine to make up a... Show moreThe City’s Symphony The raucous sounds of the city create a harmony all their own. The hum of industry proceeds from the mills, fac- tories, newspaper plants, foundries, and other business establishments. The variant noises, for such they are when analyzed separately, combine to make up a symphonic whole. In this orchestra of life are such instruments as auto- mobiles, street cars, lawn mowers, trains, vacuum cleaners, hammers, laughing children, ticking clocks, bells, and springs. What a composition of heterogeneous elements. Paradoxical as it may seem, out of this confusing mass of teeming life wells forth a music pleasant to the car. As one can enjoy and appreciate more the music as it reaches one from a distance, it is always more impressive to listen to it from a quiet retreat rather than from a spot in the midst of the medley of sounds. The opening notes and themes may vary, but the general impressions remain similar. Usually the warbling, chirp- ing, and singing of the early morning birds strike up the introduction in a major key. Gradually as life awakens, the sounds increase. Usually the faithful alarm clock rings out the opening notes of the day for me, and the tempo re- mains quite constant throughout. One day is like one number, and in each composition pre- sents three outstanding movements. If it opens with an animated tempo, it is generally impassioned and brilliant, progressing with diverse modulations. This first move- ment pictures the morning with its freshness, brightness, and vivacity. The second movement develops as we ap- proach the tumult and rush of the noon hour. Following that, the recapitulation of the evening which sums up the whole, completes the number. The coda of twilight brings the soft, sweet, tranquil strains of duties ended and of happy, though brief, leisure time begun, which brings to a 18 ___THE DIAL Show less
71w Rm! Selma! 7% SM Is Jt'sr a rural school teacher walking do\\n a typical coun- try road, and on one arm she is carrying the traditional lunch pail. filled with bread and cheese. On the other arm are piled books including anything from -.1 Primer to Higher Mathematics. She also has a heavy... Show more71w Rm! Selma! 7% SM Is Jt'sr a rural school teacher walking do\\n a typical coun- try road, and on one arm she is carrying the traditional lunch pail. filled with bread and cheese. On the other arm are piled books including anything from -.1 Primer to Higher Mathematics. She also has a heavy feeling in the organ in which food is digested. It must he that fried mush that she had for breakfast—hut she thinks, “Oh, but it's good to be alive!" Everything seems So peaceful and tranquil with nothing but the ticking of the clock. but not for long. for as she opens the drawer to get a match. out jumps :1 mouse. She goes hard into action and soon finds herself on top of the desk. Soon children start coming from all sides. There are exactly twenty good mornings for the teacher. she hears exactly what twenty fathers said and what twenty mothers did. she answers one hundred and fifty-two questions. rudely ignores ten at greatest moments of concentration. reminds her responsible pupils of their morning tasks, helps fix the handle on the duster. helps untangle the flag rope. dries the tears of the little beginner. reprimands the giggling second grade girls. offers sugges- tions for charades, with a sinking feeling reads a note from a fond mother whose only child has been mistreated by the ill- mannered children of other parents. mends the ball, sews a button on Bobby's shirt, plays “Farmer in the Dell," rings the bell. tries to make Richard follow in line. only to learn that he must wait un- til last. he being sadly in need of a needle and thread, for his trousers and the harh wire fence had become too intimate in his attempt to rescue the ‘ ball. Now it is time for class and the rural school teacher begins her work, so the public thinks. What do you think? MARGIE ENEMARK. '40. DIAL 12 Show less
And now, e’en though our friend has parted From the work that kept him here, We all can finish what he started, In his way of faith and cheer. For God will surely give His blessing On a cause so fine and true, If, with bumble hearts, confessing, We accept our leader’s cue. To him, whose courage... Show moreAnd now, e’en though our friend has parted From the work that kept him here, We all can finish what he started, In his way of faith and cheer. For God will surely give His blessing On a cause so fine and true, If, with bumble hearts, confessing, We accept our leader’s cue. To him, whose courage was unending, We, united voices raise, In harmony of chorus, rend’ring Forth our hymns of prayer and praise. As roof and rafter still are ringing With the echoes of our song, We pray, “Lord, help us to keep singing: Give us grace to carry on.” MILDRED OUDAL, ’40 flirt} 0m flea!“ He gave his time. No cause was put aside Without his thoughtful care. He was a man Whom all might well approach, and in him find All understanding, sympathy, and love. He was a man of foresight, one who built For coming days when other feet should tread Where he had trod. He saw a light, A vision of a better world with Christ, And this became the goal toward which he strove. To this he gave his all. In every thing God’s will was all to him, and unto this He bowed himself—e’en to the end. VINCENT MOSTROM, ’39. DIAL Show less
“Grandfather! Grandfather!” he shouted excitedly. “There are three eagles soaring tonight!” The grandfather hurried to the door. What was that? An eagle—a young eagle-soaring from the osprey’s nest? He could see it!—soaring—soaring—. Dared he hope? No need to hope. He saw it now—youth soaring—the... Show more“Grandfather! Grandfather!” he shouted excitedly. “There are three eagles soaring tonight!” The grandfather hurried to the door. What was that? An eagle—a young eagle-soaring from the osprey’s nest? He could see it!—soaring—soaring—. Dared he hope? No need to hope. He saw it now—youth soaring—the little lad—ah, the little lad— he would not be bound with the chains that he himself had had to bear—the boy would soar! MILDRED RYAN, ’40. \x. \\ x '1 )1. s. L—x ya“ 4%” :\\ Sometimes I pause, For building is strife, And catch a vision Of finished life. MARGARET CHRISLOCK, ’40. 15 DIAL Show less
