2 THE DIAL was to remove all the electric lights from the chapel just before a quartet of students from the United Church Seminary, which was not far away, was to give a concert. It was scandalous, of course, and when the culprit was discovered he was called to the oflice of the “old man”, as we... Show more2 THE DIAL was to remove all the electric lights from the chapel just before a quartet of students from the United Church Seminary, which was not far away, was to give a concert. It was scandalous, of course, and when the culprit was discovered he was called to the oflice of the “old man”, as we affectionately called the father of the present president of the Sem- inary when he was out of sight and hearing, and I recall that he came out very subdued, considering that he was almost irrepressible, but still smiling. We were all glad he had not been “fired”, as we had feared would be the case. The worst thing I ever did was to discover some foul smelling chemical and to call on some theological students and inad- vertently let a drop or two fall on the table or floor. The result was always the same; the room was uninhabitable for the rest of the day, and the particular theolog found his Christian charity so severely tested that he refused to recognize me for about a week. However, I was the “baby” of the class. Gog— gen was the honor man of the class and only slightly older than the “baby.” I think most members of the class became clergymen. Gilbert began to study law, be- came a judge and the high mogul of the Sons of Norway. I don’t know where George is, but I think he went into business. Goggen just missed becoming a clergymen, and I suppose it was because he went to Yale for some years of p. g. work and then to some dreadful places in Asia Minor where he was vice-consul, taught in a college, and became an authority in Semitic languages. I think he must be in Minneapolis now. A number has passed on to the great beyond. The “baby” was a sort of vagrant student at several American and foreign universities, and then taught political economy out west, was in the diplomatic service and for some seven years has been a member of the facul- ty of the University of the Berlin, the capital of the late Boches. As I sit here before my typewriter and ee visions of other days and climes a phrase from some school book of my Iowa boyhood comes back to me,—“a feeling of sadness comes o’er me”; at any rate the “baby” and the gipsy of the class feels just a trifle remo- dig—and I suppose that is why he can’t leave out a Norwegian word occasionally, and be a 100% American! The title of one of Bjorn- son’s works suggests itself to him also,— “Geografi 0g szerlighet.” And he feels that in spite of Zeppelins and other rapid means of transportation there is still too much Geografi in the world and too little Kjaerlig- het. If it were not for the Geografi he would surely be in Minneapolis for the next Augs- burg commencement. As it is, he will have to satisfy himself with a jaunt down Unter den Linden on the way to his four o’clock lecture at the University. But perhaps some member of the class will read this, and to such a one I wish it to be taken as a greet- ing and an echo from “auld lang syne." The Augsburg of thirty-two years ago was poorer and smaller than the present ex- panded institution, and in those days there was no co-education there. Nevertheless, I felt then, and have felt so since, that Augs- burg was one of the very best colleges in the country. It was not because the library was large-—it was not—nor on account of labora- tories (in those days we had none and our training related really only to history, hu— manities, religion, and languages). I think my conclusion rests on the fact that the lead- ing men who were our teachers were truly great and inspiring as scholars and as per- sonalities. The outstanding ones were of course Georg Sverdrup and Sven Oftedal. but they had associated with them a really remarkable group of others. So when I think of my great teachers the three most outstanding ones are Georg Sverdrup, Wil- liam Folwell (of the University of Minne- sota) and Adolph Wagner (of the Univer- sity of Berlin). The figures of those I had at the University of Wisconsin have dwindled, as have my Columbia professors of New York days. 80, though life has been Show less
THE DIAL VOL. 11 JUNE, 1930 N0. 2 “Det var engang” CHARLES E. STANGELAND, ’98 course, being reasonably human and slightly sentimental, I have often thought of the to me wonderful “once upon a time” at Augsburg and of my fellow gradu- ates of 1898. Within the last two or three years, however, the... Show moreTHE DIAL VOL. 11 JUNE, 1930 N0. 2 “Det var engang” CHARLES E. STANGELAND, ’98 course, being reasonably human and slightly sentimental, I have often thought of the to me wonderful “once upon a time” at Augsburg and of my fellow gradu- ates of 1898. Within the last two or three years, however, the memory of it all became more real and pleasant, perhaps somewhat poignant too, because two of my class-mates, and I believe some sisters and aunts and cousins, have looked me up (they also “looked me over,” as it were, but very polite- ly, so that my feelings should not be wound— ed!) and instinctively, in thoughts and in words gamle dage and “gamle Augsburg” were made to live again. One of the class- mates I always called “Oss”, though he al- ways protested for some reason, and the other’s name was “Goggen”. That is to say, he was not baptized that way, but his little brother and his sisters called him that in— stead of George,—-and being incorrigible I followed suit. When I saw them here after the lapse of I don’t know how many years, I addressed the one solemnly as Reverend So- and-So and the other as Mr. President; at any rate I should have! The class of ’98 was the largest one that had been graduated from the college or Greek course up to that year, and I think all the eighteen of us felt rather proud of the fact. We played baseball in vacant lots near a railroad, we never wore dress suits, we paid $1.50 a week for very good board in the base- ment of the old building, and we had a “yell” (which I think was about the only thing that we copied from other schools or colleges). For the purpose of making the record au- thentic, I shall put it down here (I dare not yell it out here in my BerlinerWohmmg— though I think I could—for the neighbors might not appreciate the melody) : “Rah, rah, rah! “Ain’t we great? “Augsburg Seminary, “Ninety-eight ! l” I remember that just before our com- mencement (at which Laurhammer made a wonderful address pact norsk and Gilbert a no less eloquent and wonderful one in Eng- lish) we had a grand class supper on Wash- ington Avenue, not far from “Seven Cor- ners”, which consisted of a very good oyster soup and small crackers, all of which cost about fifteen cents per capita. It was other- wise an exciting time in Minneapolis, for the Spanish War was just about to begin and very grand officers were already strutting or riding up Nicollet Avenue, preparing to “make Cuba free” by spending two or three months in some dreadful camp in Chattan- ooga, Tennessee. But none of us “went to the war,” which was soon over. As a rule we were quite exemplary in our habits (my own less desirable ones I have acquired later and after having become old enough to know better i), and I do not think any one even smoked. The most incorrig- ible one of us was George (this was another George, not Goggen), who was also one of the most likable chaps imaginable. He had come up from Luther College, I think. Any- how, his star stunt during our senior year Show less
16 THE DIAL being there. His arms were strong. His face radiated warmly with love. Beauty shone about him. His words to me were gently spoken. “In Love there is Strength. In Strength there is Peace. In Peace there is Happiness.” As I nestled close in his em- brace, I knew that God had brought me... Show more16 THE DIAL being there. His arms were strong. His face radiated warmly with love. Beauty shone about him. His words to me were gently spoken. “In Love there is Strength. In Strength there is Peace. In Peace there is Happiness.” As I nestled close in his em- brace, I knew that God had brought me to him through the storm: The soft breezes again caressed my cheeks, and I knew that every day would have hope and gladness, and every evening peace and happiness. Then sleep came to me—quietly and kindly. When I awakened, I was lying safely in my boat. It had found a sheltering nook at one end of the lake, and was hugging the shore directly beneath the wide-spreading branches of a giant tree growing there. The words of my mysterious lover were sweet to my memory. The day was very bright with sunshine. When Day Is Done GRACE JENSEN, ’33 T evening, when my day is done And westward dips the sinking sun, When breezes, hushed, sigh through the trees When home have flown the laden been And night’s begun, My steps trace homeward through the dark. I need no light the way to mark. The gate unlatched, the door is wide, I find again my fireside, When day is done. Show less
Was It Only a Dream? LYDIA HALLING, ’30 HE night, the perfect night, which I had experienced over and over again in my fanciful moments, had arrived. Without a thought of fear, I took up a blanket and slipped quietly out of the warm cottage to meet the soft, caressing night air as it came from... Show moreWas It Only a Dream? LYDIA HALLING, ’30 HE night, the perfect night, which I had experienced over and over again in my fanciful moments, had arrived. Without a thought of fear, I took up a blanket and slipped quietly out of the warm cottage to meet the soft, caressing night air as it came from the lake, where my boat was waiting for me. It was waiting just for me. It was lying there securely, while the small and murmur- ing waves rolled up against it in their rhythmic lap-lapping way. “I am going to be a child of the waters, and the rocking boat shall be my crib,” I thought, and as I leaned forward to step into the boat, it tipped towards me in a friendly way. Then a kind wave came up as I set the boat free from its anchor, and bore us out on the waters. The night was as I had always pictured it to be. It was a midnight-blue night, varied only by a sprinkling of tiny gold stars in the heavens above and a sheen of silvery light brushing the surface of the deep waters around me. “I love it all," I whispered. “It is so quiet. Oh, that I could find myself each day in a world as full of beauty, strength, and love as it holds for me this night.” . Yes, it was my night. I settled myself more comfortably at one end of the boat, drew the blanket snugly about me, and closed my eyes to let the silence soothe me to rest. “The air is sweet—the steady waves will carry me away—I am safe-—I feel God near” ——these were my thoughts when sleep touched my eyelids gently; so gently that I didn’t realize that my wakeful moments had been wiped away to be replaced by a dream. But was it only a dream? This is what happened. The lake upon which I was drifting became larger than I had ever imagined it to be. It seemed to ex- pand until‘it swallowed up the shore-line. Why did it seem so different? And why did my “crib” cease its gentle motion? I clutched the side of the little boat as it rose up to meet an angry wave. Where did it come from —so large and threatening? I looked over the surface of the lake again, and it was surging with terrific billows. “Am I a child of this?” I cried aloud. “Must I claim the waters now? No—but they will claim me!” And the boat which I had called my cradle seemed insecure and lost—“Oh why?” As if in answer to my question, an evil- eyed sea monster gleefully broke through a huge breaker and was about to descend upon me. But instead of doing that and putting an end to all, he chose to miss me by a frac- tion of an inch, and to continue torturing me with his wild play so dangerously close to me. He was like a creature of a demon- world. Every wave then seemed to take the form of a similar monster, in whose wicked might I felt weak and powerless. Was there no hope? Where had beauty, strength, and love flown? In despair I covered my eyes with my hands to shut out the awfulness of the scene. I tried to call back the quietness which had filled my soul so short a time previous to this dreadful hour. Surely I had not lost it forever. All at once I felt the boat being quickly sent over the crest of the waves. What mag- netic power was this that could conquer storm and all and bring me safe to shore? What shore? I looked and beheld a small island before me; a lone tree growing there was silhouetted against the sky in majestic splendor, and its strong branches pointing upward reached down to where I was and picked me up and brought me safely within its shelter. It was a tree—-—I said it was a tree—~but how human it became. It was a human be- ing. I looked and wondered at the joy of Show less
Of Writing Essays GRACE JENSEN, ’33 I wish I could write essays that don’t taste like—~well, like “lutefisk” when one does not like it. Some people write on inspiration. My problem has always been to get inspired at the right time. I have felt inspired to write poetry in church, but I seriously... Show moreOf Writing Essays GRACE JENSEN, ’33 I wish I could write essays that don’t taste like—~well, like “lutefisk” when one does not like it. Some people write on inspiration. My problem has always been to get inspired at the right time. I have felt inspired to write poetry in church, but I seriously doubt that the minister would appreciate the compli- ment of my wandering thoughts. The other night I woke up in the wee hours and must needs go through the life history of the three or four cats and the one or th0 dogs with which I had had intimate acquaintance. My bitterness increases when I realize what those unfortunate victims, my classmates, will have to suffer as a result of my mid- night soliloquies. Essay writing may be an ordeal, or it may be a delight. It is an ordeal, certainly, if one “grabs” a subject, gets feverish over it, and tries to write something in half an hour, just because one must. Not every one is gifted in self-expression by way of pen and ink, but, if one is, good essays do not come in thirty minutes. They have seemed, to me, to be the product of the lifetime of the person who has written them. Letter writing is one form of original com- position in which we all indulge, to a greater or less degree. We have all received letters in which the words were as heavy and as awkward as shovels, and others in which it seemed as if the writer were speaking direct- ly to us. Ever since I was ten years old, I have had an extensive and varied correspon- dence. What a wealth of literature or rub- bish two cents, or five, may bring to one’s door! This'comes from Canada: “These prairies, covered with lanky, un- kempt grass, and ragged small bushes; this wind—so keen, so buoyant, so boisterous and happy that it seems to fill you with strength and courage and the desire to do great things; the wheat fields, rippling with light and shadow, like green lakes; this fragrant air; these glorious sunsets; these vast skies with their million stars, far brighter than any that shine above your roaring city! Far and above all, this freedom, this healing sil- ence, this peace that the lonely prairies give l” This from Australia: “I might add that it was fearfully cold, and Aunty and I lay on deck well wrapt in rugs, while Uncle kept us well supplied with hot water bottles. The waves crashed over the deck and swirled beneath our chairs. . . . I went to my cabin fairly late that night. The ship was pitching and heaving and doing the ‘Charleston’, and when I awoke next morning I felt a great deal worse than I would care to admit.” From such correspondents as these, I have received a wider interest in many things and the will to try, at least, to wield my words as gracefully as they have done. One who has seen a sunset, heard a water- fall, or felt an evening breeze; one who has seen children playing on the street, or lovers strolling on a wooded path; one who has felt a falling leaf, or seen a budding tree, must have something about which to write. They are there. We fail to see their beauty, or, finding it, grope blindly for words with which to mirror them to others. Trying to write poetry is a very good ex- ercise, if one has an imagination, a waste- basket, and a sense of humor. The result frequently jingles rather than harmonizes, but the world does not weep over what is not published. So I write on. Those who write because of an inner “I must,” instead of an outer “Thou shalt,” will not have misunderstood another “lutefisk” essay. “r A 5....-. “on; Am “a. At... C.:M‘""‘ 1 Show less
Growing Pains BERNER DAHLEN, ’31 EAL drama is always rife on a college campus. Action in some form seems to be natural in the noisy, youthfully eager group that crowds and jostles its way to the rows of mail-boxes in the halls of adminis- tration buildings. Action seems to satisfy, for a time at... Show moreGrowing Pains BERNER DAHLEN, ’31 EAL drama is always rife on a college campus. Action in some form seems to be natural in the noisy, youthfully eager group that crowds and jostles its way to the rows of mail-boxes in the halls of adminis- tration buildings. Action seems to satisfy, for a time at least, that inner longing that has called forth this social group from every walk in life—that search for a remedy for dissatisfaction and social unrest. Bob, a farmer's son, usually mingles with the noisy, fun-loving students at a certain college. But today something has created a contrast. He has the appearance of a man about to receive something of vital import- ance. It requires mental power to control one’s nerves when submitted to severe men— tal strain, such as he must have been exper- iencing for the last hour or more. It has been painful, yet fascinating, to watch the play of his features, to see the muscles along his cheek bones ripple under the tanned skin as he has set his teeth firmly, making his chin protrude Tunney-fashion, not at all unhand— somely. The suspense is almost too much for him. Bob, you know, met a girl last spring. She was not an ordinary girl at all, but a rare combination of brains, beauty, health, and a happy disposition—all bound together by an undeniable personal charm. Being a normal college man, Bob promptly fell, and hard, without any further consideration. But he did not see her again after that first meet- ing. He went about in a daze for weeks, mentally blinded by the brilliance of this phenomenon. However, the hard work on the farm where Bob went for the summer, combined with the stern rays of the hot Minnesota sun, seemed to kill the longing which this fair vision had created in his heart. With good food and much sleep, he gradually returned to his normal state of being. When he came back to college in the fall, familiar scenes began to revive memories. All his stern resolves to forget went over- board, as resolutions do when they are not from the heart. He searched industriously for advice in many weighty volumes and was eventually rewarded by finding two splendid mottoes‘ “Nothing venture, nothing have ;” and “Only the brave deserve the fair.” So, after several sleepless nights, he wrote a let- ter to the cause of all his distress, and with a feeling akin to that of the great Julius when he spoke the famous words about “cast- ing the die,” he entrusted the result of his night-long labor to the postal department. After the mailing of the letter studies were forgotten. Who could expect any one to study during such a crisis? But the door of the mail-box was given an increasing amount of attention. \Now, at last, Bob is about to be relieved of his suspense, for the morning mail is be- ing distributed. Looking on, he begins to breathe a little more rapidly. A strange tenseness seems to have gripped him. He looks furtively about to see if any one is watching him and noting his agitation. The facial contortions have now become so pain- ful that one is constrained to turn away. But Bob, with a motion toward the mail-box, ridiculously uncertain for a healthy person, opens it and extracts a letter. Carefully concealing its tinted surface with a large hand, he begins an animated chatter with those nearest him, gradually withdrawing from the group. He can scarcely control the wild beating of his heart, and it seems that every one can hear it thump as it pulses at an unnatural rate. The dark sun-tan is an effective shield for his suffused face. Finally he has shaken off the last restraining hand and is alone with the missive. It is the mo- ment of his life. What the letter contains, who can say? Will it be worth the pain? Show less
(9 NE summer day not long ago, I found A wounded bird, alone, so sick and numb. Sonnets ORVILLB KNUTSON, '31 (6H1? eaglet still unskilled in arts of flight To heavens, silvery clear. lifts searching eyes; . Q: vLPt‘ .A ' .. AL». ‘13: mam—a.“ .4; — ‘3’! ‘a'E‘i Aflan 311.11 r+
Show more(9 NE summer day not long ago, I found A wounded bird, alone, so sick and numb. Sonnets ORVILLB KNUTSON, '31 (6H1? eaglet still unskilled in arts of flight To heavens, silvery clear. lifts searching eyes; . Q: vLPt‘ .A ' .. AL». ‘13: mam—a.“ .4; — ‘3’! ‘a'E‘i Aflan 311.11 r+< In yonder orchard, and upon the ground But to his downy bed he clings in fright. He lay, as still as death—no one had come When new ambitions lure, afraid to rise In all the world to find him lying there. From sullen shore of rugged mountain side, I took him home with hopes that he would stay. To heights which larks decline, where lies the foe—— There well and strong he grew, and 0 so fair! The panther winds the stormy clouds there hide. Then rose to misty clouds and flew away. And roaring billows break on rocks below. So now I search the orchard every day To find, again, the loveliest bird of all; So we, when school’s more lenient toil is o'er. And time has come to leave our peaceful nest, That, sick and numb, remain’d to rest in May Amid the Wind's oft hidden blast to soar, Then flew away to misty skies in fall— Now willing, then reluctant, stay to rest; Where spirits beat within the heart, perchance, Lest cloudland's panther lurk in lamb's disguise, As here on shading trees the leaves now dance. Or foaming billows leap to meet the skies. Those Good Gld Days MANLEY GJERDE, ’31 E often hear the old folks speak About the good old days; They talk about the happy things; The good old home they praise. We read some little greeting card To wish old-fashioned joy; We read some little poem of life When the poet was a boy— And then we think life’s not so good And poorer are our ways; And with a little sigh we say, “0, great were those old days." But after all, life still is life-; It has its joy and grief; It had them then, the same as now.— But bitter thoughts are brief. So why look back upon the past And make it seem sublime? Cheer up, and make the best of what We have in our own time. For oft in future years we'll pause And backward turn our gaze, And with a little sigh we’ll say, “0, great were those old days." ..A.,A N“- Show less
THE DIAL 11 and marvel at his prowess. So fancy ap- proaches closer and closer to reality until Conqueror can almost distinguish the sweet melodies of the harp and the lute; can even faintly smell the aroma of rich and spicy foods. Unconscioust he quickens his pace, and though burdened by his... Show moreTHE DIAL 11 and marvel at his prowess. So fancy ap- proaches closer and closer to reality until Conqueror can almost distinguish the sweet melodies of the harp and the lute; can even faintly smell the aroma of rich and spicy foods. Unconscioust he quickens his pace, and though burdened by his suit of ponder— ous mail, achieves a slow but certain enough trot. Why! he’s almost there now. This little expedition was too easy for such a warrior as he. And as for Cold Blast and his cohorts—a fig for them and all their wiles! Conqueror lifts his head in exuber- ance and beholds—the moon, still sailing serenely along away up there as if utterly unconscious that in a short half-hour or so she would be completely dimmed by the sun’s brilliant rays. Even now Luna casts a slight— ly yellowish glow, but she’s a moon, never- theless. Sly seducer! She directs his thoughts back to that night he had said fare- well to her, the fairest lady of his country. Ah, that had been a wonderful leave-taking! How brightly had not the stars shone down upon them, how peacefully had not the moon glowed in her assuring softness, how pleas- antly had not the capricious little breezes played in and out among the blossoming lilacs. And Alicia! Ah, there’s a princess for you-— But alas! Eternal vigilance was ever the price of safety. Icy Walk has not waited in vain. A particularly treacherous spot, just at the turn of the path, is Conqueror’s Waterloo. Up go his feet in a not ungrace- ful arc, and down comes Conqueror. On the path? No! Even the physical laws seem to be in league with his enemies. Momentum carries him on even when traction there is none. And Sir Snow Bank exultingly re- ceives him. Ingloriously has Conqueror fallen, and ingloriously he sprawls there. But blind anger seizes him. Music, fine food, beautiful lady, moon, enemies, all are a confused jumble in his heated brain. He hates those enemies of his that took advant- age of him in his moment of relaxation. And he hates Snow Bank most of all. Now he must fight. And he does. The world has never seen the like. Even Don Quixote in his battle with the windmills would have been put to shame by such a spectacle as this. Again and again does Con- queror strike out in a frenzy of activity at that engulfing whiteness. Though it yields, still it remains. He flails it with his arms. He spurns it with his feet. It doesn’t fight back. Conqueror’s movements become slower and slower. He tires rapidly and at last is still, completely exhausted. He appears to be sleeping. But suddenly he opens his eyes. And be- hold! There is the moon, just disappearing around the corner of that building over there. With her sickly yellowish glow she seems to laugh at him as he lies there. But why? What? Reason returns to Peer Fanseer, and Con— queror is no more. Peer Fanseer is himself again. Slowly he rises to his feet. His clothes are a sight to behold. They would make a good costume for a hard—time ball. His limbs are numbed with cold; why, each finger is like a wooden stick. He glances about hurriedly, wondering if anyone has observed him. N o, the campus is deserted! That’s good! But what in the wide, wide world—? Peer Fanseer limped painfully back to his room, pondering. Show less
Aberrations? NORMAN ANDERSON, ’30 0 the still sleepy student sallying forth to satisfy the cravings of the natural man over at “The Club”, the journey, now- adays, is like taking a plunge into the chilly waters of a mountain stream. Both acts are usually means towards desirable ends; both,... Show moreAberrations? NORMAN ANDERSON, ’30 0 the still sleepy student sallying forth to satisfy the cravings of the natural man over at “The Club”, the journey, now- adays, is like taking a plunge into the chilly waters of a mountain stream. Both acts are usually means towards desirable ends; both, likewise, require a good deal of mustering of courage; and both, finally, in their con- summation, well repay the sufferer for his pains. Though the actual distance from North Hall, facetiously dubbed the “wooden-men’s dorm” because of its frame construction, to Old Main, which houses the college refectory, is but a scant two-hundred feet, to our hesi- tant student, standing coatless and hatless at the door, it looms vastly greater. Mentally he surveys the icy path to gastronomical satisfaction that he must tread, and already he cringes in anticipation of the bite of sharp North Wind. And he wonders if Lindbergh in the cockpit of his plane before taking off on that epoch-making flight, didn’t feel just about the same as he himself does now. But hold! Has our friend’s imagination grown suddenly over-fertile, or are his senses still befogged by Morpheus? Why! snow, ice, and wind are no common enemies of comfort today. They have lost their usual forms and characteristics and have become living, tangible antagonists who await his coming to the arena (that was the campus) and will battle him to death! He, too, catches the spirit and is no more the common man. Gone are the habiliments of the scholar. In their place are the ac- coutrements of a medieval warrior. Vanish- . ed, too, has Peer Fanseer, the pale stripling, and in his place stands Conqueror, a sturdy warrior and seeker of higher things, but whose immediate wants are frustrated by mighty foemen. “Why,” he meditates, half aloud, “not even Christian had sterner or craftier opponents than these. “Take Sir Cold Blast, for example, lurk- ing there, just around the corner. He’s able to freeze whole lakes and rivers at a breath, and he’s come all the way from the frigid North to fight me! “And there’s Sir Icy Walk, sleek and treacherous beneath his thin covering of snow in the road that I must travel. He would laugh in derision to see me tripped up. Sir Snow Bank is powerful, too. He must be the Slough of Despond. I know he's Icy Walk’s best ally. But I’ll fight them—- all of them, and I’ll win the victory l” So Conqueror strides forth. Cold Blast’s first breath is as cool as the hand of death and fairly strangles him. Conqueror hurls his javelin with terrific speed full at the face of his windy enemy, but in vain. Cold Blast is as sound as ever and advances to envelop him in a cloud that sends prickly chills up and down his spine. How Cold Blast can bite! Still Conqueror fights onward. Sir Snow Bank is met at every step, and, thrust as hard as he may, Conqueror cannot subdue him. In fact, Snow Bank seems to whisper an accompaniment to every crunching step Conqueror takes. This is its substance, “I’ll get you yet, I’ll get you yet l” Only Icy Walk is silent. He seems to exult in anticipation as he leers up at Conqueror. Now he is in the midst of his journey. He walks stiff-legged, like a mastiif sidling up to a strange bulldog. Icy Blast has numbed him through and through, and clings to him like a leech. But the lights ahead gleam brightly through the gloom. Soon Conqueror will be at the king’s table, feasting merrily on the fat of the land and proclaiming loudly his victories over these tenacious enemies. There will be sweet mu- sic too, and fair maidens to smile up at him Show less
THE DIAL 9 that must be banished in heedless pleasure —-only to terrify us again with quiet insis— tence. I am never quite so lonely as when I am at a party, and I would like to think that there is a difference between being lonely and alone. Alone, I have a world which con- cerns me intimately:... Show moreTHE DIAL 9 that must be banished in heedless pleasure —-only to terrify us again with quiet insis— tence. I am never quite so lonely as when I am at a party, and I would like to think that there is a difference between being lonely and alone. Alone, I have a world which con- cerns me intimately: a world of books, of poetry, of music, of my ideals and philosophy of life; a peak where I can gain a perspec- tive, though yet apart from the action. When lonely I am thrown into a sphere which does not interest me; there is no contact with my surroundings. I am plainly bored. (When you are homesick, analyze and see if that is not your condition.) When I am alone, I can be honest with myself. That, at least, is an honorable goal for which to strive. @ The Prince of Peace LAWRENCE BUEIDE, ’31 WOT many welcomed Thee to earth, Thou great incarnate Word, And Bethlehem in blindness failed To own her new-born Lord. ’T was in a stable—for no inn Would ope its doors to Thee— Thou wert received a welcome guest By utter poverty. Thou came to men of humble heart— For they had need of Thee— And made them rich with joy and peace In Thy nativity. Come now to us with peace and love To banish doubt and fear, And bring to naught the power of sin That often grieves us here. We hail Thy coming, Prince of Peace, This happy Christmas day. Our hearts we give to be Thy throne, And gladly own Thy sway. W. Show less
On Being Alone GRACE JENSEN, '33 I had been for a walk—alone. Returning home, I was caught in a snowstorm. Softly the flakes came, falling past me noise- lessly. 0n the sidewalk they melted into nothingness. Then they fell more thickly and hurriedly. Soon they were whirling mer- rily about, some... Show moreOn Being Alone GRACE JENSEN, '33 I had been for a walk—alone. Returning home, I was caught in a snowstorm. Softly the flakes came, falling past me noise- lessly. 0n the sidewalk they melted into nothingness. Then they fell more thickly and hurriedly. Soon they were whirling mer- rily about, some stopping for a chat upon my coat sleeve. More gathered, and I was changed into a fairy princess. My coat was no longer three winters old. It was an er- mine cape. I walked in a white castle, while gems sparkled from the jewelled beams above me. It grew colder. The snow was no longer kind. The wind lashed it in icy fury against my face. My blood tingled. I was alone among forces over which I had no control. How welcome, then, the light of home and warmth of family fellowship! As twilight came gently through the window, I penned the following lines: “When winter comes, and with it benediction Of broken leaves and lightly falling snow; When still beneath them lies a recollection Of places where green meadow grasses grow,— Then to my heart, within its icy fringes, Weighed down by sorrow’s aching load, Comes thought of home, the end of all my journey, A little farther up the road.” Still, there are times when one does want to be alone; yet not alone, but with one’s Self. For there are two of me: the me which you think you see and the me which looks out at you and tries, as vainly, to sound your hidden depths. The “We” of Lindbergh were not the aviator and the Spirit of St. Louis, but the aviator, as the public knew him, and the boy Charlie. Have you met yourself? I do not mean as you may seem to be in the mirror. Others have seen you as you are there. Perhaps an aeroplane, with nothing but the clouds above and waves below, would be a fitting place for such an introduction. Would you, at one glance, lose control of your ship, or would you rise above the clouds to where the sun is shining? I could answer for myself, per- haps, but not for you. A friend of mine remarked upon the fast- ness of this age with the statement that “even the dead speed to their graves in high- powered hearses.” If in death we speed. how much more so in life! What a pity if meeting one’s Self has been deferred until the darkness of the eleventh hour. The part- ing comes too soon. When I die, it will not be over me that, perchance, some gentle soul will weep. I will be but the outer form through which the inner man expressed him- self. “We” are not always on good terms. I may do a deed or speak a word which may win the approbation of the public. When alone, I can condemn myself because it was for approbation that I did it. How often we do things when some are watching which we would not do if we were alone! How often we do things when we are alone which we would not do if even one were watching! Eat in the kitchen and see how hard it is to maintain the highest standard of table eti- quette. How courteous we are at a banquet and how evident that courtesy is, because we brandish it clumsily, not as a fork that is often used. One feels, when one kills the engine as the semaphore changes to “go” and the care behind toot, while others fly by, just as one would if one stopped in the middle of a bust- ling throng and allowed it to pass on. What a tumult of noise and ambition! We follow the pace set for us by others. We must keep up, or we are lost. And Youth must lead. How average youth hates to be alone! A shudder at the thought and then a dash to a party. Serious thoughts are horrid monsters Show less
THE DIAL 7 of Emery Belrud had been placed. “A very promising freshman,” said the authorities. “He has the earmarks of a real football man,” commented the coach. The following day, about an hour before practise time, Haskell’s popular fullback was on his way to Number thirty-three. This time he... Show moreTHE DIAL 7 of Emery Belrud had been placed. “A very promising freshman,” said the authorities. “He has the earmarks of a real football man,” commented the coach. The following day, about an hour before practise time, Haskell’s popular fullback was on his way to Number thirty-three. This time he was determined to convince Belrud. Hadn’t their star guard been carried off in last night’s scrimmage? Probably he would be out for the season. Bruin knocked at the door. No reply. He knocked a second time, somewhat louder. More silence. Gingerly he tried the knob. A slight twist, and the door opened wide. But was he in the wrong room? There must be some mistake. Surely, no one could have occupied this room. He glanced at his list—Belrud, Number thirty- three. He was right. Suddenly he spied on the chiffonier a letter. He reached for it and read the return—— K. M. Thompson Breeder of Airedale Dogs Vale Center, Indiana “Canine, eh!” There was nothing to do but to read the thing. An expression of surprise came over the face of the powerful Bruin. It changed to disgust. Finally he burst out in merri- ment. With a laugh he heaved the letter on the bed and left the room. That night as a small car found its way over the winding road to the Thompson Dog Farm, a young girl, recognizing the hum of the car, rushed out to meet it. There wasn’t a moon that night. The marks of late fall were very evident as heavy gray clouds hung low in the sky. The aire- dale mother, too, felt the approach of win- ter as she gathered her young ones about her. “Emery, I’m so glad you decided to quit college and come back to me.” “I’m glad too, Ellen. I think it all hap— pened because I love you so much.” And in the kennel nearby whimpered a young airdale puppy. Springtime LAWRENCE BUEIDE, '31 WOW great is God’s almighty hand! Its touch brings life anew To every creature of the land. What wonders it doth do! The dormant grass again awakes, To clothe the earth with green. The wood its verdant vesture takes, To harmonize the scene. And songsters gay a-flitting come, To cheer the saddened heart. They warble as they build their home. And clouds of gloom depart. Thou mortal, with thy grief and woe, Up! up! Thy life renew. The Lord of heaven would bestow His quickening power on you. Why slumber still, benumbed with cold, In doubt’s dark night of sin? For Jesus calls you to His fold, And bids you enter in. Supplication GRACE JENSEN, ’33 OODBYE, Old Year! You leave me naught but memories To twine your tendrils close around my heart. Still, when the New Year comes, is fled and gone As you have flown, Your roots will only deeper cling; And you will but more precious be, If, in the path that here together we have trod, Another soul, when looking back upon that road, Should softly say, “Goodbye, Old Year! I’m one step nearer God.” Show less
“Puppies” JOHN Nosnnssc, '31 “ HERE'S this place called Haskell College located?" “On 1513 East Boulevard. Poor street car service. Better take a taxi.” The reply from “Information,” hasty and rude, probably was given with more snap than the broad-shouldered, sallow-haired, and rather countrified... Show more“Puppies” JOHN Nosnnssc, '31 “ HERE'S this place called Haskell College located?" “On 1513 East Boulevard. Poor street car service. Better take a taxi.” The reply from “Information,” hasty and rude, probably was given with more snap than the broad-shouldered, sallow-haired, and rather countrified youth had expected. But with a mild “Thank you,” he picked up his luggage and turned to the exit of Central Depot. The lad, evidently in his later teens. seemed to lack experience and knowledge of city life. Probably he showed an expression of worry as he looked around anxiously for a taxi, only to fall victim to three or four willing transporters. The ride to Haskell was short-lived, but to Emery Belrud the meter seemed to acquire great acceleration. Muttering at the expense of college life, the boy produced a dollar bill for the sixty-five cent fare, waited patiently for the “two-bit” piece and even more pa- tiently for the dime. One who has had the peculiar experience of being among the first to arrive at college, and especially as a fresh, can sympathize with Emery Belrud. To be sure, most of the gridders had returned for early training, and that “the going had been tough” was evidenced by several hobbling about on crutches or carrying their arms in slings. Emery, with his hundred and eighty pounds, had been a gridder himself in his high school days. But somehow or other he had lost in- terest in the national sport of football. Bruin, Haskell’s burly fullback and captain, had, however, heard of the lad and his lack of interest in the game. His mind was set. Bel- rud, like it or not, was coming out for the team. There wasn’t much for Emery to do that night. He had been assigned a single room, Number thirty-three in Fulton Hall. Like most college fellows, he dreaded the task of setting a room in order. But was the boy nervous? Was he homesick or merely rest- less? He set to pacing the floor. Suddenly a thought struck him. He reached for one of the grips and pulled out a box of sta- tionery. He had promised to write imme- diately. To his folks? No, they would have to wait until tomorrow. He started out— “Dear Ellen, —” He stopped and leaned back to reflect. To think that he wouldn't be able to see her un- til Christmas was almost unbearable. But wouldn’t she be proud of him when he came home from college? That last night surely had been a wonderful night. Of course, his _ parents couldn’t see why he had to drive out to the “dog farm” that very night before he was leaving home. But Emery had insisted. and Ellen had been there to meet him. He was desperately in love with Ellen. He had even learned to love the farm of her father. Mr. Thompson was so fond of dogs. and his breed was known all over the country. Right now he had a fine troop of airedale pups. Mr. Thompson’s farm was one of the most beauti- ful in Vale Center. Adjoining it was a fine, large lake out of which ran a small creek. Spanning this outlet was a bridge shaded by a canopy of wild oaks and creeping grape- vines. That night there had been a moon—- such a big, round moon. And as Ellen had played with and fondled her favorite aire- dale, Emery had forgotten canopy. moon, pup, and all. Never could there be another girl like Ellen. Somehow there had arisen the understanding between the two that some day—. But they were both so young. He, to be sure, was eighteen, but she had barely passed her sixteenth birthday. Haskell College was a busy scene the next day. Students were arriving at all hours to register. 0n the registrar’s record the name Show less
On a Summer Evening VALBORG SVERDRUP, '33 T was while spending a few weeks by one of Minnesota’s largest lakes that nature gave me one of her biggest thrills. The day had been almost unbearably warm, and we welcomed the coolness that an evening by a lake always brings. We retired early that... Show moreOn a Summer Evening VALBORG SVERDRUP, '33 T was while spending a few weeks by one of Minnesota’s largest lakes that nature gave me one of her biggest thrills. The day had been almost unbearably warm, and we welcomed the coolness that an evening by a lake always brings. We retired early that evening, but from my cot I could very easily see the lake. A slight breeze was blowing, only enough to make audible the lapping of the water as it gently struck the rocky shore. It seemed as if the water were trying to speak and tell of the mysteries it hid in its depths. The moon was perfectly round and un- usually large and bright. If I had been just a tiny bit closer, I am sure I would have seen a smile on the face of the “man in the moon.” The reflection of the moon cast a golden path acrOss the lake which moved ever so slightly with the ripples of the water. How easy it would have been to walk along the twinkling path and pay a visit to that beautiful ball of gold! Far across on the other shore, I saw lights from cottages and an occasional light from a passing automo~ bile. These lights also cast their shadows on the water. Except for the sound of the water and the whispering of the leaves, there was not a sound anywhere. It was a perfect picture of peace and rest with nothing of the hurry of the world to spoil one’s dreams. If I had been a painter, I certainly could not have resisted painting that picture. If I had been a poet, I would certainly have been inspired to write a poem glorifying nature. I was neither, however, so I had to be content with just enjoying the scene while it lasted. Suddenly I heard in the distance the sound of music and the drip-drip of a paddle as it was raised and lowered into the water. The sounds came nearer until I could distinguish a canoe as it came out of the shadows of the trees. In the canoe were a number of young people singing and, incidentally, playing a ukulele. The canoe glided quietly across the golden path of the moon, and made the pic— ture complete. The singing died away in the distance as the canoe slowly disappeared from View. The waters quieted down again, and there remained only the lapping against the shore. A little later the strangest and most mournful cry I have ever heard pierced through the darkness and died away with a most pitiful moan. Those of you who can remember the first time you heard the call of a 10011 at night can very readily appreciate the sensation that went through me. At first I was frightened, but fear soon left me when I was told what it was. The bird, too, soon flew away, and again the scene was one of perfect quiet. The moon had risen higher, so the path across the water had grown shorter. I lay back on my cot, and to the lullaby of the wind and the water soon fell fast asleep. @ Pro et Post GRACE JENSEN, ’33 A year ahead And one behind, The one behind A year ahead In experience. A year behind And one ahead, The one ahead A year behind In experience. Show less
4 THE DIAL I was soon in front of the school-house door. It opened. There stood my first teacher. She was a thin, bespectacled old maid. Her horn-rimmed glasses gallantly bestrode a thin, sharp nose which quivered when she was excited, like a shrew’s when it scents a field beetle. These spectacles... Show more4 THE DIAL I was soon in front of the school-house door. It opened. There stood my first teacher. She was a thin, bespectacled old maid. Her horn-rimmed glasses gallantly bestrode a thin, sharp nose which quivered when she was excited, like a shrew’s when it scents a field beetle. These spectacles were a terror to school room urchins, for she always held her head at such an angle that they reflected the light from the window in such a way as to obscure the path of her gimlet-like orbs. To this sage came the country lads and lasses to be instructed. She was in truth a sage; she said sage things in a sage way; she wore sage clothes that were dotted at night and donned in the morning along with her false teeth. To top it all, she used sage tea to darken her hair. Whenever I was dull, she would stimulate mental activity by a few smart applications on the back side of my lap. Though she is dead now (bless her), I will always remem- ber her for her adeptness in getting at the seat of all difficulties. My most lasting impression of this teach- er I received during my first week. She made me stay after school for making faces at her. On Monday morning my mother paid her a visit and explained to her that my face was that way. I still wear the same face; my life is still beset with sorrows, sins, and school teachers. I must still believe, however, that having made such an auspicious debut, I may yet be of some use in this world. The Tide MAURICE HELLAND, ’33 HE little white-washed cottage by the sea was decorated with vines and framed by age-old trees. The hedges border- ing the gravel paths were carefully trim- med; the garden was bright with flowers and orderly rows of vegetables. The owner of this miniature paradise was an old, gray-haired man. With his young wild dog he was the only inhabitant of a small island. The cottage, the garden, and hedge-bordered paths existed solely for him, and no other man had seen them. Every time the tide came in the house was more beautiful, the garden more bright, and the old man more stooped and gray. Every time the tide went out the old, stooped man hobbled out upon the flats to search for pearls, but no man knew what he did with his treasure. One day the tide went out as usual, and the old, gray man, more stooped and lame than ever, went, as was his custom, to search for pearls. This day the hunting was good, and when the tide came in, the old man was not ready. The young, wild dog whined by the sea- shore, and the north wind moaned through the trees and around the corners of the cot- tage, but the old, gray man was silent, and no man knew that he was no more, for no man knew that he had ever been. The dog went back to the forest, the house went back to ruin, the vines tried to hide the scar on nature which man had made, and the hedges grew wild over the gray gravel paths, while the flowers were choked by weeds. And still—the tide came in and the tide went out. Show less
The Father Of The Man GEORGE TANGVALD, ’29 (6‘0 have been born is a distinction that most people claim. But to have been born in a sod shanty—on April 1, is an honor that the gods do not hand out every day. The fact that this favor has been shown me, al- though it has not won me any laurels yet,... Show moreThe Father Of The Man GEORGE TANGVALD, ’29 (6‘0 have been born is a distinction that most people claim. But to have been born in a sod shanty—on April 1, is an honor that the gods do not hand out every day. The fact that this favor has been shown me, al- though it has not won me any laurels yet, has at least kept me from becoming an alder- man. To recount all the vicissitudes of my long and speckled career is not my intention. I shall merely relate some outstanding in- cidents from my childhood. When my father was told that I resembled him, his heart went out with compassion. Trying to console my mother, he remarked a little absent-mindedly, “Well, anyway, he has your hair.” Then he started as he noted that I had inherited his baldness, and ad- j ourned grinning sheepishly.* It may be well to mention here that my parents had long been thinking of a name for me. In fact, on the desk in my father’s study was a list that ran about as follows: Ellen Louise, Hester, Evangeline, Elizabeth, and Camilla. But when Camilla arrived, they thought he might resent such an ap- pellation; and immediately they began scour- ing thru poetry, fiction, and mythology for a name more nearly approximating the gen- der. To find a satisfactory name was not the easy task that it had been previously, for now grim reality stared them in the face. How could they do me justice? That was the question. But my considerate parents decided to use, not justice, but mercy. Thus it happens that my name is not Loki. In- stead, I received the cognomen that is uni- versally associated with cherry trees, hatchets, and veracity. But since there were only cottonwoods on our farm, I never saw any occasion for being truthful. "' My nurse to whom I owe all my information about my birth and early childhood is a very trust- worthy and veracious old lady. “In delay there lies no plenty." So my parents soon began planning a career for me. My father wanted me to be a minister, but my fond mother insisted that I become president. He, being tenderhearted, yielded to her importunities, but on this condition, that I run on the Republican ticket. I, being too young to have any strong convictions in politics, made no protest. I early became proud of the fact that my father had been named after me. One day, when I was about five years old, he took me with him-fencing. I made myself useful by handing him hammers, staples, and sundry other implements. When the fence was put up, I surveyed with pleasure the handiwork which he had helped me complete. When we had returned home and were putting away the hammers and staples, I addressed my father thus, “Well, George, I guess we did a pretty good job.” He looked at me. That was the last time I called him George. In the fall of that same year life began in earnest. One morning my mother woke me early. In one hand she had a pair of shiny new boots with copper toe-caps; slung across her arm was a pair of regular “he-man” overalls with honest-to-goodness suspenders. I rubbed my eyes in wonder and delight. “Get up, you must get ready for school.” My heart sank. I realized then that blessings never come unalloyed. Yes, I was still in the vale of tears. That my mother kissed me when she sent me off did not improve matters. But, as I trod along, I gradually forgot the indignity I had suffered. On my way I passed two- men who were breaking stones in a nearby field. I thought of the five-pound tobacco box in which my lunch was neatly packed. They would, of course, ask me for some to- bacco. I would refuse politely, but firmly. Imagine my chagrin when they didn’t even look up. Well, they’d be sorry some day. Show less