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
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
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
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
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
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
(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
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
“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
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 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
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
', x . Yum-um Signs of God (6H!) flowers blooming in pastures green Declare the glory of Life unseen. The smallest buds that ope between Bright leaves are signs of God. We cannot see the diamondcstone, Where crystallized it lies alone; But still down in that hidden zone It is a sign of God. The... Show more', x . Yum-um Signs of God (6H!) flowers blooming in pastures green Declare the glory of Life unseen. The smallest buds that ope between Bright leaves are signs of God. We cannot see the diamondcstone, Where crystallized it lies alone; But still 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, May see in wondrous signs His Name Who is the Glory of God. —P. A. SVEEGGEN._- not. us" Show less
‘ViU-iiiliilfll BULLETIN 3 iii/ARM}; HJERTER!” (PASTOR FREDRIK Wiswrr) @h‘T skal vu-I'I: mig en glzede at skrive nogen on] i Jubilee Bulletin ianledning jubilaeums- indsamlingen fur vore skoler. l. Fordi jeg har laert at holde av Augsburg 0g f¢ler mig i mindelig slegtskap med det frikir- kefolk... Show more‘ViU-iiiliilfll BULLETIN 3 iii/ARM}; HJERTER!” (PASTOR FREDRIK Wiswrr) @h‘T skal vu-I'I: mig en glzede at skrive nogen on] i Jubilee Bulletin ianledning jubilaeums- indsamlingen fur vore skoler. l. Fordi jeg har laert at holde av Augsburg 0g f¢ler mig i mindelig slegtskap med det frikir- kefolk som jeg har hat anledning til at m¢te ut- nver landet. 2. Fordi jog har tro for Den Lutherske Fri- kirkes fremtidige arbeide, hvis den kan holde frem i de gamle spor som en gang er lagt, baade i skolearbeidet og menighetsarbeidet, idet den ma- ter vor programsyke sleg‘t med en hel evangelie— forkyndelse om synd 0g naade, — 0g i sine kirke- huse byr fnlket ikke underholdning, men sjaele- f¢de, -— og staar pea hellig vakt mot den overfla- diskhet 0g verdslighet som med tidsaanden vil snike sig ind overalt. 3. 0g endelig fordi jeg har syn for Augs- burgs vzeldige opgave, 0g tror at Den Lutherske Frikirkes fremtid i f¢rste raekke vil avhaenge av denne skoles stilling. Skolevaasenet liar den allerst¢rste betydning for ethvert samfund, ogsaa et statssamfund. Nazst efter hjemmene er der ingen faktor som er saa vigtig naar det gjzelder dannelsen av den frem- tidige stat som skolene. Som skolene er vil hele aamfundet bli. Den aand som der raader, vil snart beherske hele landet. I klassevzerelsene dannes fremtidens borgere. Likedan i et kirkesamfund. Allermest naar det gjaelder ens presteskole, hvor de unge maend dannes som snarl: skal staa som kirkens ledere 0g menighetens sjieles¢rgere og avl¢se den gamle slegt. Vil den gamle slegt ha bevaret noget av den gamle aand, saa staa vakt om skolene. En stor del av sin bedste ungdomstid er de unge mend her under sine lzereres indflydelse. Her laegges i sin almindelighet de linjer som man i fremtiden vii arbeide efter. Her lagres det fortaad man se- nere ska] ¢se av; her dannes fremtidens kirke. 0g endnu mer end de kundskaper man her erhverver sig, betyr den aand man blir grepet av. 0g noget av det samme gjelder vore h¢iskoler og colleges. Tsenk bare pan hvad de unge blir bevaret for ved at gas paa en kristelig skole. Tanker man over hvad der i vore dage dooeres ved flere verdslige skoler 0g den and som der mder, vil troende foreldre takke sin Gud for at de har et sted at sende sin ungdom, hvor de vet at de ikke blir utsat for antikristelig paavirkning. Men ikke bare dette negative. Ogaaa positivt bu kristeJige skoler sin allerstflmte betydning. Bud vil det ikke si for en ung mud og kvindei otteaaravsinungdomstidatgaapaaenskole som daglig smiles om Guds ord..— en skole hvis maal det er at bringe de unge ind i bevisst 0g av- gjort liv med Gud, — hvis lzerere i undervisnin- gen 0;; paa tomandshaand forsaker at hjzelpe de unge frem til livets kilde. Nei — vi har ikke raad til at miste vore skoler, Da mister vi et av vore bedste arbeidsmidler. Vi maa heller slaa ring om dem 0g baere dem frem i b¢n, interesse, og gaver. Jeg har to ¢nsker for Augsburg, hvor jeg har hat den glzede at were laerer dette aar. 1. At Augsburg maa utdanne dygtige mamd til arbeide i Guds rike blandt vort folk her i Ame— rika. Jeg tzenker nu saerlig paa den teologiske avdeling, som jo altid har vaeret 0g fremdeles bar were den vigtigste del av skolen. Var tid traenger vel utdannede prester, —— mend med alsidig al- mendannelse, saa man ikke ska] risikere at staa paa et lavere nivaa end sit menighetafolk; men f¢rst 0g fremst mzend med dypt kiendskap til sin bibel 0g den lutherske tare, saa man kan m¢te den religi¢se forvirring i tiden, med solid veiled— ning ut fra Guds 0rd. Jeg ¢nsker de unge studen- ter den kundskap som ydmyger — ikke opblzeser, det hellige enfold som alene kan vise vei ind til visdommen i Gud, den som er skjult for verdens vise og forstandige og aabenbaret for de umyn- dige. 2‘ Et andet ¢nske hat jeg for Augsburg, — et ¢nske som jeg szetter over alt andet naar det gjzelder vor skole: At Augsburg maa vaere et rum- delig kraftcentrum i det norske Amerika, — en skole hvis f¢rste 0g sidste maal er dette: sjslene! En skole hvor hver eneste laerer 0g student har bevisstheten om at skolens dypeste og egentlige hensigt er Guds rike, — en skole hvor alt usundt 0g forstyrrende maa vike for det ene forn¢dne, — en skole som staar paa vakt mot tidsaandens gift- gas. Med andre 0rd: at Augsburg altid vil were err Imuelig skole, 0g det mere end I navnet. 0g netop her har vi grund 1) til at takke. Takke for hvad Augsburg har bede i (la 60 at den har bestaat, — 0g takke for at vi endnu har en skole som Augsburg hvor der stadig samles en stor flok unge til faelles ban og til arbeide blandt sine uomvendte kamerater, — 0g takke for at denne flok denne vinter er blit ¢ket, idet fiere unge har begyndt at s¢ke Gud. 2) Men her her vi og- saa grund til at sfaa paa hellig vakt mot alt som vil forstyrre 0g ¢delaegge; at vi for fremtiden ma- ha den same and 0g kraft som faedrene her hat. Hvad tramger vote skoler? Igrunden bare een ting: Vanna him-tar. Hjer- ter som slaar av kjarlighet til skolene. Denne hjertenes kiaerlighet og varme mas nemlig finde uttryk: Show less
Those men whose work we look upon as the foundation and the origin of the Lutheran Free Church—from a human and immediately histori- cal viewpoint—Professors Georg Sverdrup and Sven Oftedal, also were ardent supporters of home mission work. Professor Sverdrup was at one time secretary of the home... Show moreThose men whose work we look upon as the foundation and the origin of the Lutheran Free Church—from a human and immediately histori- cal viewpoint—Professors Georg Sverdrup and Sven Oftedal, also were ardent supporters of home mission work. Professor Sverdrup was at one time secretary of the home mission committee, as it was called at that time. Since then, profes- sors at Augsburg have at various times been afl‘i- liated with home mission work in our church, Prof. E. P. Harbo who was for many years presi- dent of the Board of Home Missions, and Prof. Helland who has written books and pamphlets about home missions. It was of utmost importance for a new church body in this country that home mission work should be commenced and carried on with the greatest possible speed. N o doubt this was under- stood by the early leaders. When at the present time it appears as though there must have been a tendency to make haste slowly in this respect, it must not be forgotten that there were other mat- ters that craved attention; and a new, small, and financially embarrassed church could not do everything to its liking; it had to deal with the 'means at hand. and could not always do what it wished to do. However, it is difficult to avoid the impression, that had more stress been laid on home missions from the beginning, we would to- day have been in better shape to meet present obligations and responsibilities. Be that as it may, history shows nevertheless. that home missions were by no means neglected, but made quite a little headway in the early years, especially in the rural sections. It is not possible in this brief sketch to give a history of home missions in the Lutheran Free Church. Neither is it required. Attention may be called to just a few more things. Home mission work is needed for the exten- sion of the kingdom of God in this land. In this country where all Christian work is voluntary and must be done by private, that is to say, un- ofiicial and non-public initiative, it is incumbent upon Christian men and women in the Christian congregations already existing, to see to it that this work is done. America must be christianized by free and voluntary efi'orts, if christianized it shall be. There is no law in the land compelling the spread of Christianity; there is no executive federal or state department entrusted with the task of giving the gospel of Christ to the Amer- ican people. Hence, if America is to become a Christian na- tion, the Christian people must, under God and his Christ and his Spirit do the work. The Govern- ment does not hinder the Christian forces in this JUBlLEE BULliETlN 7 work; on the contrary, it encourages them to take hold and carry on. As far as the Government is concerned there is a wide open door everywhere. For this we are grateful; and we wish to make all possible use of the opportunity. But in this great umlcrtaking——aml this is the next point that should be emphasizedAcntirc re- liance could not he had on lay workers. In fact, the main reliance must be made on trained lead» ers. Immediately the need for schools presents itself. It must be considered a safe assertion that without schools, like Augsburg Seminary, primar- ily, and Oak Grove Seminary, secondarily, home mission work would well-nigh be an impossibility. Home mission must have pastors, the best that can be had. The work is often very difficult. It makes demands upon the lalmrcr’s every particle of spiritual insight as well as intellectual ingen- uity. and even physical endurance. It demands sacrifice, patience, love. But it pays. A school of the right sort, such as we have in both our in- stitutions. is in position, granted the necessary means, to educate the right kind of workers. Then again, the schools need home missions. In the first place, they need the influx that this kind of extension work provides. Many students have come to our schools from the newly opened home mission fields. And, conversely, when a young man is through with the prescribed course of studies, and ready to enter the ministry, were it not for the oppor- tunities for work offered him on the home mission fields, he would perhaps for a long time look in vain for a chance to begin. Or, as is frequently the case, when a home mission field requires espe- cially the labors of an experienced pastor, the vacancy thus resulting, presents to the young man the chance for which he is waiting. Here, then, is the interdependence between the schools and the home mission. There are, obviously, other points of contact. And there is of necessity a continued inter-rela- tionship: Home missions must look to the schools for fit workers; the schools need the material aid, the spiritual sympathy and support, the sincere discernment and understanding of all laborers on the home mission fields. Helping the schools to gain a surer material footing is indirectly to help home missions: To help home missions with material assistance in order that its work may be done as far as material aid goes—and it goes a long way—is also indi- rectly to help the schools. Such a relationship, borne and furthered by prayer, will eventually work together for the good of all our activities. H. C. Carnal“. Show less
4 JUBILEE BULLETIN 1. I bpn. Skolencs sak maa bait-8' from. lIvis der ikke staar et bedcnde kristenfolk hak skolcne vil de dos. Ogsau her gjzelder det at det vigtigste arbeidsmiddel i Guds rike er bonnen. Skolene har saa meget av aandelig krai‘t som der er b¢n for arbeidet, — hverken mer eller... Show more4 JUBILEE BULLETIN 1. I bpn. Skolencs sak maa bait-8' from. lIvis der ikke staar et bedcnde kristenfolk hak skolcne vil de dos. Ogsau her gjzelder det at det vigtigste arbeidsmiddel i Guds rike er bonnen. Skolene har saa meget av aandelig krai‘t som der er b¢n for arbeidet, — hverken mer eller mindrc. 0g her maa vi vaere med allc. laerere, studenter, pre- ster og menighetsfolk. 2. I intercssc for arbeidcl. Ikke i sur kritik som bare ¢nsker at finde feil; det kan man sag- tens finde. Skal man vente med at stutte til man faar en feilfri skole, faar man vente til efter dod og grav. —— Men heller ikke i likeglad interesse- l¢shet som lar skolen seile sin egen sj¢; men med chwrlighctens vaakne blik som i ydmyghet ¢nsker at rette paa mangler og feil, 0g fremme alt godt og sandt. 3. On 1‘ gawr; fordi man vet at heller ikke Augsburg 0g Oak Grove kan drive sin virksomhet uten slotte 0g hjurlp, ——- store 0g smaa gaver fra tuknvmmelige monneskor hvem Gud har over¢st med godt fra ens i'm'stc stund 01.: Sum nu vil vise sin kjaerlighet til Gud ved at fremme hans rike iblandt 0s. D21ng kom hit til Amerika ihyist 0g h¢rte om det maal man haddo sat sig for jubilzeumsindsam- Iingen, $200,000, overf¢rtc jeg (let i mit stille sind til norske pcnger 0g taenkte: “5/1, million kroner! Dot gaar aldrig!" Men efter at ha vwret her en tid 0;: set den enestaacnde gavmildhet som kirkev folket her har, har jeg kommet paa andre tanker: Det skal nok gaa! Det man gaal Vi har ikke raad til at miste vore skoler. Dertil har de for stor opgavc i det norske folk herover. Vor Herre og Mester vil hjaelpe os frem. Ti saken er hans. Men husk: Han regner med os. Han stoler paa as! La ns ikke sviktel Fredrik Wislofl. AS A STUDENT SEES IT IT has been my privilege to be a student at Augsburg for five years. For this reason I may perhaps be allowed to give a personal testi- mony with regard to the spiritual atmosphere of the school. In no school year since I came here have we had so many concrete instances of the power of the Spirit of God. Our whole student body seems to have been stirred. The singing in chapel, the spirit of the prayer meetings — in short, the general atmosphere gives one the feel- ing that God is not only near, but is a living reality in the hearts of many. The gospel meet- ings which were held in November have borne fruit. Several students have been converted, and I feel sure that many more will take a definite stand for Christ. Many things have changed at Augsburg in the course of time. The school is trying in a good sense to keep up with the times and to meet the changing requirements of life, but the Spirit that wrought in the time of the fathers is still active among us, and his fruits are evident. This, in a general way, is the impression I have of the spiritual life that exists among our students today, and I feel sure that all who have in any way been exposed to the “Augsburg spirit” this year will agree with me. What, then, are the outward manifestations of this spiritual interest? There are, first, the prayer meetings. We have them three evenings at week. Monday’s and Friday’s prayer meetings are held in each of the dormitories. On Wednesday evenings we have a union prayer meeting, where large numbers take part in prayer, scripture reading, and testi- mony. The ardor and enthusiasm evident at these meetings indicate the power of God's Spirit in the hearts of the students. Considerable practical missionary work is car- ried on by the Christian students. One meeting a week is conducted in each of the two Lutheran homes, Wartburg Hospice and Luther House. About twelve young men have organized a “Per- sonal Workers” group and have charge on var- ious occasions at the Gateway Gospel Mission. At least one new Sunday School has been or- ganized by students, namely at Oak Knoll, a few miles outside the city. This place needs a church. Several families have become interested to the extent of sending their children to our Sunday School. We have a confirmation class of ten mem- bers there now, with good prospects for even a larger class. We are planning to turn this work over to Rev. Adrian Olson, pastor of Homewood church, who has taken charge of the confirms» tion class. In this way the work will receive at- tention also through the summer vacation. There is also a mission study group, which meets regularly to discuss and study conditions on the mission fields. Their aim is to keep the cause of misions before the student body and the churches with which they come in contact. Finally, many students teach Sunday School classes, sing in church choirs, preach or endeavor in other ways to further the Kingdom. In proportion to the number enrolled, the Augsburg students are this year doing consider- able practical spiritual work, and they are doing it with an energy and enthusiasm seldom sur- passed. ALVOR Amman, Director of Religious Activities. AUUSBURG COLLEGE ARCHIVES Show less