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
', 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
THE DIHAL VOL. 11 FEBRUARY, 19307 No. 1 EMIL FOSSAN, Editor-in-Chief LITERARY EDITORS BUSINESS MANAGERS MATHILDA SAGENG BERNER DAHLEN LYDIA HALLING OLAF HELLAND 2% @able of Gontents LDOOK‘IK‘IO)O1CJT>>WN H O H N H [\3 H 00 H p H C21 SIGNS OF GOD P. A. Sveeggen THE FATHER OF THE MAN ______________... Show moreTHE DIHAL VOL. 11 FEBRUARY, 19307 No. 1 EMIL FOSSAN, Editor-in-Chief LITERARY EDITORS BUSINESS MANAGERS MATHILDA SAGENG BERNER DAHLEN LYDIA HALLING OLAF HELLAND 2% @able of Gontents LDOOK‘IK‘IO)O1CJT>>WN H O H N H [\3 H 00 H p H C21 SIGNS OF GOD P. A. Sveeggen THE FATHER OF THE MAN _________________________________________ -George Tangvald THE TIDE ______________________________ “Maurice Helland ON A SUMMER EVENING ____ _- .__._Valborg Sverdrup PRO ET POST Grace Jensen “PUPPIES” John N ordberg SPRINGTIME _,_..Lawrence Bneide SUPPLICATION ______ _. Grace Jensen ON BEING ALONE -_ Grace Jensen THE PRINCE OF PEACE __._,Lawrence Buez‘de ABERRATIONS? ._ ____ _. _ Norman Anderson SONNETS ____________________________ “Orville Knutson THOSE GOOD OLD DAYS - . Manley Gjerde GROWING PAINS ,Berner Dahlen OF WRITING ESSAYS _ Grace Jensen WAS IT ONLY A DREAM? ___.Lyd'£a Halling WHEN DAY IS DONE _ Grace Jensen H O} Published semi-annually by the literary organizations of Augsburg College Minneapolis, Minnesota. age»? Show less
2"."99‘4 —g.;.-- 20 THE DIAL EDITORIAL STAFF MATHILDA SAGENG, Editor-in-Chief LITERARY EDITORS BUSINESS MANAGERS MANLEY GJERDE OTTO Ron'rvmrr OLETTA WALD CLIFFORD Sum-m (Gable of Gontents Soil ,,.,.,V.V.._,.,,_.,H____.,,__,_______.Ernest G. Anderson _.,....-___._-_- l Sonnets ,,,,,,,, .V V Einar... Show more2"."99‘4 —g.;.-- 20 THE DIAL EDITORIAL STAFF MATHILDA SAGENG, Editor-in-Chief LITERARY EDITORS BUSINESS MANAGERS MANLEY GJERDE OTTO Ron'rvmrr OLETTA WALD CLIFFORD Sum-m (Gable of Gontents Soil ,,.,.,V.V.._,.,,_.,H____.,,__,_______.Ernest G. Anderson _.,....-___._-_- l Sonnets ,,,,,,,, .V V Einar R. Ryden.._.._._-..*e~_._ 3 How a Freshman Keeps Humble .................... ,.Ruth Osterhus __._-__.~____-_-_- 4 An Episode from Life ____________________________________ ,.Luthard Gjerde __ 5 Prayer __________________________________________________________________ "Anna Pederson ..................... -. 6 Scenes from Cathay ............................................ ..Grace Jensen ________________________ _- 7 My Kikung Hills ____________________________________________ ,,Grace Jensen .......................... .i 8 The Cynic , _ _ . . . A A , _ _ _ _ _ _ . __ Gerald Sveeggen ...~..__..~.___,___e__ 9 An Old Minister Fritjof Monseth ___________________ _i_ 9 An Old Maid." Ernest G. Anderson ..................... __ 10 Wintry Winds Agnes M. Freij ........................... __ 11 A Village Constable __________________________________ _-_Bertha Lillehei _________________________ -_ 12 On My Other Father _______________________________________ __Martha Rossing _______________________ or 12 A Self-Made Man Who Worships His Maker____Ernest G. Anderson _________________ .- 13 The Depths , _ e , _ _ _ . _ _, Grace Jensen ............................ __ 14 Music Hath Charms _______________________________________ .MVIaurice Helland ............... _.- 14 On Inferiority Complexes _________________________________ «Mathilda Sageng -._.,.,_e_~-___r__- 15 Caritas Dei _____Lawrence Bueide ...................... -_ 16 The Block Beatrice Helland _______________ __; 17 “Midas” ..... ,. Ingvald M. Norum _______________ -- 18 The Higher Learning ______________________________________ _.Manley Gjerde _________________________ __ 19 Published semi-annually by the literary organizations of Augsburg College, Minneapolis, Minnesota. Show less
THE DIAL 19 come over and take a nibble at Midas’ heels. The response was instantaneous; a growl, a snap, and the calf made one great jump and was gone—wagon and all. When the vari- ous parts of the combination were recovered they were well separated from each other, but the only damage done was... Show moreTHE DIAL 19 come over and take a nibble at Midas’ heels. The response was instantaneous; a growl, a snap, and the calf made one great jump and was gone—wagon and all. When the vari- ous parts of the combination were recovered they were well separated from each other, but the only damage done was to the wagon and harness, and that only slight. After that the summer passed away very quietly for both us and Midas. We drove him as much as we had time for, and he was always ready to serve. Little did we realize how soon this happy state would end. When we were not present, father and mother had agreed that Midas was a terrible gardener and a worse horticulturist; and that since he was hardly ever in the pasture, he was too much of a nuisance to have around. Conse- quently, when there was need of meat, Midas was the one to suffer for it. That was a sad day for us, and it took a long time to forget our sorrow over his death. -———<<£>€>>——— The Higher Learning MANLEY GJERDE, ’31 F I should seek for knowledge -.And wisdom try to find, Then must I not find limits In my little human mind; There is more to life than learning Though the mind must have its part, The deepest things are only known In the chambers of the heart. Should I seek to know life’s problems, 07' try to understand The ways of life and living In this busy earthly land; Or should I help my fellowmen Through hardship and through strife, Then must I know the deeper things That go to make up life. And so, if I should try to know What this life really is, Then must I learn to know my God And bend my will to His; Then must I seek His guidance And implore His tender care Then must I learn to love Him And commune with Him in prayer. Show less
“Midas” INGVALD M. Karma, ’34 HEN we were small boys, my two brothers and I had many light duties to perform; one of these was to feed the calves This constant contact brought about a special affinity between us and these young quadrupeds. In spite of the fact that there was quite a number of them... Show more“Midas” INGVALD M. Karma, ’34 HEN we were small boys, my two brothers and I had many light duties to perform; one of these was to feed the calves This constant contact brought about a special affinity between us and these young quadrupeds. In spite of the fact that there was quite a number of them, we found it possible to name them all. We took a great deal of pride in the appelations which we attached to the patient animals. I think that one already realizes that Midas was not a king with a golden touch, but simply a calf who received his name from that source. He was born late and was, therefore, in a way, a calf by himself. It was only natural, then, that at the end of a big season we should turn to stories in our readers for his name. We found none more suitable than Midas, so Midas he was. As summer wore on, he grew to be a large calf and was of a very docile nature. While we were fond of all the young kine and neg- lected none of them, we were always ready to give special attention to any one showing particular aptitudes toward becoming a pet. The result was that, before the summer was over, Midas would follow us about the place as much as we desired and sometimes more. A loud call of that magic name would start him at a jump, and keep him going at full speed until he reached the spot from whence came the welcome sound. It mattered little whether there were one or more fences in his way; he was little detained on that ac- count. The fact is, that he was out of the pasture more than he ever was within. It was not unusual to find him nibbling at the things growing in the garden or to see him walk indifi'erently over mother’s flowepbeds. And strangely enough, it did not seem to bother his conscience in the least. Winter brought a long confinement for our pet, but, like everything else, it also had an end, and with it came liberty once more. As soonasschoolwasoutsothatwehadmore time for play, we decided that Midas had great possibilities as a draft animal. The first important step in this direction was to obtain something that might be fashioned into some sort of a harness. Father was ap- proached on this subject, and was finally persuaded that it was all right to let us have the desired materials. After these had been procured, it was not long before we had the young mammal arrayed in a marvelous en- tanglement of knots, rivets, ropes, and straps. The sled which daddy had made for us was deemed a better vehicle than the coaster wagon for this first venture, as it was very strong and there would be no dif- ficulty about short turns. Midas was soon securely attached to this winter-rig to take one of us for a “summer-ride.” This was a new experience to him, and it took a long time to convince him that he ought to go for- ward. Our methods of persuasion were many and varied. When our constraint be- came too vigorous, he made one great launch forward, coming down on all four feet at once, and remained in that position. How- ever, in a remarkably short time he learned his lesson with no greater casualties than a number of additional knots and strings on that contraption which we called the har- ness and some minor repairs on our sled. Midas was now a trained ox, and would do our bidding very willingly. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it. We made a large cart which was quite serviceable for hauling pur- poses. Thus we combined work and play. The only exciting experience which I am re- call after that happened one day when my two brothers went out in search of thrills. Our ox presented himself, and with the sight of him came the idea of hitching him to the coaster wagon. As soon as this was accomp- lished they started for a ride, but the prog- ress was too slow to thrill young Americans. They, therefore, invited Rover, the collie, to Show less
The Block BEATRICE HELLAND, ’31 S I sat studying one day I looked out the window and saw a score of co-eds coming out of East Hall, bound for the board- ing club. Would it not have seemed strange, I thought, to have seen such a group on the campus fifteen years ago? In those days Augsburg was... Show moreThe Block BEATRICE HELLAND, ’31 S I sat studying one day I looked out the window and saw a score of co-eds coming out of East Hall, bound for the board- ing club. Would it not have seemed strange, I thought, to have seen such a group on the campus fifteen years ago? In those days Augsburg was strictly a gentleman’s insti- tution. Folks had not yet realized that there was something worth training beneath the feminine coiffures. West and East Halls were then “den gamle 0g den nye professorboliger.” The Nydahls, the Harbos, the Lilleheis, and the Hendrick- sons were among those who called Augsburg “home”. I do not know how well our parents liked this arrangement, but we, the younger generation, found it ideal. The students would perhaps have prefer- red the co-eds to the contingent of “P. K.’s” (professors’ kids), one or more of Whom seemed to be always under foot. They had, very likely, their definite ideas about us, but I wonder if they realized just how carefully they were being watched and judged by those campus “brats”. I still have a deep feeling of respect and admiration for a certain student who car- ried me home from church on his shoulder during a raging blizzard. I have fond me- mories of students who were “child-minded” enough to stop and turn the rope for us when we were engaged in that most fascinating of springtime activities, jumping rope. I have vague recollections of a more imaginative scholar who used to take me upon his knee and tell me wonderful stories of chocolate houses and mountains of ice cream. Even now as I go from room to room in West Hall, memories come crowding back. Here is where I fell down the long stairway and mother had to come and kiss the “hurt ;" here, the parlor where I used to sit and practice my piano lesson and watch the clock; there, the alcove where father always performed the mysterious rite of decorating the Christmas tree. Then there is the sidewalk behind the Main which is especially good for roller- skating; the entrance which makes such a grand fort for snowball fights; the old, spreading cottonwood tree which was always the goal for our favorite games of Run Sheep Run and Stillwater. Each time I walk down the Seventh Street driveway I think of it as the old slide down which we coasted, skiied, and rolled until we looked like an army of little snowmen come to life. I am afraid we did not appreciate the efforts of our more sensible elders who sprinkled sand on the driveway to make it more safe for pede— strians. Every morning we lagged through Mur- phy Square on our way to the Monroe school, but as soon as we were dismissed we came skipping back to “The Block”, for there all our interests lay. It was our world. Recollections of childhood scenes are al- ways attractive. Others may scofl" at the drab appearance of our campus. They may think it inadequate and uninteresting, but, somehow, its shortcomings are hidden from our eyes. To us it is a place of beauty, for in every nook and cranny dwells a memory of the days when we lived and laughed to- gether on “The Block.” Show less
16 THE DIAL had reached a “plateau of growth,” and that some people are destined to be taller than others. Another experience of a similar kind, which I am sure I shall never forget, seems almost ridiculous now; but it, too, helped to give me my inferiority complex. My parents had a small... Show more16 THE DIAL had reached a “plateau of growth,” and that some people are destined to be taller than others. Another experience of a similar kind, which I am sure I shall never forget, seems almost ridiculous now; but it, too, helped to give me my inferiority complex. My parents had a small photograph of my older sister and me. It was a terrible picture, but, of course, it had its place in the family album, so was seen by all who ever came to the house. I was unfortunate enough to have white hair and very, very little of it, so I looked almost bald-headed. That was the point of attack. They would look at the pic— ture, look up at me, and shake their heads —most often adding that it certainly would be a pity if I had to go through life with only a few straggly strands of white hair. Oh, the worry this caused me; and how I wished that my hair had only been dark like my sister’s, so that they then could, at least, have seen the little I did have. There are many other similar experiences which helped to inculcate deeper into my being the knowledge that I was not quite like other beings—giving me just sort of a “shrinking up" feeling whenever I met peo- ple. I could always do my best when I was alone, because then I could be unconscious of all my faults, failings, and peculiarities. Because of these experiences, I can say that inferiority complexes are not humbug. Far from it—they are very real; and, try as you may, you cannot get rid of them. Of course, I must say that education and ex- perience alleviate them somewhat, but I know that I shall never be able wholly to overcome self-consciousness. I might philosophize about my inferiority complex, possibly bringing out some good ef- fects of it, but this, according to sociology is dangerous procedure as it may result in a “disintegrated personality." A better point of view might be to be proud of my complex, because at present it seems to be fashionable to have a complex of some kind or other— perhaps I am fortunate. A more consoling thought, however, was expressed by a writer some time ago. He said that one can be thankful for an infer- iority complex—thankful that it is not a superiority complex. mas»— Caritas Dei LAWRENCE BUEIDE, ’31 Wow great- the love of God must be, How infinitely strong, That it can lift Immunity And turn its woe to song! More pure, by far, than whitest snow, More beautiful and fair Than all the good the angels know— The Gethsemane prayer. ’T was love that led the Savior down Unto a dying race, That all who will, might ever own The Father’s boundless grace. And oh, how tenderly His heart Doth feel our slightest pain! How fully He doth quench sin’s smart, And man is whole again! Show less
THE DIAL 15 ment out of hearing myself—a doubly selfish pleasure that is, for I do not consider the effect my “singing” may have on others. To be fair to myself, I must state that I do my most enthusiastic singing when I am alone in the house. Then I bellow forth in a thun- derous bass some... Show moreTHE DIAL 15 ment out of hearing myself—a doubly selfish pleasure that is, for I do not consider the effect my “singing” may have on others. To be fair to myself, I must state that I do my most enthusiastic singing when I am alone in the house. Then I bellow forth in a thun- derous bass some majestic and dramatic piece, or sentimentally, and with a sob in my voice, croon O, elsk mig litt! to my mirror. Washing dishes ceases to be a chore when you set commonplace conversation to oper- atic tunes. There is something which bor- ders on the sublime in such choice bits of music as “When, oh when, will you rinse the dishes,” (delivered dramatically in a re- sonant baritone), or a coloratura soprano trilling forth in reply, “How can I, how can I, when the rinsing water isn’t hot yet?” Of course it is frightfully barbarian to admit it, but I get just as much enjoyment out of hearing this opera (1 la Kitchen as I do when listening to a group of professional singers pouring forth a steady stream of passion in a language which I do not understand. And, of course, the home product is infinitely less expensive. There is nothing like a bit of music as an interlude in an evening of assiduous study. Just stop your work, stand erect, throw out your chest, throw back your head and bel- low or trill forth (as the case may be) some favorite song, and see how much good it does you, and if you have a room-mate re- member “music hath charms” . . . . but use discretion. ——<¢¢>>F—— On Inferiority Complexes MATHILDA SAGENG, ’31 INFERIORITY complexes! Many people scoff at the idea of them and say that they are all humbug; but I know better than that. But then—why should I not, for I have one myself and can speak from ex- perience. I guess I have always been more or less conscious of it, but, not until I came to college, did I learn that this miserable feel- ing had such an imposing name. I am sure we had something about infer- iroity complexes in pschology, but I cannot recall just what it was. And then we learned about them in sociology, too. For one thing —“that they are caused by lack of adjust- ment to one’s environment.” That may be so, but I am quite sure it is not the cause in my case. There was also a great deal about psychosis—whatever that is—and psychoan- alysis. One thing is certain—I did not have to go to any psychoanalyst to discover mine. If you are not conscious of having one, do not try to discover one; because even though you may at times enjoy ill health, you cer— tainly never will be able to enjoy an infer- iority complex. If I were asked what causes them, I would immediately reply that they are caused by the mean habit some people have of always “rubbing in” things which they ought to have sense enough to keep still about. For instance, when I was a child, there was a time when I did not grow (in height) very much. Whenever I met people whom I had not seen for some time, they would always and invariably say that I had not grown at all since the last time they saw me. Then they would compare me with my cousin who was my age but several inches taller than I. That, of course, “brought home” the fact more clearly than ever that I was destined to be almost, if not quite, a midget. If I had only known then what I know now, I might have been saved a lot of heartache by ex- plaining to these “solicitous” people that I Show less
14 THE DIAL tongue in speech, or by his hands in writing. Thus a great man is properly praised, even if he has to do it himself. There is, however, one thing which is an abomination to the self-made man, and that is any criticism or personal reflection directed against himself. So high and so... Show more14 THE DIAL tongue in speech, or by his hands in writing. Thus a great man is properly praised, even if he has to do it himself. There is, however, one thing which is an abomination to the self-made man, and that is any criticism or personal reflection directed against himself. So high and so exalted is the opinion which he holds of himself that it would be quickly and indignantly resented. Like the medieval kings, the self-made man can do no wrong. ___r_.<$_$>> .__, , ,i , The Depths GRACE JENSEN, ’33 I cannot lift my heart to pray, So deep my care. My lips need form no words to say, Since Thou art there. I cannot lift my voice to sing, So deep my joy, Bat Thou hast filled the hidden sprth Naught can destroy. I cannot lift my heart or voice In joy or care, But Thou hast made for me the choice, And Thou art there. _#‘<$_$>,__._f Music Hath Charms MAURICE HELLAND, ’33 (((ZQHE little tyke is a born musician,” 9 agree the members of the fair sex who are gathered in an awed and admiring circle about the crib of the youngest twig on the family tree. But the men, remem- bering their own youthful days, predict no such misfortune for the helpless infant. To be a musician, according to their opinion, is to be something effeminate. “The little tyke” will probably begin his musical career almost as soon as he can re- tain his balance on a piano stool. He will probably submit to taking piano lessons as a lesser evil than learning to play a “fiddle;” but there will come a time of revolt unless the “little tyke” really is a born musician, which is quite unlikely. I imagine most of us have been given a dose of music at some time or other and have survived the ordeal with few ill—effects, despite our momentary grimaces. Unless this period has left too deep a mark on our personalities, we go through life with a passive interest in music. We may suppose that we could get along just as well without it, if necessary, but I wonder.— Of course I enjoy hearing others sing, too, but to be frank, I think I get more enjoy- Show less
THE DIAL 13 In those days I used to run away and pout, because my brothers would openly laugh at me. If anything is embarrassing, it is to be laughed at by one’s own brothers. I secretly hoped that they would be reprimanded. I still cherish a bit of resentment. They might at least have told me,... Show moreTHE DIAL 13 In those days I used to run away and pout, because my brothers would openly laugh at me. If anything is embarrassing, it is to be laughed at by one’s own brothers. I secretly hoped that they would be reprimanded. I still cherish a bit of resentment. They might at least have told me, so that they could not torture me for the rest of my life. I was my father’s handy-man. When I trailed along, I would tell him all about my other father. When I helped him repair the fence, I told him that my other father would not let me steady the staples as he fastened them. Father would not let me either. He told me it would hurt my fingers. It would not do to hurt my fingers. I remarked that my other father had let me put them in place. Once he let me pound as he held the staple. Father laughed and looked at his hand. I wondered why he should do that. One of my favorite pastimes was playing with my father’s nose. My other father’s nose was crooked, because I had twisted it so much. I was glad my father’s nose was crooked, so that I could not make it worse than it was. My other father’s kisses tickled. I noticed later that the reason for this was his long beard. This beard had undoubtedly been the cause of many of his miserable moments. I had pulled it, twisted it, or braided it as I pleased. He must have been very patient. Father remarked once that he could never bear it. If he ever had a long beard, I should be careful about pulling it. My father had no beard. It was the lack of one that made me think I had two fathers. When mother told me that my father and my other father had always been the same per- son, I wept bitterly. I seemed to have lost a friend. I hoped for a long time that it was not true, but it was only too true. I have never had more than one father. ———<>———— A Self—Made Man Who Worship His Maker ERNEST G. ANDERSON, ’34 E have many species of self-made men, but one is outstanding: the man who is unable to forget his success. He is con- tinually lighting fires at the shrine of his great god, HIMSELF, meanwhile chanting a litany of praise that is full of self-adora- tion. He never wearies of telling those un- fortunates who happen to be present when he performs his devotions how great a man he is, and how mightily he hath wrought. It becomes a passion with him that all men shall know that he is a self—made man, one who has reached the pinnacle without the help or favor of anyone. He appears to be obli-_ vious of any greater Power in the destinies of men as he speaks of his wisdom, com- mends his foresight, or applauds his master- strokes. He never fails to point out the ex- tent of his achievements nor to make invidi- ous comparisons with some lesser fortunate “So—and-So.” This, strangely enough, leads him to recount his acts of mercy, revealing the generosity of nature which prompted him to give a dime where a dollar was need- ed! There is such a remarkable mutual un- derstanding among his various parts that his right hand never fails to inform the left hand of what it has just done. This, of course, is a great and useful trait to a self- made man, for he can always be assured of full recognition for all he doeth. For ex- ample, he may have given to the poor out of his superfluity, and is thereby entitled to praise. If no one bespeaks this generous deed, it can be quickly made known by his Show less
A Village Constable BERTHA LILLEHEI, ’34 A village constable is one to whom the upholding of the law furnishes an out- let for his deep-rooted chivalry, a fulfillment of youthful dreams, a ballast to his hopes for the future, an excellent opportunity for ad- ventures, a chance for fame, and a... Show moreA Village Constable BERTHA LILLEHEI, ’34 A village constable is one to whom the upholding of the law furnishes an out- let for his deep-rooted chivalry, a fulfillment of youthful dreams, a ballast to his hopes for the future, an excellent opportunity for ad- ventures, a chance for fame, and a needed sustenance for himself and his family. This office may not seem to furnish visible proofs of its value to the village constable, but it still is there. He differs very little from the “city con- stables” in that he very often exhibits a pe- culiar fondness for his morning nap. Of course, his strenuous work of the evening before, when he either had to lead home the little white-stockinged youngster who was being chased by the town bully, or had to subdue the unusually bothersome alley dog, will be sufficient reason for his untimely nap. He partakes of breakfast at noon, dons his uniform proudly, strolls down main street and into the village drug store. Here you may be positive of finding him nearly any time of the day after his nap. He reads, con- spicuously, of the wonderful exploits of his brother workers, expounds at length on his newly discovered plan for trapping would-be “speed fiends,” whom he never sees, and puffs his enormous, foul, black pipe. He ter— rorizes the insignificant and grovels before “high hats.” This, as a matter of course, is business shrewdness, and not a shunning of the law! Others are sure to find out all the ups and downs of police life through the ages when the constable is “wound up.” He is invited to social functions. His suit very seldom fits, but what is that when he works for his country? His words are woe- fully lacking from Webster’s. Yet, he pro- tects the village from all danger and trouble, and he keeps the tongues, one at least, a- stirring! In that village constable, therefore, we see, perhaps, an unknown greatness, an un- plumbed depth for heroism, and an unsus- pected capacity for social and civic leader- ship. __I_¢<$.$>>__ On My Other Father MARTHA ROSSING, ’34 S a child I suppose I was as innocent as children generally are. My father has suggested that I was “spoiled”. At that my mother will smile apologetically. If I had been, it surely was not her fault. Whose fault could it be? Father and mother de- bated upon that question until I piped out, “I know! My other father.” That, I thought, removed the blame from my present father. Father looked at mother quizzically, and mother looked at him. She laughed joyously as she cried, “Yes, the other father is to blame.” ' I did not consider the possibility of wound- ing my parents’ feelings by inadvertently speaking of my other father. Apparently they did not mind my mentioning him. Mother always laughed, and father slapped his thigh in glee. My brothers and sisters never made any distinction between my father and my other father. They had called both father and spoke with as much familiarity and respect to the one as they had to the other. I did not notice that they were particularily shy at first. If I had thought about that, I should have attributed my own shyness to my nature. Show less
, .25; .35., THE DIAL 11 ner. Into the making of the first, many sleep- less nights had entered, many trying mo- ments, overcome in patience, and through it all the warfare with self had to be unceas- ingly waged. Her sister stated that she had not had one sound night’s rest in four years, having... Show more, .25; .35., THE DIAL 11 ner. Into the making of the first, many sleep- less nights had entered, many trying mo- ments, overcome in patience, and through it all the warfare with self had to be unceas- ingly waged. Her sister stated that she had not had one sound night’s rest in four years, having always to be on the alert for her mother’s needs, night and day. If she were a remnant, it was not due to the quality of the article, for her character and her spirit must have been of the finest type to discharge so successfully a very dif- ficult duty. She was a ministering spirit to one who needed her care, and who called for spiritual as well as physical help. It meant not only keeping the tired and weak body as comfortable as possible, but also con- soling an impatient and anxious soul. Mil- ton’s verse describes very fitly such hidden lives: “They also serve who only stand and wait.” Such service means often a turning from the shining path of personal hopes and aspir— ations to the long, heavy road of care and worry. It meant exchanging beautiful dreams for a hopeless, exacting reality. But there is a recompense for a faithfulness that does not waver at the loss of personal hap- piness. Around the bedside of that frail mother hovered the spirit of One who looks deeper than our human wisdom and judg— ment can penetrate. Mingled with the thank- ful utterances of the mother for her daugh- ter’s care was the sound of His voice: “He that findeth his life shall lose it; and he that loseth his life for My sake shall find it.” We should be thankful for occasional upsets as we trundle our little cart of prejudices through the world. Here is one that spills our narrow conceptions of human happi- ness, usefulness, and beauty of life uncom- promisingly into the dust—an unwanted woman discovered as an absolute necessity in some one’s life. MW, Wintry Winds AGNES M. FREIJ, ’32 (ZSHE dusk falls gray and mystic Around my cottage small. Deep shadows press through windows While night encircles all. The wind blows weird and threat’ning; The snow-flakes strike the panes. The sounds send icy shudders Creeping through my veins. And in this lonely night time Visitors grim and cold Come singing in the wind-storm With voices loud and bold. They come in through my windows To lurk in corners gray, To make my lone heart sadder, As ’round my house they stray. Strange sounds my soul make mournful I hear them o’er and o’er, All night the wind’s sad moaning Around my cottage door. Show less
10 THE DIAL minister takes his leave and goes to visit Mrs. Anderson. She immediately invites him to come in and have a cup of coffee. He accepts the offer, and, before she has occa- sion to give him a second cup, he politely re- quests a little more. He inquires about her rheumatism and listens... Show more10 THE DIAL minister takes his leave and goes to visit Mrs. Anderson. She immediately invites him to come in and have a cup of coffee. He accepts the offer, and, before she has occa- sion to give him a second cup, he politely re- quests a little more. He inquires about her rheumatism and listens eagerly as she un- folds her past history and present troubles. The minister makes his next call at the dairyman’s. He goes with his friend to the dairy-barn and observes the milking proce- dure with great delight. He numbers the cows and returns to compare his findings with those of his host. When the skimming of the milk is begun, the minister very cheer— fully ofi'ers a helping hand. He engages in a conversation with the hired man until the task is finished. Then he returns to the house and, upon coming into the kitchen, reminds the Wife of his friend that they have much for which to be thankful. During the sup- per hour he discusses the conditions in the synod with his host. who is a deacon. After- wards he retires to the parlor where he par~ ticipates in spirited singing with the young people of the home. He knows the young men in his parish personally, and during the winter frequently goes with them on fish- spearing trips. He is also acquainted with the children in his parish. The only time he has difficulty in causing them to obey him is at Christmas programs when he pleads with them to keep their candy bags closed until they get outside the church. He takes great pleasure in calling upon college and seminary students to address his congrega~ tions. When the student appears to have made a failure, he promptly rises and selects a statement made by the speaker, and cla- borates on it at length. In all my observa- tions of the old minister I have noticed this outstanding trait: sympathetic considera- tion for all his fellow-beings. An Old Maid ERNEST G. ANDERSON, ’34 IS popularly and superficially defined as a remnant on the matrimonial bargain- counter. The same authority which is re- sponsible for the definition has sought to ex- plain her unfortunate condition in various ways. It has been pointed out that she was too particular; others, dissenting, said she was not particular enough. Appearances have a great deal to do with our success in life, so it has been averred that she was too thin, and here again we have a deplorable lack of agreement, for this, too, has been denied by some who maintained she was not thin enough. Many other possible reasons could be cited to demonstrate the futility of arriving at a solution of the problem: why is an old maid? We shelve it by concluding in our astuteness, that a woman unmarried is a woman unwanted. But occasionally we discover an old maid living such a self-sacrificing life that we are shamed into silence. Our backyard philoso- phy will not fit such a case. One I remem- ber in particular. I had been asked to visit an old lady who had been bed-ridden for a number of years. Her advanced age and feeble condition demanded constant and per- sonal care, and this duty fell to her daugh- ters. One had a profession and thereby sup- ported all three, but it kept her away from home, so the care of the invalid fell to the lot of the other sister. The atmosphere of that sickroom testified to the spirit in which she served, and its appearance to the man- Show less
Character Sketches The Cynic GERALD SVEEGGEN, ’34 A cynic is a disillusioned idealist or an atheistic thinker who sees beneath the tinsel of his existence with its beckoning mirages and tantalizing desires into what he thinks is the root of life. He sees and thinks more clearly than does that... Show moreCharacter Sketches The Cynic GERALD SVEEGGEN, ’34 A cynic is a disillusioned idealist or an atheistic thinker who sees beneath the tinsel of his existence with its beckoning mirages and tantalizing desires into what he thinks is the root of life. He sees and thinks more clearly than does that general class of people who live in a state of placidity, never bothering to probe beneath the surface of their systematized lives. He realizes that the everyday hopes and disappointments with which we are plagued are but natural sequences in the order of things, and that we are merely puppets on the ever shifting scenes of our lives. He sees that every being is endowed with a certain proportion of good and bad, and that our customs, our conventions, and our habits are only superficial attributes which attempt to cover our naturally worldly minds with a false standard of perfection, and that only a few puppets are lifted above the milling masses of humanity. He laughs at the folly in his own life, at his feeble attempts to gain riches and glory, and at the same hopes in the lives of the people about him; and he looks down upon and sneers at his brothers who are pursuing ideas and hopes that they will never reach, for idealists are his favorite objects of ridi— cule. He knows that the happiness pursued by all will not come through satisfying his worldly desires or gathering riches. Such happiness is a snare set for those who do not realize that they are nothing but scintillating bubbles, which burst into nothingness at the touch of our groping, ever clutching hands. He feels no joy of living. He does not realize that, pitiful as it might seem to him, this brief period in the span of eternity is a path to a final justice. All this he thinks, but the more he thinks, the more he realizes that, despite his callous attitude, he is pursuing the same vain hope of peace and happiness that he derides in his fellow men; but he cannot find it, and so, in bitter desperation, he laughs. ————<¢a>>—-#— An Old Minister FRITJOF MONSETH, ’34 N old minister is the personification of understanding and the incarnation of adaptability, a piece of humanity that can automatically fit into any situation or envir- onment. He is interested in and acquainted with every profession and occupation in life. When he visits a farmer parishioner who is especially fond of horses, his liking becomes the same. He follows his friend to the stable and very ably discusses the merits and de- merits of a horse. He knows all the horses by name and walks along the alley to see if they are all in the barn. His host follows behind and very enthusiastically talks about his plan of trading off the old mare for a younger one. The minister suggests that he secure a mate to the blocky animal by the door. After a discussion of this nature, the Show less