Impossible! People couldn’t have actually lived before the in- vention of the telephone. Just a casual survey of American life today forces one to realize that Mr. Bell’s invention greatly en- hanced human existence. To us of present-day America the date March 10, 1875, means little. Yet it was... Show moreImpossible! People couldn’t have actually lived before the in- vention of the telephone. Just a casual survey of American life today forces one to realize that Mr. Bell’s invention greatly en- hanced human existence. To us of present-day America the date March 10, 1875, means little. Yet it was on that day only slightly more than seventy years ago that the marvelous convenience was first used to transmit speech. From that day until this continual progress has been made improving the mechanics of the device and expanding its useful- ness to humanity. The Minnesota housewives who devote hours, morning and after- noon, to gossiping with neighbors over the ’phone, certainly would not venture outside in temperature below freezing, to convey their tidbits of trivia. What a mark of achievement it is to have a convenience which allows the homemaker her characteristic ex- pression within the warmth and comfort of the home. Not only does the telephone permit more comfort for the gos- siper and gossipee, but it also affords greater privacy. As yet party lines in many parts of our country menace this privacy, but with further improvements which will make private and two-party lines almost universal, the mouthpiece will gain the confidence of all gossips. Tremendous forward steps have been made to improve the lot of the gossips, but the future holds even greater possible strides. An otherwise quiet dinner can be completely disrupted by the musical ring of the telephone bell. The black instrument seems to take special delight in interrupting onc’s enjoyment of pork cut- lets, fried chicken, or beef stew. The cold food left after a long conference is not appetizing. This is obviously advantageous for in these times one must help feed the world by eating sparingly. It also prevents indigestion, heart burn, excess acidity and gas pains. Here again the telephone has proved its great worth to humanity. For a few fortunates the telephone has been a source of unex- pected treasure. The answer to the “jack pot" question, the name of the tune, or simply a conversation with the quiz master often earns sizable sums of money. Even if one does not win, he gets the sympathy of the quizzer in a sincere “Oh, I am sorry.” Girls, teen-age and up, merely exist between two hour conver- sations. For a time the telephone is their only means of com- munication. A busy telephone is their criteria of popularity. Naturally, a silent one causes mental anguish of a terrific intensity. Show less
Puts all lovers To shame. Happy eyes Look between bars Of a gate White-washed And bright. They see the man Cheerful in giving. They beam In gratitude, Silent, But from the heart. —CLARICE THINGLESTAD My heart would beat in sadness If ever we should part If ever love should vanish If ever hate... Show morePuts all lovers To shame. Happy eyes Look between bars Of a gate White-washed And bright. They see the man Cheerful in giving. They beam In gratitude, Silent, But from the heart. —CLARICE THINGLESTAD My heart would beat in sadness If ever we should part If ever love should vanish If ever hate should start. A smile would be an effort, A hurt I could not bear. And all the dreams we gathered I never once could share. —DON HEGG CUP OF CALL “We must pay the price of peace,” The leaders say. . And calmly gathering up that price, They reach into young lives to find it. They sit back in their comfortable chairs, And push pins on a map, And mourn for what it is costing— In property—in money—in lives. But it is not their lives. The strong young men pay that Because the leaders say, ‘We must pay the price.” MARILYN HALVERSON Show less
agave Sad eyes Look between bars Of a gate And bright. They see the dog. Brown, With gold glints, Sleeping by A little house Of white-painted wood, With red roof. They gaze with Longing, But in vain. Each day at four The eyes come again Gaze at the dog Eating, sleeping, Barking, playing. The dog... Show moreagave Sad eyes Look between bars Of a gate And bright. They see the dog. Brown, With gold glints, Sleeping by A little house Of white-painted wood, With red roof. They gaze with Longing, But in vain. Each day at four The eyes come again Gaze at the dog Eating, sleeping, Barking, playing. The dog learns To watch For the eyes To appear. He dashes Toward the gate, Licks the fingers Poked through the bars. One day The master comes. He sees the aching heart And makes A little sacrifice, And lo, The dog is gone. A mass of brown fur Darts through the gate Meets the owner Of the blue eyes In an embrace That surely Show less
The next Sunday the family went as usual to the ski meet. Krygg won all the contests; then came the jump. Krygg’s parents begged him not to try. They knew how disappointed and angry he be— came. But Krygg insisted. He had an air of desperate expecta— tion. The jumps were especially good that day.... Show moreThe next Sunday the family went as usual to the ski meet. Krygg won all the contests; then came the jump. Krygg’s parents begged him not to try. They knew how disappointed and angry he be— came. But Krygg insisted. He had an air of desperate expecta— tion. The jumps were especially good that day. At last Krygg stepped forward ready to take off. His jump was clean and fast; he went over the take-off cutting through the air as if he were wearing wings instead of the wooden skis. Suddenly the watching crowd became tense—he wasn’t making the graceful swoop that would bring him to land. He was going out until it was impossible not to fall straight to the ground. They waited tensely for the crash. There wasn’t any. Instead a sudden red flash seemed to envelope the boy and he was gone. In Telemarken they say Krygg had made a bargain with the devil. The story is given support by the other contestants who were at the take-off with Krygg. They said that just as he got ready to jump his body became stiff, his eyes terrified. They screamed after him to relax—they felt sure he’d crash at once in that rigid stance—but he didn’t relax. The whole unbelievable jump was made while the skier stood frozen and straight upon his skis. This is an old, old story. I don’t know if it’s true. My grand- father says it is. -—M. HALVERSON Men are Superior. Master men, Scorning women. Brave men, Flirting with Death. Hard men ' Going to war, Killing, Annihilating. And the women sit home, Crying, Praying. Women are soft. Men are Superior. —Prmm: -DALE Show less
This story was old many years before I was born. It was told to me by my grandfather who remembers it being told to him when he was a small child. I don’t know if it's true. My grandfather f says it is. . In south-central Norway, in the region called Telemarken there are many mountains. Because... Show moreThis story was old many years before I was born. It was told to me by my grandfather who remembers it being told to him when he was a small child. I don’t know if it's true. My grandfather f says it is. . In south-central Norway, in the region called Telemarken there are many mountains. Because of this all the natives are expert skiers. In the winter all travelling is done on skis; men and women use them to go to work, boys and girls to go to school. Naturally in such a place ski jumping became a great competitive sport. Every week after church the people of the whole countryside would gather at the nearest high mountain and hold ski contests. For most people these Sunday meets were just good fun. Even for the contestants (only the most expert took part) it was chiefly a di- version—exciting, rather pleasant to win, but not at all important. But for Krygg it was different. Krygg was twenty, tall, very blond, very handsome, and a fine skier. Krygg loved to win. He was the fastest skier in Telemarken; his style was the most grace~ ful. He was known through all the community as the best. That is, Krygg was best in everything except jumping. He could win any of the other ski contests easily but when it came to the big jump he would lose. It was hard for Krygg to take and he would brood over it all week, practicing jumping from the mountain near his father’s farm, but never seeming to improve. One Sunday after the meet, Krygg was especially bitter. He had been third in the jump. He started for home gloomy and sul- len. He refused to talk to his parents and skied some distance ahead of them all the way home. The family was quiet and the clear frozen air carried sounds distinctly. Suddenly Krygg began to talk. He didn’t turn around, but stopped as if paralyzed, stared straight ahead, and spoke in an excited voice. His parents could hear him, but they couldn’t make out his words which were run together. There was no one they could see but suddenly, very clearly, they heard their son say, “All right, I’ll do it. If you can ” Here his voice, choked with excitement and fear, broke off, and the boy, who had stood rigid all this time became limp and fell to the ground. His parents had stopped when he did but now they hurried to him and tried to revive him. They couldn’t. They had to carry him home. All the next week Krygg was excited and nervous. The slightest sound made him jump and twice during the week his father found him, rigid and staring as he had been before, saying desperately, “Yes, yes, I promise I will.” Show less
IlfBlll “Driver, I think this is it. You can stop right out in front.” The cabby obediently did so, my sister and I alighted, and after the insignificant matter of fare was taken care of, we picked up our luggage (several hat boxes, a typewriter, three suitcases, a couple of handbags and a... Show moreIlfBlll “Driver, I think this is it. You can stop right out in front.” The cabby obediently did so, my sister and I alighted, and after the insignificant matter of fare was taken care of, we picked up our luggage (several hat boxes, a typewriter, three suitcases, a couple of handbags and a portable sewing machine) and gracefully made our debut at West Hall, Augsburg College, Minneapolis, Minnesota, U. S. A., World . . . Somewhere in Space. I suggested to my sister, after our mutually painful arrival at the front steps, that we try the north entrance, after several girls’ an- swers to our inquiry that Room 9, West Hall could be better reached by going through that door. Faithftu we followed their advice, then concluded that they were as green as we-Room 9 was not to be found. We retraced our steps down the stairs and across the porch and entered the south door. What to our wandering eyes shOuld ap- ear but a lounge. No room for the wicked. “Turn left,” someone offered. Our heads turned. A stairway. Our bodies followed our heads—our luggage dragged behind. Bang, bang, bang, up the stair until at last—Room 91 “Oh woe is me and salve for my breaking heart.” Something was needed to ease the disappointment we felt at first sight of Room 9. It more than faintly resembled a shoe box—with five doors! (One was a fire escape . . . oh, oh.) All the room left after the fur- niture had been settled added up to about the capacity of my brain—a pea. “Augsburg, I love you,” I convinced myself. Our suitcases landed in the middle of the floor, along with their friends the hat boxes, typewriter, handbags and sewing machine. “Well, dear, let’s get the rest of the stuff,” my sister volunteered. (by “other stuff” she meant our ironing board, radio-phonograph, scrapbooks, records and boxes of stationery. Our trunks would ar- rive later.) We departed. —Dorus SWANSON CONFETTI She laughed. a careless bubbling sound, And tore the human passions near her Like confetti. into shreds. I laughed too, but hoarsely For I was part of the confetti lying there. —InENI-: M. JOHNSON Show less
REMINISCENCE Only the rains of yesterday— The clouds, the swelling flood’s mad rush; Only the winds that would not cease— These things alone, I want to hush. Days so shiny with answered prayer Which only faith in God can bring,- The day we gave our lives to share A richer life, with Christ as... Show moreREMINISCENCE Only the rains of yesterday— The clouds, the swelling flood’s mad rush; Only the winds that would not cease— These things alone, I want to hush. Days so shiny with answered prayer Which only faith in God can bring,- The day we gave our lives to share A richer life, with Christ as King; The day we reached the mountain’s top And looked upon a peaceful land Unconscious, in our perfect bliss, Of war and hate on every hand; Days when we lived and planned and hoped, The days which cannot ever cease— These are the days that keep my soul— These and a God Who giveth Peace! —]OHN OLSON A fragile snowflake winging Softly to the ground, Gay stars winking slyly, Dark shadows all around. The night, a laughing spirit, A joyous snatch of time, Miraculous discovery— Your world is the same as mine. HELEN HAUIENESS Broken pieces of sunlight are scattered carelessly on the still sleepy river. The wind is brushing clouds into soft angora piles against a sky too blue to be real. Grass blades are hung with tiny necklaces of dew. A knife of sun has sliced open the morning, and it lies sparkling like a freshly cut orange. IRENE M. JOHNSON — Show less
strained and subdued it. Their night seemed disconnected, isolated. It hung, a quiet, rounded crystal apart from all the rest. It came as a shock, then, the knock on the door. Loud and brutal it rang and the sudden sound of hoarse, pushing voices was even more terrifying. In the complete... Show morestrained and subdued it. Their night seemed disconnected, isolated. It hung, a quiet, rounded crystal apart from all the rest. It came as a shock, then, the knock on the door. Loud and brutal it rang and the sudden sound of hoarse, pushing voices was even more terrifying. In the complete isolation of their moments they had heard no one approaching. For a moment they sat, horror- stricken at the rage in the shouts that became more and more nu- merous. They heard one word, “Nigger!” and they knew—prayed they were wrong—but knew surely what it was. A second, a tight clinging to each others’ hands, a wrenching blow against the unlocked door, and a mob of cursing, hate-filled faces shoved into the room. The two black people before the many white stood clinging together, by the clean table with the tall dishes. The crowd ran toward them and at the same time, with a sudden swift push, the girl was protected by the body of the man. The table jolt- ed and tipped the dishes. They shattered tinkling and no one heard or saw as the white faces, the red, staring eyes came close. Then he was jerked into the mob. The twisting dark face turned, the whitened lips spoke the name “Loulie” before a hand, hard with hate, smashed blood out of them. The brutal act brOught another inward surge as each hate-gorged white man sought to feel the spurt of black blood. The violence was stopped by a cry “Save him for the rope!” re-echoed from man to man. Now they yanked him, as a dead thing into the street. The yards were deserted as the dark ones hid. They couldn’t see their neighbor ]im but they knew he was there, they knew his face was torn, they knew his body was limp with death terror. They knew, too, what would happen as they heard the savage yells: “Watch now, you niggers! This is what happens to you dirty blacks who dare touch a white woman! Watch him hang!” And they sunk back, sick with fear, anger and impotence. Longing to weep, and curse, and pray! The parade ended at a tree in the park. It lasted only a minute, the rope was strong and the body was left lying under the tree. And the men went home. “Black nigger! Knew it was him! Good we saw him down near the white part of town. Those dirty blacks come out of shanty town for only one thing, and after that there’s one less nigger!” They went home, satisfied they’d done justice, or at any rate had revenge, and the hell of hate was gone from their white faces and their red eyes, sunk back into ashes in their hearts. Until the next time. And Loulie St. James lay, black and knotted with despair, at the foot of the white covered table, and the tall, thin dishes lay shat- tered on the cloth, and dripping noiselessly down to the floor was the remains of the special hand packed ice cream. MARILYN HALVERSON Show less
— Tall Dishes Southern heat is worse than northern heat. The sun may not raise the temperature any higher but the heavy tiredness of the heat is the kind that drags, that makes men slow—moving, but quick- tempered. Yes, the heat is funny that way, it slows a man down so he hates to breath and... Show more— Tall Dishes Southern heat is worse than northern heat. The sun may not raise the temperature any higher but the heavy tiredness of the heat is the kind that drags, that makes men slow—moving, but quick- tempered. Yes, the heat is funny that way, it slows a man down so he hates to breath and then when he feels most like forgetting life and everything else sudden anger reaches him easily and he becomes raving, with energy and strength like he’d been storing it up all the hot days. It was heat like this that made the black man scared. It was on hot nights, nights with a white moon and no air moving, that mobs went lynch mad. And the black man knew. He had seen it; he knew. And that night was hot, heavy and still and quiet. The night sounds in the “shanty town” section of the village of Rouxville were thickened and choked by the heat. Most of its dark-skinned natives sat or stretched out on the sparse grass patches in front of the tiny house. A few of the younger ones sang ever so softly, making gentle, tired harmony. 'l Of the folks of this district Loulie St. James was one who stayed inside. The outside heat was not much improvement over the in- side and besides, Loulie wanted to be alone. Loulie was new mar- ‘ ried. Her husband, St. James, had gone over to the store at the very edge of the Negro section to buy some special hand-packed 1 ice cream-he knew how much better she liked it—and she was get- ting the dishes ready, thinking so happily about Jim, and how she loved him. She didn’t really feel the heat too much. Loulie picked out the nicest dishes, the fancy sherbert glasses with the tall, icy-looking stems. She polished them, set them side by side on the white cloth. Loulie liked white cloths on her tables. “I’ll just sit down now. He’ll be back soon.” So she waited, listen- ing to the rich, heavy notes coming through the heavier air, forget- ting entirely the other sounds at hearing the light noise of his feet, the low softness of his laugh as he tossed the cool, sweating package in her lap. He had hurried, wanting to be back with her. He no- ticed the dishes. He laughed at them, happily, saying, “You’re the best wife, Loulie. There’s just nobody with a house shining as yours, and nobody with your loving heart either, nobody at all like you.” And he lay down by her feet because it was too hot for two to sit on the big, new couch. ‘ _ Jirn lay on his back, relaxed, his shirt half-open, trying to keep as cool as he could. He heard the humming sound of the men singing, now and then he would sing along. He had a good voice. And finally it got so the heat wasn’t so much a blanket as a screen hiding them from the world. It didn’t so much choke sound now; it more Show less
14W 7:; 3W 7W ‘ Life is a paradox—so long, yet so short. Time flies, yet it stands still. I am young, yet I am getting old. I am now, yet some day I a shall not be. Life is strange, yet always familiar. Each day brings something new—be it but the old routine, it is still daily presented anew. It... Show more14W 7:; 3W 7W ‘ Life is a paradox—so long, yet so short. Time flies, yet it stands still. I am young, yet I am getting old. I am now, yet some day I a shall not be. Life is strange, yet always familiar. Each day brings something new—be it but the old routine, it is still daily presented anew. It is l forever rejuvenated, like a spring, until at last its running waters lie quiet in a valley far too beautiful to leave. We are but travelers 9 through this brief mite of eternity. One life is only a star in the " myriads of the heavenly patterns, a grain of sand in the hourglass of I time. For one short moment it is bright and moving; then, like a meteor, flames in a last attempt and is swallowed up into the well of darkness and space that is known as the past, yet encompasses the future and the unknown. Today the raw March wind is slipping its tense and life-giving fingers over and around the dwelling places of man. It is the same March wind that has sent the blood stinging to my cheeks since memory began. Twenty years and a thousand faces. Seventy-three thousand days and a thousand memories. And always the March wind. . . . Faces that are haloed with the rosy glow of friendship, faces hazy with forgetfulness, faces found only in the dark and forgotten re- cesses of the mind. Memories sifting out from nowhere and every- where; of people and places and things . . . of Mother and home—and the wind, always the wind. Skipping over the puddles ‘ of slush and racing across the damp fields, bringing to the distend- ed nostrils the giddy odor of spring, always fresh and new and l promising. Promising a better day ahead, a day of warmth and pleasure, a day of life; a day like the wind, vibrant and vigorOus, bringing a surge to the heart and a flush to the cheeks—and alive, always alive. Alive, like the way I feel when it lifts my hair and tosses it about A in wild swirls, when it captures me like it captures the clauds and ' sends all of us soaring into that world that only the imagination, coupled with an undefineable senSual pleasure, can touch upon—a Utopia fulfilling the hepe of a yet-to—be discovered promise. March is the boisterous and young month for a birthday. It forces the memory of years into forgetfulness with its ever-present outh and brings the promise of life to all who want to drink of its lieady wine. Even the sinking feeling in a heart just twenty dwindles into insignificance—the vague discontent springing from the philosophy of leaving the “teens” behind is dwarfed by a new Outlook on life. A life partly gone, but one gaining a renewed faith in the promise of the future, unknown, yet eternally alive. —Doms SWANSON Show less
ETERNAL SPRING My heart in gladness hails the coming spring, Eternal spring. Spring of my soul, though white the ground and bare. Though mortals weep and sigh. Though mortals hate and kill. Yet will I look to that eternal spring, Spring of my soul. -—KA'I'HBYN Tnonscm STAB FIRES Star fires... Show moreETERNAL SPRING My heart in gladness hails the coming spring, Eternal spring. Spring of my soul, though white the ground and bare. Though mortals weep and sigh. Though mortals hate and kill. Yet will I look to that eternal spring, Spring of my soul. -—KA'I'HBYN Tnonscm STAB FIRES Star fires Glowing, flowering Bursting up in fine arched splendor, delicate T o lose their fire in the sudden muck. One might think it better to have Never been But oh, To hold the fire for one brief instant: To arch in glory Through to oblivion. —DOROTHY SWANSON I t l Spring came With wild. exuberant shouts I greeted her. Love came too. With soft, ecstatic sighs I kissed him. But Love went. And now somehow Spring, too, has Gone. —PHEBE DAL: Show less
Expression Oh, there is beauty and there is glory Nigh too rich for man to see. - ; When mere mortal fellow humans are ‘ Filled with fire that cannot be Conquered by the dull and measured pace of life. n’ But when bursting forth to freedom. Climbing ever higher, Flames the joyous glad surrender... Show moreExpression Oh, there is beauty and there is glory Nigh too rich for man to see. - ; When mere mortal fellow humans are ‘ Filled with fire that cannot be Conquered by the dull and measured pace of life. n’ But when bursting forth to freedom. Climbing ever higher, Flames the joyous glad surrender of a man’s desire To speak out from his heart, Baring to all the world that feeling hidden there. To see the artist in his painting, The musician in his song. Or the writer in some wording Yielding to expression which belongs Not to him alone, which in himself he cannot hide. A“ __.. _u He only knows there is within That power he cannot deny, But must yield to its compulsion; ‘ And as he seeks to satisfy 1' This restless, bounding, driving urge Gives feeling that is a lovely thing to see. Oh, let not life so weary you With its drudgery and toil, That the spark which burns within Is corrupted and defiled So that at last it flickers out. No! Fan it to the fire which lightens the heart of man! For there is beauty and there is glory Nigh too rich for man to see, When mere mortal fellow humans are Filled with fire that cannot be Conquered by the dull and measured pace of life. -]ox{N HALEY Show less
Augsburg Cc::cg,:. George Sverdrup Lib“:iay ,. Minneapolis, MN 5549”- THE DIAL EDITED BY THE Aucsmmc COLLEGE WRITERS CLUB, WITH CONTRIBUTIONS FROM THE Scamnums CLUB. '948 AGQSBURG COLL: .4..Lw;.:.z‘v