“Yes, I sang in the Concordia Choir for two years. My range isn’t particularly great but the experience has meant a great deal to me. Do you plan on taking up the ministry?” “No, I don't. I plan to go into medicine after teach- ing a while." “That’s a wonderful profession. One needs Christ... Show more“Yes, I sang in the Concordia Choir for two years. My range isn’t particularly great but the experience has meant a great deal to me. Do you plan on taking up the ministry?” “No, I don't. I plan to go into medicine after teach- ing a while." “That’s a wonderful profession. One needs Christ everywhere and there is no better way of being of ser- vice to humanity in general. That's one of life’s highest objectives.” Thoughtful silence. “I wonder if I might read this chapter on the Gregorian Chant when you are not using the book." “You’re welcome to it now. I was planning to retire soon. Good night. I hope you’ll enjoy it.” “Good night." RANDOLPH PAULSON, ’38. Guidance He took my hand, He clasped it firmly. Who could it be that walked beside me? Lo, He spoke, yet somewhat strangely: “Little child, behold, I’ll lead thee.” MARGARET CHRISLOCK, ’40. [Dial] 9 Show less
Auntie’s Nephew LYNN Awoxr: WITH A START. Sunlight was streaming in on his bed. It must be Easter morning, he thought— but no, it couldn’t be, because Easter was past. 0 yes, now he remembered his dream. He had seen angels be- side a grave. He had seen a man in shining clothes going up into the... Show moreAuntie’s Nephew LYNN Awoxr: WITH A START. Sunlight was streaming in on his bed. It must be Easter morning, he thought— but no, it couldn’t be, because Easter was past. 0 yes, now he remembered his dream. He had seen angels be- side a grave. He had seen a man in shining clothes going up into the sky, and a light shining down from heaven, shining into his face. But there had not always been this light shining. There had been darkness, gloom, and fear. Lynn re- membered yesterday. He had been lying on the couch in grandmother’s parlor. The alternating and occasionally simultaneous “tick—te-tocks” of grandmother’s kitchen clock and bedroom clock, a sound ordinarily so thrilling to the boy, was unusually ominous to him now. His heart throbbed painfully—pounded as if it were trying to “out-beat” the clocks, but to no avail—the regular, yes, horribly regular, “tick-te—tock, tick-te—tock”, went on. The belated dusk of a summer evening was “pulling her wool over the eyes” of the town. As it grew darker, the lump in Lynn’s throat grew bigger. He wouldn’t be able to swallow anymore, he thought—but why didn’t Auntie come? She would spank him of course, but why wait? The town refused to be ensnared by darkness; a light glared forth at each street corner—one of them glared into grandmother’s parlor. The light helped, Lynn thought—but no, the figures on grandmother’s Persian rug began to take on ugly shapes. Lynn trembled. But presently Auntie entered the room and sat down beside him. # t * Yes, Lynn had been a bad boy, there was no doubt about that. He had been happy when Auntie had let him [Dial] 3 Show less
This cup of hope was the only one of joy to which Marit could turn. When circumstances forced her to think of more bitter portions brought by her brother. she would flee out to the release od’ered by the stars at night, and there pour out her woes before her God. She loved Rudy, but the... Show moreThis cup of hope was the only one of joy to which Marit could turn. When circumstances forced her to think of more bitter portions brought by her brother. she would flee out to the release od’ered by the stars at night, and there pour out her woes before her God. She loved Rudy, but the ungratefulness of her brother made it hard. “0 God," Marit prayed. “if somehow I might be used to open a way for him." Soon she was leaving, but the hardest task before her was to leave knowing that the one for whom she thought she would give all was soon ready to drift beyond the reach of his anchor. Supper was finished in silence. Marit tried to eat as if she enjoyed the simple meal, but the lump in her throat made it awkward. “You’ll stay home with me tonight, won’t you brother ?" For an answer, Rudy flung his fork upon the table and left the room. Marit heard him in his room upstairs and she could tell by the sound of his steps that tonight, too. she would be awake until morning when he came back. And what she dreaded most of all was his uncertain steps upon the stairs, and the way he would rest half way up, and the sound of his sleeve rubbing against the wall. In the dark room, Marit sat still for a long time. The clouds parted, letting the moon shine in through the nar- row window. A cricket chirped. Slowly the girl arose. struck a match and lit the smoky lamp. She reached for a well-worn book, opened it and read, “For my love they are my adversaries. But I give myself unto prayer." Then the clouds covered the moon. A cricket chirped. All was still. # t t Two evenings later Marit again went out to the stubbly grass outside the house, but this time there were no chickens to flock around her. No, but she had something else, something richer than she had dreamed of. For as she stood there, looking again to the East, a new vision came before her. She felt it was a greater vision, a 14 [Dial] Show less
Whenlfirstawokeitwascoldmddarhandlwas hungry. I waited for light. but it would not come. I counted the minutes away, and then the hours. I tried to make time go faster. My efl'orts were futile. The harder I worked the more stubborn Time became. I could go on no longer. Soon I heard a scraping noise... Show moreWhenlfirstawokeitwascoldmddarhandlwas hungry. I waited for light. but it would not come. I counted the minutes away, and then the hours. I tried to make time go faster. My efl'orts were futile. The harder I worked the more stubborn Time became. I could go on no longer. Soon I heard a scraping noise and a small slot on the floor opened. A tray was pushed in. I had a meager meal of something that I could not call food. It was just bulk to my deadened senses. The half inch of provided candle would have lasted until I was through eating; it seemed that the air became blacker than ever when in- stead I saved it for future use. It was still, dark, cold, and clammy. I was chilled— chilled with the thick, wet air. I got up and walked around. It was so black that I couldn't see my hand. I held out my arm and stepped cautiously forward. My hand soon found the wall. It was wet soil. Soon it came over me—I was in the great underground prison. the vault of the living dead. By saving the candle scraps for a few days, I finally got enough to make a more careful investigation. I found that a small shaft in the ceiling admitted the only outside air. Of course no light could ever come in. and little of the foul air could go out. I have never been able to determine time. I do not know day from night. The fellow that brings my food is surly. I do not bother often to speak to him. I should like so much to talk with someone, but I have no friends to visit me. At rare intervals one may have company out in the hall —on the other side of the black—out where there must be light. I remember now I heard many years ago that no one can ever again see a human being after once going in this place; one can only hear voices. For- tunately, I don’t have to have company to hear voices; lately, the whole room has been filled with strange voices from nowhere. Now I am given this pen with which I have to write something. I have often read thoughtlessly what others 20 [Dial] Show less
The Living Dead THESE COLD, STU-T FINGERS do not easily grasp this pen in my hand. My fingers no longer move across the page as they should. They seem not a part of this body. The dim, nervous light of the tiny candle shows me that they are becoming claws. A crooked, broken body no longer needs... Show moreThe Living Dead THESE COLD, STU-T FINGERS do not easily grasp this pen in my hand. My fingers no longer move across the page as they should. They seem not a part of this body. The dim, nervous light of the tiny candle shows me that they are becoming claws. A crooked, broken body no longer needs the straight hands of my youth. Claws serve the better to scoop the dank soil; 3 man must do something with his time. I sit here—alone. My mind often goes back to the early days. I see Mother and Father; Father was hard. but his was a cruel life. My body was satisfied. even though I never really lived. I never dared to feel alive inside. Now even my body does cry out in rebellion against God and man. The pangs of cold and hunger and thirst would drive me mad. I used to feel I was mad. This silence was driving me crazy. Now the little voices speak to me. I am never alone. ’. This room is cold. and dark, and dead. My soul is dead. My body is becoming bent and hairy. This Italian prison is hell. I know not how long I have been here. I had often read in the pa- pers that no man lives over six months here. Yet this seems years. ' That night, how long ago . was it now? Oh yes, it was ' her birthday—my Mother's birthday. I must say “Moth- ' er” softly now—the words are too dear to be taken 18 [Dial] Show less
Deep Dark River—A Story of the SouthImId. Author. Robert Rylee. Farrar & Rinehart, N. Y. 308 pages. “DEEP DARK RIVER" is a stirring tale of Mose, a negro with a soul on fire for a living God. The story is writ- ten with deep understanding, an element of humaness. It is a flashlight picture of the... Show moreDeep Dark River—A Story of the SouthImId. Author. Robert Rylee. Farrar & Rinehart, N. Y. 308 pages. “DEEP DARK RIVER" is a stirring tale of Mose, a negro with a soul on fire for a living God. The story is writ- ten with deep understanding, an element of humaness. It is a flashlight picture of the Southland, beautifully colored by the drowsy, happy song of cotton fields, yet infinitely sad. Sad, because these negroes knew no happy song that was not wrung from sadness. The aimless futility of the lives of these folk is brought out in its right proportion by the writer of Deep Dark River. He leaves no facet of that life unturned to show us that truly here has lived a suffering, surrendering. subservient race. The deep, dark river is splendidly symbolic of life ite- self, a limitless stream flowing ever on, mysterious. beau- tiful, subdued at times, yet relentless in its awful, all- inclusive sweep. To me the reading of this story has meant the meet- ing of a character, Mose. There is a certain wholeness about him, a sense of the unity of all life. An abundance of tenderness seemed to permeate his being. He loved his people, and gave wholeheartedly of himself that others might share in his spiritual victory. He met with tragic misfortune at the hands of certain whites. He is torn completely from his happy mode of life, and seems to be crushed utterly under the black heaviness of it all. Yet to the very end, we feel that no matter what might be that darkness, nothing could conquer the glorious spirit of exultation that burned, a steady flame, in the soul of this man Mose. Through imaginative devices and dramatic settings. the author, Rylee, has achieved an atmosphere that is sad, yet infinitely beautiful. One critic has called this story a second Uncle Tom's Cabin, and although it may never reach the renown of the latter, it is undoubtedly one of the masterpieces of recent literature. UNA LE, '38. 32 [Dial] Show less
Pieces Is this life A motley maze of pieces. A queer, confusing heap of hammered metal? I wonder why it is so hard To make the pieces match. It seems that I've been moving them so long! I want a pattern. I thought they'd all slide into place And be a lovely something I could see, And touch, And... Show morePieces Is this life A motley maze of pieces. A queer, confusing heap of hammered metal? I wonder why it is so hard To make the pieces match. It seems that I've been moving them so long! I want a pattern. I thought they'd all slide into place And be a lovely something I could see, And touch, And say to others, "There, you see? That’s what it all should be!" But no, It is not so. I just keep moving, Fumbling, Getting tangled in the pieces. The thread, It must be there! The one, you know, That ties them all together? I’m getting sort of tired. But once I heard A symphony rehearse. To my poor heart it seemed A melody of hope. So I’ll just keep on moving, Fumbling, Getting tangled in the pieces! UNA LE, ’38. 10 [ Dial ] Show less
The Clock THE CLOCK in the kitchen had run down just a few moments ago, making it necessary for me to wind it and set it again. As I did so, I began to think about clocks. If there is anything in this world besides sin and death to which people are slaves, it is to time, that power that seems to... Show moreThe Clock THE CLOCK in the kitchen had run down just a few moments ago, making it necessary for me to wind it and set it again. As I did so, I began to think about clocks. If there is anything in this world besides sin and death to which people are slaves, it is to time, that power that seems to be epitomized in every clock. It is rather annoying to see the overly-confident, mocking face of a clock peering at me from every nook and cranny wherever I go. Often. when I see a clock, I think of it as looking down benign- ly and condescendingly upon the silly and harebrained antics of men, who gallop dizzily hither and thither in the belief that they are extremely busy and that they are using their time unusually well. If you will observe carefully, however, you will find that an hour of waste is often the result of an hour of haste. Any clock must have a hard time to keep down a healthy fit of laughter when observing the time men waste in trying to spend their time well. Every clock would uphold the old adage about haste. Certainly the clock in the tower of the city hall or a similar vantage point would have ample opportunity to test such a well-worn saying. Talking about time—I think that the grandfather clock in the hall, the wall-clock in the kitchen, and the school-clock in the library could tell a host of tales about hours and minutes wasted. Sometimes, when I stand face to face before a clock, I have to blush! Many have ticked the minutes through hours of useless reading, of aimless clatter, or of artless laziness. A clock is almost 30 [Dial] Show less
A Change of Air “OH, WHAT A DAY! What a day !" thought Bert aloud as she sat on the stoop, while her eyes wandered to the road she longed to travel. To her ears came the familiar, but indistinct mutter- ings of Mrs. Hohenschuh who was preparing a savory meal of sauerkraut and sausages in the... Show moreA Change of Air “OH, WHAT A DAY! What a day !" thought Bert aloud as she sat on the stoop, while her eyes wandered to the road she longed to travel. To her ears came the familiar, but indistinct mutter- ings of Mrs. Hohenschuh who was preparing a savory meal of sauerkraut and sausages in the kitchen. The smell (Bert could not call it odor) came in guests through the open door. Secretly she anticipated the coming meal. Mrs. Hohenschuh came to the door. Looking down at her daughter she said anxiously, “You'se tired, Bert. Did I not say you must not work so hard. Ach, it even iss too much, such working, for a big woman like I am even." Bert did not express her disgust as usual, but only sighed a deep, deep sigh. “But mother, it cannot be helped with Arlie so sick and even the doctor saying that he should have a change of air.” Her mother shook her head, “Ach, ya, such a life it is. I will find the hammer, Bert, and the windows open, so he can be getting some change of air.” “Do,” Bert cried, and jumping up she ran into the hot. close room where Arlie was lying pale and thin. She turned to look out of the window, down the road that lay like a ribbon, down the road the doctor had gone and the road she hoped to travel some day soon with Arlie, Maynard, and mother for a change of air. Meanwhile the sun was setting. The odor of sauer- kraut pervaded the entire house, and the man on the bed moved heavily and moaned. INGVALD ROSSING, ’40. 26 [Dial] Show less
worn Bibleonthepulpitsaneoneelsetolightthe candles. Ashereachedthesltsr.hesnnktohiskneescrying. “My God, my God!” Then death he was shown the crucifix of Christ. A divine peace enlightened the (see of the person. That morning, when the parishioners adhered to hour the last sermon to be given by... Show moreworn Bibleonthepulpitsaneoneelsetolightthe candles. Ashereachedthesltsr.hesnnktohiskneescrying. “My God, my God!” Then death he was shown the crucifix of Christ. A divine peace enlightened the (see of the person. That morning, when the parishioners adhered to hour the last sermon to be given by their pastor. they found him lying by the altar, his Bible in his hand. opened to the words, “Come unto me all ye that labour sud are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." His last sermon was now preached. Sm Dunn. '39. 28 [Dial] {.1 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
THE DIAL 9 that must be banished in heedless pleasure —-only to terrify us again with quiet insis— tence. I am never quite so lonely as when I am at a party, and I would like to think that there is a difference between being lonely and alone. Alone, I have a world which con- cerns me intimately:... Show moreTHE DIAL 9 that must be banished in heedless pleasure —-only to terrify us again with quiet insis— tence. I am never quite so lonely as when I am at a party, and I would like to think that there is a difference between being lonely and alone. Alone, I have a world which con- cerns me intimately: a world of books, of poetry, of music, of my ideals and philosophy of life; a peak where I can gain a perspec- tive, though yet apart from the action. When lonely I am thrown into a sphere which does not interest me; there is no contact with my surroundings. I am plainly bored. (When you are homesick, analyze and see if that is not your condition.) When I am alone, I can be honest with myself. That, at least, is an honorable goal for which to strive. @ The Prince of Peace LAWRENCE BUEIDE, ’31 WOT many welcomed Thee to earth, Thou great incarnate Word, And Bethlehem in blindness failed To own her new-born Lord. ’T was in a stable—for no inn Would ope its doors to Thee— Thou wert received a welcome guest By utter poverty. Thou came to men of humble heart— For they had need of Thee— And made them rich with joy and peace In Thy nativity. Come now to us with peace and love To banish doubt and fear, And bring to naught the power of sin That often grieves us here. We hail Thy coming, Prince of Peace, This happy Christmas day. Our hearts we give to be Thy throne, And gladly own Thy sway. W. Show less
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
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