A PIECE OF MEAT s 1" entered the bunker, stooping low. The"squd" that followed told had straightened up The last time that I had heard that. “squd” was rmelon fell off a truc ack home. ,; ie nant Turn . i\l.C.," I thought to myself, "the man who - " nter ' bunker \ his head against the ceiling."... Show moreA PIECE OF MEAT s 1" entered the bunker, stooping low. The"squd" that followed told had straightened up The last time that I had heard that. “squd” was rmelon fell off a truc ack home. ,; ie nant Turn . i\l.C.," I thought to myself, "the man who - " nter ' bunker \ his head against the ceiling." I looked up in time to ' . his head. "I avavs do that," he said. “The ceiling’s alwa w,‘ _ I _ "Are you all right 1 61}? hé’ asked. 'g his time it "Yes, sir,” I replied, “How many came 7 "Headquarters reported about three hun ed artillery a ‘ hundred and fifty mortar shells in the hour and a half. That' e worse we've e - stretcher which I used to sleep on. Mr r 'rnquist now seated hims_-wearilv on the stretcher. He stretched his feet Wget them as close as possible ‘3 which glowed a warm and cherry red invitation, He hunched the upper .» _ back and his head agajrfsghe diggiwall. But most of his weight was on his : After a few minutes htggoy t'li’uJook on his face. It was a sad look, i e that Lincoln had' when carnvingilthélimefihgpf the Union on his shoulders. I hanseen this look before on hfs’face anticlinfiwwh‘at‘vvas coming next. In order to stallqiit egg} asked, "1‘ avevacumof coffee?" "Sure," he answe‘regfijpifikly. I made?!) “ligfiwof rummaging through a card; board box looking" for sefiié’ifiofigderedvgfiffe ’ I found these too soon and. then beganfigfé curse mys 'fggfor‘khaving I‘éfigl m «3‘ of water-on the stove" which w ““Ktill hot. In a minu'teséhe had his large-We =1 7 - _ curled around a hot cup offioffee. He slurped his coffé’e);_for_ a momefi'fitbe “mgr dflpeared. It was replaqééa with a look of contentment. Hfifegaeasppeneda‘fi‘tl‘wg and his lower lip [game back‘ftojits normal position. "3 "“* ‘a a secgngl‘,l.t§pught, “Good to the las drop." Then I thoag :D'He “3:5 as cofitented afi‘, 3% ylixéishire cat. I wonder if hJe’; , ugggg; ,VBut onlv [‘1’ Vent. J—le quiclekyire~ "(’ggf'ne‘d his solemn countenance. .33» 'flvselfflaf'figs to}? come. ; $1; a 'figsi'de him on the stretché'r, - kfilthy-feet and; gan saga-rat me fMdIl’Cq This timéax, am a littiléi‘di'ffetgé‘igfifiifhan. minpte. When he‘spoke‘lh’fs words weré’slow fimeasured. s5 Hézasked, "Have you ever read Aloo'r‘E’s'tflopia?" 5’... "Np, sir, I never even heard of it." ‘A‘t-a, “Dan-z; you know what it’s about?" “No."s1-J;.” “Let me‘putzit this way," he started. "Are you a Christian?" “I think so,"2 :I'answged." “Good. Then vou ‘rfi‘u t; ' ' Highs; there is something wrong with all this killing. Certainly you can’t blame ‘afimgggg. I’ll tell you whose We ' It’s man’s fault. Do you know that thirty menimggs afternoon T ’_ menl By this time his voice had reached a itch that ends: lfiiig‘a'shrieking crescendo “Take: it easv;'fsir,’:7'; I. implored 1 00d get excl over it.".7s. * "a . .‘ 7 a a . .:;'25Excited.»1'_ he: \vail'ed. "Coffeela— : ; this?! fter ,‘n, screaming to Jesus and their mothers t r it h efihnk— ing coffee.".'n. ‘ a. .3 .: - _- s ':«. . h v 4 ‘ He begansa furiousefI-ortto’cbntrol his = ‘ Slo ‘ he bega " again. “Loo‘K, yowk’nowlthis is wrongilylen haue'got to stop 5 uing m , 1 "Susne,”el*agreedg:“butfirsmlou have to figure‘oap y deli "You're wrong," he said. “It's deeper than that. It' erns ' an’s whole re- lationship to his ‘fellow man. It’s not justa matter of killing. It seems to me, and it must to you, if you are a Christian, that man is by nature greedy. He'll get all he can out of his neighbor by book or by crook. Eeven if he has enough, he's got slurp my k ~ 4‘ ' -. al. He “It won't do 2O Show less
An Awakening Betwixt the Memes sweeping by ' Containing thoughts that naught conformed, I stood and caught the prudish cry Which echo'd from the few who mourned. "Away! Your slanderous words stray far From wisdoms whence weld dare not wean. Who're you to doubt tradition's par; To break the crutch... Show moreAn Awakening Betwixt the Memes sweeping by ' Containing thoughts that naught conformed, I stood and caught the prudish cry Which echo'd from the few who mourned. "Away! Your slanderous words stray far From wisdoms whence weld dare not wean. Who're you to doubt tradition's par; To break the crutch on which we lean. Your gall indeed becomes a stench. Your thoughts but thorns to irritate. What right have you to discontent And doubt the popes who daninate?" And yet while zephyrs turned to gales I did not shriek and turn in flight. For save one man each being fails, There's none on earth to judge who's right. Richard Husfloen Show less
MISSHOCK In the first grade. everybody loved Miss lauch. The second graders didn't like ' her, and the fourth and fifth graders crossed the street so they wouldn't have to meet her because they said she always acted like they were babies. But every— body in the first grade loved her. (When kids... Show moreMISSHOCK In the first grade. everybody loved Miss lauch. The second graders didn't like ' her, and the fourth and fifth graders crossed the street so they wouldn't have to meet her because they said she always acted like they were babies. But every— body in the first grade loved her. (When kids talked about her, especially first graders, her name got pushed together so that it came out "Misshock." "Misshock" was wonderful. She played the piano and when she hit a wrong note she just went on as though nothing had happened. She always wore a bracelet and she kept her hankie stuck under the bracelet so that it would be handy, and she made all the first graders sit in nice straight rows with their hands folded and she knew lots of songs and stories. Every year, “Misshock” and the first graders gave a program for the school. Everybody was there, even the "high— schools". The "high—schools" were the big kids and "Misshock" never let us first graders leave the room when the classes were passing, because we Were so little and got in the "high—school’s" way. This year I was a first grader and lhad to be in the program. "Misshock" gave me two parts to learn because I was the best reader. Oneofthemwas about a dress and I had on a new pink dress that my mother made especially for me to wear when I said my poem. Another one was about a bonnet and I wore a bonnet that belonged to another girl. It was an old—fashioned bonnet and had a flower on it and it tied in a bow under my chin. When it was my turn to say my poem about my pretty new dress I got mixed up and put on the bonnet and when I tried to get it off, my fingers got mixed up and I couldn't get it off and the bow got to be a knot. l was afraid that "Misshock" would be mad because I couldn't get the bon— net off and I wouldn't go out on the stage , even though it was my turn and every- body was waiting. Finally "Misshock" came and told me to go out and say my poem and she didn’t say anything about the bonnet on my head when I was supposed to say the poem about my dress and so I~stopped trying to get it off and went out on the stage. The stage was big and when I looked out I saw all the grade kids and all the high schools and all the teachers and even some mothers and fathers. lwas scared for a while. Then I looked down and saw my pretty pink dress and re— membered my poem and I said it and curtsied like “Misshock” had showed me and went off the stage. Then after awhile I had to go out and say my other poem, the one about the bonnet. This time "Misshock" didn't have to tell me to go on the stage. Somebody else told me and I went out and this time I didn’t even look at the “high schools" and the grade kids and the teachers and the mothers and fathers. I just said my poem and went off the stage. After that, all the first graders sang a song about a house that had a spook in it and another song about George Washington and then we all marched off. the stage and that was fun. I still couldn't get the bonnet off, though, and we finally had to break the string that went. under my chin to get it off. But "Misshock" still didn't get mad. "Misshock" was wonderful. 12 ...é_.-.___.‘ _... __ ._._._.., , l Show less
only empty loneliness and unreality? From the corner of my eye I could see her husband's lips moving, as if in prayer. What was he thinking now? was he sorry, now it was too late? And what did I really know about their life together; how could I judge? How could I help but pity him now he had... Show moreonly empty loneliness and unreality? From the corner of my eye I could see her husband's lips moving, as if in prayer. What was he thinking now? was he sorry, now it was too late? And what did I really know about their life together; how could I judge? How could I help but pity him now he had lost her? Again I saw the glitter, the sparkle as of a thousand myriad flashing lights. Sapphire and silver, ruby and gold, in the dim darkness. And my pity was swallowed up in bitterness. There I stood, wretched and dirty, with thrice- mended boots and patched coat. I was less than human. Hunger gnawed at my stomach and I shuddered, thinking of the night to come. I was fit only to mingle with the stale odors of the dead, with the bones of forgotten men and the ghosts of those now long departed. I shared the long nights with the smell of cattle--with the memories of the past and the thoughts of tomorrow. But I would know where she lay buried. I would dig her grave and lower her softly into it. She had been the star by which we set our sights, the sun which illuminated our day. She had been good; she had been kind. She had spoken to my little children out on the village street. She had given them shoes for their bare feet. And when they, so young, yet too weary and not strong enough to struggle, when they died, she wept--she wept tears of pity. In desperation, I would have followed my loved ones to the grave, but she looked on me in pity, and I remained alive. Yes, I remained alive, and she lay there, dead. She was no longer human. She was a dead body, like the dead bodies of the others I had buried who lay rotting and withering in the damp ground. I would know where she lay. I would not bury her deeply. The ground would eager her coffin lightly. 1 Show less
"You came, Mama Lubil" “I came," she said. Then Benteke appeared in the archway from the adjoining room, held out a trembling hard to Mama Lubi, draw out one of the cushioned chairs and invited her to be seated. Through the open windows wafted in the waves of wailing, some loud and almost angry,... Show more"You came, Mama Lubil" “I came," she said. Then Benteke appeared in the archway from the adjoining room, held out a trembling hard to Mama Lubi, draw out one of the cushioned chairs and invited her to be seated. Through the open windows wafted in the waves of wailing, some loud and almost angry, others more suppressed. The monotonous drumming could be heard aecaapnnied by the thunping of bodies flinging themselves to the grmmd,... And Mama Lubi could readily visualize the dust sifting through leathery fingers onto greasy heads and bodies-~others being smeared with palm oil thickened with camwood powder, and still others being smeared with white line. Mama Lubi looked at the little body, the little girl who just a week before had cane skipping into the olassroan with her writing pad under her arm. A white muslin bormet trimmed with lace framed the ashen face and matched the lovely long dress she was wearing. Only her pink—soled feet could be seen beneath the dress. In her hands lay the Testa- ment she had only begun to read. Many more werefithe Verses which had been hidden in her memory. Benteke's face was clasped in his hands, and hot tears were Mg through his fingers. Katalina‘s shoulders shook as she found release through her sobs. Mama Lubi opened the Bible, and seeking out pass- ages of comfort read them to the bereaved parents. She tried to give them words of encouragement and together they prayed. I The wailing outside continued. Benteke picked up his heavy body and lumbered to the doorway to still ,the crowds. With a rush they came on him, and Katalina's mother, as their spokesman, said: "It is sufficient for you to build an altar to the spirits._ Only six moons have passed since the 8 Show less
dirty work?" She could have saved her breath for all the good it did her to complain. Midville made the basket and Susie stayed in the game. I was watching the game more closely after that last foul. Susie was trying every mean trick in her book to get her guard to foul. She pushed, crowded,... Show moredirty work?" She could have saved her breath for all the good it did her to complain. Midville made the basket and Susie stayed in the game. I was watching the game more closely after that last foul. Susie was trying every mean trick in her book to get her guard to foul. She pushed, crowded, blocked, said horrible things, kneed her, and scratched with that mean hard glint of hatred in her eyes, but No. five Just kept on playing. That girl was getting out of those situations like the old night crawler again—~faster than fast and silently too. No. five pushed too--and used her knees and wrapped her legs around Susie, but I could see no hatred in her eyes. * * * Wheee--‘Ho.“eleven Cushingham charged No. five Midville." Susie came out of the game and sat next to me. "I hate that gir1--she plays so rottenly..." Thu-rumpu thu-rump-thu-rump. Betty Johnson Benteke's Daughter The gravel crunched and scattered as the wheels of Yoane's bike came to an abrupt halt. Yoane drew the bike in front of a palm tree, let it drop against it for support, then ran up the walk to Mama Lubi's house. Just briefly did he glance at the beautiful flowers which bordered the walk and perhaps took note of the difference between the missionary's dwelling and his own humble hut. waiting just long enough to catch his breath, he coughed once. It saunad no one heard him, so mustering up a greatergintake of air he coughed more loudly-- twice. Then there were footsteps and presently the door swung open. Mademoiselle Lubi smiled at Yoane and said, "Mbote, Yoane! Itsis what that I can do for Show less
‘\ That had been Craig up there at the organ then, making that music which could have caused Ingersoll to kneel! But she hadn't known then of ccmrse that it was Graig. He was so tall and charming and his eyes twinkled when he first said hello to her. She had known then that he was her prince like... Show more‘\ That had been Craig up there at the organ then, making that music which could have caused Ingersoll to kneel! But she hadn't known then of ccmrse that it was Graig. He was so tall and charming and his eyes twinkled when he first said hello to her. She had known then that he was her prince like in the fairy tales and how gently and devotedly he would love her always. But that awful night!...no, she wouldn't think about it. She would think about that day and how lovely the church had been all decorated with flowers and candles. Eheryone had cane, and they all said what a beautiful bride she was and how very happy they knew she and Craig would be together. She hadn't known about him then. She hadn't known then that he was sick in his mind, that there was something that de him ant to do dirty unnatural things! Pocr raig! Of course, he wasn't really that way, it was ust a sickness, and he was over that now. Celeste hought how perfect their life together really would be now, holy and pure like the music. God had for- given Craig, she knew, because God was loving and gentle and Craig had just been sick in his mind. ‘ The quiet rainbow was flickering now like an old gas lamp about to go out, receding into the shadows. Craig flicked on the light over the organ and turned to next Sunday's hymns. He knew he really ought to play over them once before they went home although he did not love them nearly as well and they took so less concentration. Celeste liked this one, he mus --that is, if she really hows how to like 1hing. His poor Celeste! His wife. At that thought he grimaced bitterly. He and his newly married wife wggld soon go to their night's rest in their separate b ocms. God! Didn't her doctor have any concern at] all for £2 sanity? \ 5 But he know best, Craig supposed. He clenched his 12 Show less
Amelioration How to make a better world? Here's the wisest plan- When the battle flags are furled Try to better man. All the guns lined 'up in night Do but little good. Caste and creed rimst first unite . Into brotherhood! When the war now going‘ on Runs its bitter course, What will peace depend... Show moreAmelioration How to make a better world? Here's the wisest plan- When the battle flags are furled Try to better man. All the guns lined 'up in night Do but little good. Caste and creed rimst first unite . Into brotherhood! When the war now going‘ on Runs its bitter course, What will peace depend upon- Love of peace or force? Wars may borders rearrange, Alter map and chart. Something deeper thought must change-u- It's the human heart. James J. Nelson 19 Show less
If Burst: Fort/I Sudden/y It bursts forth suddenly Like the rays of the sun from beneath the clouds; It may pass suddenly, too, But the memory of it lingers on. Like the sun, also, it brings with it Warmth and a feeling of joy. As the sun lights up the earth, So it lights up one’s face. It is... Show moreIf Burst: Fort/I Sudden/y It bursts forth suddenly Like the rays of the sun from beneath the clouds; It may pass suddenly, too, But the memory of it lingers on. Like the sun, also, it brings with it Warmth and a feeling of joy. As the sun lights up the earth, So it lights up one’s face. It is reflected, too, in the faces of others, As it is passed on. The more we pass it on The more we receive it— a smile. —-ARLENE OLSON, ’44 After f/Ie Storm Tonight the earth is still. Its snowy robes spread infinitely. Purity and peace reveal The triumph of the Father’s will. The angry storm has hushed. It wears its white cloak silently. Glistening snow cannot conceal The memory of the Life it crushed. —BORGHILD ESTNESS, ’43 DIAL 22 Show less
Revelation of fpring IT WAS MISTING, and a slight wind stirred the soggy, dead leaves that lay beneath the tall oaks. The mist felt like finely filtered rain that makes the skin fresh and tingling and the hair moist and sweet—smelling. I sat for a moment with my eyes closed, contented only to feel... Show moreRevelation of fpring IT WAS MISTING, and a slight wind stirred the soggy, dead leaves that lay beneath the tall oaks. The mist felt like finely filtered rain that makes the skin fresh and tingling and the hair moist and sweet—smelling. I sat for a moment with my eyes closed, contented only to feel and smell. But soon something knocked at curiosity’s door. My eyes opened drowsily in response to the call. A pearl-gray heaven was showering the dull—carpeted earth with liquid sunshine in an annual effort to restore it to its natural bril- liance. And it was succeeding. Small patches of vivid green were valiantly pushing their way through the brown sod. About my resting place, five arrogant oaks were grouped. Their bony arms and tapered fingers reached out eagerly to the wind and the rain. They seemed to long to have winter’s sordid gown cleansed and made fresh for the advent of spring. Their prayer, too, was being answered, for high on the uppermost branches were little bursts of lemon-green. The height of the oaks had made me dizzy. Fol— lowing a natural inclination I again looked at the green patches embroidered on the earth. The pattern appeared awesomely beau— tiful in its simplicity. But as I gazed at it, the design became more intricate. Every few feet or so was a delicate nosegay of wild violets. Some were yellow like daffodils and others were spotless white. A spray of ferns informally interrupted the carefully laid plan. The outside of the carpet was fringed by a lonely group of pussy-willows that grew near the bank of the creek. The whole pantomime of spring’s arrival was unfolded before me. Drowsily I closed my eyes. My curiosity was satisfied. I had drunk deep draughts from the well of Nature and the refreshing elements now surged through my being. I was satisfied to rely on feeling and smell, for I had seen. I had discovered a revelation of spring which still haunts and beckons me. — GLORIA BURNTVED’I‘, ’43 Show less
home. With a sigh you unearth the despised market basket once more and steel yourself for a recurrence of the previous perfor- mance. You stare speculativer at the icy street corner. Then you walk briskly and carelessly over its glassy surface. But you do not fall. Your roommate gets a telephone... Show morehome. With a sigh you unearth the despised market basket once more and steel yourself for a recurrence of the previous perfor- mance. You stare speculativer at the icy street corner. Then you walk briskly and carelessly over its glassy surface. But you do not fall. Your roommate gets a telephone call and you considerately offer to answer it for her. She is not very acquiescent and you end up pushing her on a chair to the extension phone at the far end of the hall. This happens several times, and you think seriously of renting a wheelchair from the hospital. Further cogitation and an inspection of your pecuniary resources discourages this act. That night you dream of wearing high heels and slipping suc— cessfully. Dreams, you discover the next day, are utter prevarica- tors. No height of heel nor fleetness of foot produces a distur- bance of your equilibrium. You proceed to Economics with dark brown thoughts in your mind. You are disgustingly healthy and consistently lucky. But some day, some day, you shall miss a day of school, even if you have to create a synthetic cold or feign a tumble. But the prospect seems very remote. ~D0R0THY LOVAAS, ’45 Sleef Storm Piercing splinters of steel, Chipped by the hammer of fate From the gray metallic dome above, Sting the weathered cheek of a traveler, lone and chill. —RUTH WELTZIN, ’45 5 DIAL Show less
Me .S’fove In Our carage THE srovr IN OUR GARAGE can get red faster, cool down faster, give out more smoke, and smell worse than any stove I have ever seen. It’s morning and it’s cold. I come and intend to make a fire. I turn the handle of the stove door twenty-four times. The door refuses to open... Show moreMe .S’fove In Our carage THE srovr IN OUR GARAGE can get red faster, cool down faster, give out more smoke, and smell worse than any stove I have ever seen. It’s morning and it’s cold. I come and intend to make a fire. I turn the handle of the stove door twenty-four times. The door refuses to open. I grab the handle and pull with all my might. I fly backwards, the entire door in my hand! I stick in some news- papers and some shavings. I light the shavings and the newspa- pers. I throw in a little coal. I shut the door and hope that after awhile I'll have a fire going. “Puff, puff," says the stove. I begin to cough and choke. The entire room becomes black. I open the door and let out all the smoke, at the same time letting in more cold air. I come back to the stove when the smoke has cleared away a little. No heat seems to come from the stove; so I open the door. There is no fire there. After two or three attempts, after more smoke, after more choking and coughing, I finally get a fire started. Before I know it the whole stove glows like a Roman candle. Then I feel someone tickling my back. I turn around. It is only Jack Frost. “Nice cold heat you have here,” he tells me. There are no drafts. I can’t shut the thing off. The heat refuses to circulate, so I keep turning around and around to keep warm. I spend the whole day burning holes in my pants and all night thawing out my frost-bitten back. I don’t get the car repaired. I burn a lot of coal. I get black, but I’ll never learn. I go home vow- ing to get a new stove. Next morning and next and next and next and next I come back and repeat my experience. I guess the old punctured piece of dilapidated tin is very, very, very safe in our garage. —ROBERT NELSON, ’45 DIAL 8 Show less
Mixing Concrete CONCRETE, WATER, GRAVEL. Cement in my eyes, in my ears, in my hair, between my teeth. The cruel hot sun only adding to the aches of my legs, my back, and my arms as I fed shovelful after shovelful into the gnawing cavity of the mixer. Yet dogged deter- mination to satisfy the... Show moreMixing Concrete CONCRETE, WATER, GRAVEL. Cement in my eyes, in my ears, in my hair, between my teeth. The cruel hot sun only adding to the aches of my legs, my back, and my arms as I fed shovelful after shovelful into the gnawing cavity of the mixer. Yet dogged deter- mination to satisfy the ravenous appetite of this mechanical glut- ton drove me on as I frantically, yet almost carefully, measured each ingredient. The process was ever the same, methodical and monotonous. In one swinging motion I filled the bucket with water and sent it swishing into the mixer, priding myself on the accuracy with which I could now judge just the right measure; for this step was also the most important. If too much water was used, I lost precious moments in adding an extra shovelful or two of gravel or cement. Likewise, too little water resulted in a sluggish, pasty mixture, and the motion of my body was broken as I reached for more of the liquid. Scarcely, however, had my left hand dropped the bucket when my right was feverishly supplying the second ingredient. One, two, three, four, five, six—six shovelfuls of gravel were now furiously churning the water into something resembling dough used for chocolate chip cookies. Ah! but now I was ready to add the potent powder that would change my mixture from mud to hard, sturdy concrete. Puff! And all that was left of one heaping shovelful was a cloud of dust which the wind invariably managed to blow in my face. I stumbled blindly, defiantly to- ward my foe, eager to discharge another mixture of cool, pure concrete into the waiting wheelbarrow. Hour after hour, day after day, I repeated this process, becom- ing myself a part of the machine I was feeding. Load upon load of concrete was poured into the straining forms, concrete which was soon to carry stone and steel and plaster on its strong back. Finally, the mason’s trowel signalled that each comer and crevice had been filled. I had won! The job was done! Each tired, aching muscle in my body relaxed carefree and happy as I heard the sputter of the engine coughing out its surrender. — NORMAN NIELSEN, ’44 19 DIAL Show less
DIAL America America! America! Where Freedom came to dwell, And placed the stars and stripes of dawn Upon her citadel, That all the world might here behold A light that does not fail, We now arisc to prove once more That Freedom shall prevail. America! America! Thy sons unfaltering go, Their... Show moreDIAL America America! America! Where Freedom came to dwell, And placed the stars and stripes of dawn Upon her citadel, That all the world might here behold A light that does not fail, We now arisc to prove once more That Freedom shall prevail. America! America! Thy sons unfaltering go, Their freeman’s heritage to keep Secure from every foe. Behold where now on many a front Thy foes begin to reel; Let Freedom’s enemies on earth Thy mighty power feel. America! America! Guard well thy Liberty! Let Truth and Freedom here unite To make thy spirit free! 0 may the Lord of Hosts protect And guide thy men at war, That Freedom’s triumph may resound Above the battle’s roar! — P. A. SVEEGGEN 12 Show less
0/) Writing Meme: O-OH! WHAT SHOULD I WRITE ABOUT? It really is a shame that colleges should make this experience of pouring forth in linguistic loveliness one’s treasured thoughts and memories—one of life’s most beautiful experiences—the servile process of composing themes for an unfeeling... Show more0/) Writing Meme: O-OH! WHAT SHOULD I WRITE ABOUT? It really is a shame that colleges should make this experience of pouring forth in linguistic loveliness one’s treasured thoughts and memories—one of life’s most beautiful experiences—the servile process of composing themes for an unfeeling member of the college faculty, only to have the labored composition disfigured by the instructor, given a coldly calculated grade, and returned to the composer to be more completely mutilated. Then when the mangled masterpiece is sor- rowfully handed in the second time, a calloused file clerk buries it punctiliously among the numerous forgotten masterpieces of the past. It would be better that the essays died a quiet, peaceful death within the writer’s brain. And yet I have to write! My composition course depends upon the themes. My college degree depends upon the course. My vocation depends upon the degree. My sustenance depends upon the vocation. My life and health depend upon the susten- ance. A whole life lies within the hands of one instructor who de- mands of me that I unveil my brain. I wonder what she will do when she discovers it is empty. Hard-hearted, unfeeling, cruel instructor—I shall most likely be short—lived. But then I shall no longer be composing themes! I’ll let her know. But yet I need a topic, for there must be a subject around which to weave the emptiness. So here I am again. Oh, why do I have to write? Why can’t I live in ignorance a little longer? Why must the instructor make such harsh demands? Why —? ——BORGHILD ESTNESS, ’43 25 DIAL Show less
Kat/a KAT JA TRUDGED TO SCHOOL, a slim-faced, brown-eyed, childish figure. She did not lift her head; her eyes watched sternly her own little steps on the village street. Her lips tightened. Thoughts pursued and tormented her. During the night it was, when Cos- sacks came and arrested Father. An... Show moreKat/a KAT JA TRUDGED TO SCHOOL, a slim-faced, brown-eyed, childish figure. She did not lift her head; her eyes watched sternly her own little steps on the village street. Her lips tightened. Thoughts pursued and tormented her. During the night it was, when Cos- sacks came and arrested Father. An order from the Tsar, depor- tation lifelong, to Siberia. Father had gone; Mother was weeping throughouttherestoftheifighn The child trudged to school. On the other side of the street went Ivanovna, her best friend in class. Katja did not dare to run over to her. She would have liked to. But she only stared at her own shoes, which walked automatically step by step to school. “Ivanovna,” the girl’s pleading thoughts said, “please run over to me! Aren’t you my friend? Father never hurt you; he never hurt anybodyf’Ivanovnadoesnotconw,doesnotumnttoseeher.She must know about it. Even her best friend despises her now. Every- body will know about her, the whole class, the teachers, every- body will know. They will point their fingers at her, calling her names, sneering, asking a hundred questions. Katja is afraid of them, afraid of her classmates and former friends. Oh, how she hates them, all of them, especially Ivanovna, whom she loved just yesterday. “She would come early to class now,” her thoughts run on. “Not to talk to anybody, just sneak in before the teacher enters.” So she stopped at the grocery, pretending to look at the goods: cabbage, onions, spinach. The classmates, chattering and laugh- ing, passed behind her back. “Probably they talk about her, and Father’s arrest," the girl thinks. “Father, why had he to go to Siberia? The Tsar wanted it. The Tsar isn’t good, he oppresses people. So Father had said.” Katja wished she would be going with Father to Siberia, in— stead of having to go to school now. But Mother would be alone then; Mother, who had been crying all night, pressing Katja in her arms. Katja came late to class. As she rushed to her seat, Miss Petrov- na, the lean, strict-faced history teacher, demanded, “Katja, why are you late?” The child awkwardly arose and stuttered an ex- cuse. DIAL 16 Show less
Sunset on Elk lake NESTLED IN A VALLEY of oak trees lies a sparkling little body of water known as Elk Lake. Since it is a small, deep, spring-fed lake, the water remains clear and cold from spring until fall. One enjoys seeing it at any time of the year. In the fall the biting wind screams out... Show moreSunset on Elk lake NESTLED IN A VALLEY of oak trees lies a sparkling little body of water known as Elk Lake. Since it is a small, deep, spring-fed lake, the water remains clear and cold from spring until fall. One enjoys seeing it at any time of the year. In the fall the biting wind screams out of low-hanging clouds to whip the water into endless rows of white-capped waves which roll up to smash themselves on the rocky shore, then recede, leaving white foam clinging to the stones. In the spring the melting ice seems to turn the frigid water a deep blue in color. On a quiet evening in the summer, however, the lake is truly beautiful. Then the sun dips down towards the treetops and all nature seems to become quiet for a short while. The birds cease their singing, as if in silent salute to the departing day. The in— sects of the day have flitted off to their homes, while the bugs which dart about in the darker hours have not yet come out of their daytime lethargy. A few rapids playfully chase each other over the placid water. Reaching out over the lake, toward the setting sun, which is now half hidden behind the shadowy hills, lies a shimmering path of gold. Then a tall oak reaches up to hide Apollo’s home; dusk flows softly in, like a misty sheet of gray laid gently on the earth. A cloud hanging over the horizon glows as it reflects the light not yet hidden froni k.'The orange shadOVvsin the \veaern ddes deepen into red, next purple, then finally that too fades, as dark- ness comes. Now the nocturnal life takes over the world of nature. A bar goes dipping through the trees, then a tiny screech owl sets up its questioning Who-o—o? You start when a shriek, like that of a child, goes echoing through the trees; then regain your composure upon realizing that it is but the death-cry of an un- suspecting rabbit as the needle—like teeth of a blood-thirsty weasel shfltintoitsthroat Large clouds of insects fill the air; some of the winged terrors DIAL 6 Show less
Uncle [mil ONE DAY GRANDPA SODERGREN decided that his son Emil should have the experience of working away from home. Emil screamed and kicked and protested, but Grandpa Sodergren was firm. The next morning Little Emil scrubbed a little harder behind his ears. His clothes were put in a suitcase.... Show moreUncle [mil ONE DAY GRANDPA SODERGREN decided that his son Emil should have the experience of working away from home. Emil screamed and kicked and protested, but Grandpa Sodergren was firm. The next morning Little Emil scrubbed a little harder behind his ears. His clothes were put in a suitcase. Grandpa hitched up the horses and shouted, “Come on, Emil. I got a place for you on old man Hawkinson’s farm, and we got to hurry.” “On Hawkinson’s farm? Why, that is three miles away!” “Three miles isn’t far,” soothed Grandma. “No,” chimed in Grandpa. “Hurry up! Get in the wagon. I told Hawkinson that you would be there by milking time.” Emil entered the wagon without saying another word. If his plan worked out, he would never have to work for old man Haw- kinson. The three miles to the Hawkinson farm were uneventful. Little Emil was preoccupied and Grandpa Sodergren didn’t say much. As they turned in at the gate, Hawkinson met them. “Here he is, Hawkinson, and raring to go, eh son?” Grandpa Sodergren turned around. There was no answer. Little Emil had vanished! “Where did that kid go to?” Hawkinson turned around and pointed his finger at the barn. “There he is.” Little Emil was hurrying towards the barn. Grandpa Sodergren’s face lit up. “That’s just like Emil. My Emil gets busy right away. He’s a born worker, Hawkinson.” “We’ll see,” said Hawkinson. The two men talked for about half an hour, and then Grandpa Sodergren started for home. Grandpa Sodergren knew that it was best for Emil to get a little experience away from home, but still he couldn’t help feeling a little sorry. Now there would be no one to greet him when he turned in at the gate. Emil had always done that and now Emil was gone. Grandpa thought and thought and thought. The return trip went much slower, but Grandpa finally turned in at the gate. “Good morning, pop “Good morning, Emil!” Grandpa said this without thinking. Then he stopped. “Where did you come from?” I” I3 DIAL Show less
