14 THE DIAL Csnst thou explain how the snow-the purity of the lily’s cup is born out the ugly blackness of the swamp-land? “A day in thy courts is better than a thou- sand,” says the Scripture. This would seem to indicate that whoever really desired it could live to be older than Methuselah. O... Show more14 THE DIAL Csnst thou explain how the snow-the purity of the lily’s cup is born out the ugly blackness of the swamp-land? “A day in thy courts is better than a thou- sand,” says the Scripture. This would seem to indicate that whoever really desired it could live to be older than Methuselah. O Christ was always most interested in those who were despised and rejected of men: the harlot, the publican, the leper, the man fallen among robbers, the devil-possessed, the thief on the cross. Perhaps He found their honesty more interesting than the Pharisees’ hypocrisy. The entrance gates to their souls had not yet been bolted, even though there was a great deal of impurity within. fi How strangely powerful is the symbolism of the written word! Why should this ar- rangement of black lines I HATE YOU produce so different a response from this I LOVE YOU? I O Many churches hire their “prophets” and pay them as long as they prophesy according to their taste. When this is no longer the case, like Amaziah of old, they say to their Amos, “Flee thou away into the land of Judah (or elsewhere), and there eat bread,—-and prophesy!” In the mind of all Amaziahs both ancient and modern, bread and prophesying are very closely associated. There was another who counselled One greater than the prophets to begin his preaching career by turning stones into bread. ‘ He who does not possess a deep and burning love for his own people has missed one of the richest treasures of earth. Ill Every time the telephone or doorbell rings I have another opportunity to do good. But I do not always remember this, and then, in- stead, I do myself evil by becoming impatient. II It is more important to be right than to be original. * I heard some one say, “God robbed Heaven of its chief glory when He sent Jesus to earth.” Then I thought of the words in John “— —— ~— the Son of Man who is in heaven.” Was not Heaven rejoicing in the glory of His lowliness even while He walked on earth? Is not the humility of hidden service a greater glorythantheflamingthroneofundisturhed power 1 . There came a brother to my door. a“ foralms. Aswespohstogether.halaldflt- terly, “God—i1 there be a God—has never done anything for me!” I wonder. whether. when he left and west on his way. he felt a little kindlin- toward man—and God. . More wonderful than the enduring strength of the Brooklyn Bridge or the mighty sym- metry of the Empire State Building are the changeless mathematical and physical laws that make possible these marvellous works at the hand of man. More wonderful than the gentle beauty 0! a rose or the rugged grandeur of a mountain or the noble self-sacrifice of a loving heart is the God of Beauty and Strength and Love-— the Infinite One whose glory cannot be fully hidden beneath these finite veils. Yet even our joy in these works of His hand may be an expression of our worship 0! Kim whose name alone is truly called Wonderful. O The silvery tears of the weeping willow stir my soul more deeply than the unmeasured strength of the mighty oak. On a fiercely hot mid-afternoon I walked along the shady sidewalk and saw my brother, of darker skin, digging a trench in the street. I knew that he was working for me. And I felt ashamed. For what have I done to de- serve a life of comparative ease, while my brethren taste the bitterness of the ancient curse, “In the sweat of thy brow shalt thou cat thy bread?" In a sermon one morning I referred to Maxim Gorki’s bitter comment when he visited Coney‘Island. At the close of the service a gentleman asked me if I had not considered how different would be the reaction of Christ as He looked upon those restless multitudes. I was grateful for the gentle rebuke. ‘ Some people have excellent principles, but very narrow interests; others have almost boundless interests, but are utterly without principle. The truly noble and attractive soul is he who in himself combines unswerving prin- ciples with widely encompassing interests. . When my eyelids grow very tired, and the White Angel of Death presses them gently down, shall my last earth-vision be that of thy face? ‘ “I m. ‘4)? QMm-fii’g 3a§‘," . a. a . we Show less
71w Rm! Selma! 7% SM Is Jt'sr a rural school teacher walking do\\n a typical coun- try road, and on one arm she is carrying the traditional lunch pail. filled with bread and cheese. On the other arm are piled books including anything from -.1 Primer to Higher Mathematics. She also has a heavy... Show more71w Rm! Selma! 7% SM Is Jt'sr a rural school teacher walking do\\n a typical coun- try road, and on one arm she is carrying the traditional lunch pail. filled with bread and cheese. On the other arm are piled books including anything from -.1 Primer to Higher Mathematics. She also has a heavy feeling in the organ in which food is digested. It must he that fried mush that she had for breakfast—hut she thinks, “Oh, but it's good to be alive!" Everything seems So peaceful and tranquil with nothing but the ticking of the clock. but not for long. for as she opens the drawer to get a match. out jumps :1 mouse. She goes hard into action and soon finds herself on top of the desk. Soon children start coming from all sides. There are exactly twenty good mornings for the teacher. she hears exactly what twenty fathers said and what twenty mothers did. she answers one hundred and fifty-two questions. rudely ignores ten at greatest moments of concentration. reminds her responsible pupils of their morning tasks, helps fix the handle on the duster. helps untangle the flag rope. dries the tears of the little beginner. reprimands the giggling second grade girls. offers sugges- tions for charades, with a sinking feeling reads a note from a fond mother whose only child has been mistreated by the ill- mannered children of other parents. mends the ball, sews a button on Bobby's shirt, plays “Farmer in the Dell," rings the bell. tries to make Richard follow in line. only to learn that he must wait un- til last. he being sadly in need of a needle and thread, for his trousers and the harh wire fence had become too intimate in his attempt to rescue the ‘ ball. Now it is time for class and the rural school teacher begins her work, so the public thinks. What do you think? MARGIE ENEMARK. '40. DIAL 12 Show less
10 THE DIAL Instead of being patient And repenting of his sin He kept fidgeting about And the chain rubbed his skin. Poor old Prometheus Did not know any better, But we should pity him Exported to the weather. And if ever we want to complain, We should be thankful for our luck, Just think of poor... Show more10 THE DIAL Instead of being patient And repenting of his sin He kept fidgeting about And the chain rubbed his skin. Poor old Prometheus Did not know any better, But we should pity him Exported to the weather. And if ever we want to complain, We should be thankful for our luck, Just think of poor Prometheus Chained to a rack. A hush folloxved the recitation. No one wanted to break the awed silence. It is doubt- ful what would have happened if the hostess had not just then appeared in the doorway to announce lunch. The group that emerged from the front door some time later was still discussing Promo- theus. “Wasn't that a wonderful story?” "Yes. i'm so glad the new teacher sug- gested that we discuss it. I wouldn't have missed it for anything." “Isn’t it great the way some people can write poetry--that Hewitt girl and the man who wrote Prometheus Bound and the one that composed the song?" said the lady in blue in an awed tone. “She must inherit it," said the lady in red. “No, I think she learned it by herself," aid the lady in grey. The lady in pink broke in, “Didn't you feel sorry for poor Promethean” “Yes, it’s a sad story,” agreed the librarian. “Tragic, I call it," said Miss Allen. The voice faded away into the distance. '1 [° The Heart of Gitchee Gumee RUTH Bowna “By the shores of Gitchee Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomia. Dark behind it rose the forest, Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, Rose the firs with cones upon them; Bright before it beat the water, Beat the clear and sunny water, Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water.” I NE name always filled me with dreams as I used to read “Hiawatha”——“Gitchee Gumee.” I did not know, at that time, what it meant, only, that it was some vast body of water. But the name made me think of mys- terious, shivery things: of the gloomy forest of pines that grew along its shores, of Nokomis’ Wigwam and the small flickering fire carved against a background of those pines, and be- fore it, stretching away to the horizon, was always “Gitchee Gumee.” Later on in my grade school years, I learned that Gitchee Gumee was one and the same with Lake Superior, a lake in my own native state. After that information came to me, I pored over all the old road maps I could find, trying to determine the best route by which this lake could be reached. When lessons were given in History and Geography with any- thing at all relating to the Great Lakes, that part I studied especially well, almost to the exclusion of everything else. The thought never entered my mind that I would ever see this wonderful lake, but still my dreams were not shattered. Fate or Luck or Chance, or whatever you may want to call it, was evidently feeling well disposed toward me, for she smiled and let me see this “Gitchee Gumee”; not only once, but many times. II My first view of Lake Superior was from a high hill early in the morning. .Through a heavy, gray fog I could see dimly the out.- lines of the near shore. The lake was like a floating cloud beneath me, and far out on a darker patch rose a castle, a ghostly castle, faintly distinguishable through the mist. I have found since then that this castle is only a grain elevator, but I do not care to believe it. Steadily, as an undertone from the fog, I could hear the low boom-boom-boom of the fog-horns. The signals came so evenly that it made me think of the beating of a heart, and always since then, when I hear the fog- horns, I fancy that it is the beating of the heart of “Gitchee Gumee." Show less
And now, e’en though our friend has parted From the work that kept him here, We all can finish what he started, In his way of faith and cheer. For God will surely give His blessing On a cause so fine and true, If, with bumble hearts, confessing, We accept our leader’s cue. To him, whose courage... Show moreAnd now, e’en though our friend has parted From the work that kept him here, We all can finish what he started, In his way of faith and cheer. For God will surely give His blessing On a cause so fine and true, If, with bumble hearts, confessing, We accept our leader’s cue. To him, whose courage was unending, We, united voices raise, In harmony of chorus, rend’ring Forth our hymns of prayer and praise. As roof and rafter still are ringing With the echoes of our song, We pray, “Lord, help us to keep singing: Give us grace to carry on.” MILDRED OUDAL, ’40 flirt} 0m flea!“ He gave his time. No cause was put aside Without his thoughtful care. He was a man Whom all might well approach, and in him find All understanding, sympathy, and love. He was a man of foresight, one who built For coming days when other feet should tread Where he had trod. He saw a light, A vision of a better world with Christ, And this became the goal toward which he strove. To this he gave his all. In every thing God’s will was all to him, and unto this He bowed himself—e’en to the end. VINCENT MOSTROM, ’39. DIAL Show less
“Grandfather! Grandfather!” he shouted excitedly. “There are three eagles soaring tonight!” The grandfather hurried to the door. What was that? An eagle—a young eagle-soaring from the osprey’s nest? He could see it!—soaring—soaring—. Dared he hope? No need to hope. He saw it now—youth soaring—the... Show more“Grandfather! Grandfather!” he shouted excitedly. “There are three eagles soaring tonight!” The grandfather hurried to the door. What was that? An eagle—a young eagle-soaring from the osprey’s nest? He could see it!—soaring—soaring—. Dared he hope? No need to hope. He saw it now—youth soaring—the little lad—ah, the little lad— he would not be bound with the chains that he himself had had to bear—the boy would soar! MILDRED RYAN, ’40. \x. \\ x '1 )1. s. L—x ya“ 4%” :\\ Sometimes I pause, For building is strife, And catch a vision Of finished life. MARGARET CHRISLOCK, ’40. 15 DIAL Show less
DIAL It is the evening drawing nigh. The lonely night bird’s venting Cry. The sobbing of the willow row, That cause these lines my face to show. Not weariness has made it so: Has caused my voice to echo low: But memories of times gone by . . . ’Tis only this that makes me sigh. It is not... Show moreDIAL It is the evening drawing nigh. The lonely night bird’s venting Cry. The sobbing of the willow row, That cause these lines my face to show. Not weariness has made it so: Has caused my voice to echo low: But memories of times gone by . . . ’Tis only this that makes me sigh. It is not weariness, dear guest, That makes my head lean on my breast. It’s memories that come to me Like distant winds from a distant sea, A dream that will not let me be; A memory that makes me see Across the years that lie behind . . . No longer cruel . . . yet still unkind. There was a time when I like you Was young and strong as growing yew. My hair was black . . . not white as now; No wrinkles reached across my brow; My hand was strong . . . it did not shake; No danger ever made me quake . . . Yet look at me . . . behold a man Who rode on time’s fleet caravan. This memory! . . . Would I were there. A schoolhouse standing by the square. Its lofty portals, filled with pride, Have memories that have not died. A hallway dim . . . yet filled with light, For through it passed great men of might; Perhaps not all know worldly fame . . . But what of that . . . they God proclaim. I need but bend my inner ear, And thundering voices I can hear Leap the years like Gabriel’s call; l2 Show less
Again the words rang forth. The last mighty cadences were lost in new songs that sprang up in praise to the almighty God, creator of these wonders. Melody after melody, rich in the harmonies of overwhelming joy, filled the bus and broke the stillness as we stopped beside a tumbling mountain stream... Show moreAgain the words rang forth. The last mighty cadences were lost in new songs that sprang up in praise to the almighty God, creator of these wonders. Melody after melody, rich in the harmonies of overwhelming joy, filled the bus and broke the stillness as we stopped beside a tumbling mountain stream. Once we were outside, only sighs of awe and the rushing brook pene— trated the clear, pure air. The tall pines, mingled with other trees, shielded the thick undergrthh of ferns that crept close to the brook and dipped their green foliage in the crystal waters. Across the valley, other streams flashed joyously in the setting sun. With deepest reverence we gazed upon all that was about us and felt that we were in God’s sanctuary. IRENE NESETH, ’38. fifii’k peace As sunshine fades the darkness God removes my fear; Sunbeams are the Angel wings That flutter warm and near. MARGARET CHRISLOCK, ’40. 15! 79s it The clock is our speedometer. By looking at it we go either faster or slower. — MARCH: ENEMARK, ’40. skirt? Give me a friend and you’ve given me a bit of heaven.—SARA DIXEN, ’39. 19 DIAL Show less
la n W 55'» vs A "W: Saadaaaq Into the sanctuary. alone. I entered, seeking my sin to atone; Quietness reigned; no other was there Save Jesus. who cmne as I knelt in prayer. MILDRED OUDAL, '40. i? if: 13' The appreciation of a friendship increases its value. —l\lAR(ll|-i ENEMARK, '40. i‘: 11‘: 11... Show morela n W 55'» vs A "W: Saadaaaq Into the sanctuary. alone. I entered, seeking my sin to atone; Quietness reigned; no other was there Save Jesus. who cmne as I knelt in prayer. MILDRED OUDAL, '40. i? if: 13' The appreciation of a friendship increases its value. —l\lAR(ll|-i ENEMARK, '40. i‘: 11‘: 11‘: Be careful of what you wish, for is not a wish the same as a deed already done? ~SARA DIXEN. '39. We plan to do that in the future which we feel incapable of doing now. — MARGIF. ENEMARK, '40. DIAL i6 Show less
p M.” The tide comes. It tumbles in, Across the sands. It leaves a hint of life, A little line along the share, And then goes out, To come again, Eternally. Even so, your life, So simply, like the tide, Tumbles in, Across the sands. It leaves a hint of life, A little line along the shore, And... Show morep M.” The tide comes. It tumbles in, Across the sands. It leaves a hint of life, A little line along the share, And then goes out, To come again, Eternally. Even so, your life, So simply, like the tide, Tumbles in, Across the sands. It leaves a hint of life, A little line along the shore, And then goes out, To come again, Eternally. UNA LEE, ’38. skirtfir Anyone can smile when the sun shines. How about when it rains? —SARA DiXEN, ’39. skirt? When judging a man, remember that the scum as well as the cream comes to the top. —SARA DIXEN, ’39. irirsk If you were someone else, how would you like to be a friend of the person you are now? — MARGIE ENEMARK, ’40. DIAL z5 Show less
Look to the East MARIT filled her apron with grain. She must hurry if the chickens were to be fed before the sun went down. Loudly she called the White flock, her flock, as she scat- tered the kernels over the stubbly grass. As she walked along, the chickens crowding around her, Marit looked far to... Show moreLook to the East MARIT filled her apron with grain. She must hurry if the chickens were to be fed before the sun went down. Loudly she called the White flock, her flock, as she scat- tered the kernels over the stubbly grass. As she walked along, the chickens crowding around her, Marit looked far to the East with a strange look of mingled love and sorrow. There, in the grain appearing over-ripe in the evening light, she saw her younger brother working to set the sheaves into shocks. They seemed to huddle to- gether, and to whisper as they were put into place by Rudy’s hands. Soon he would be home, Marit thought, to share with her the evening meal of browned potatoes, milk, and coarse bread. She thought again of her chickens. How carefully she tended them. More than once last spring she had dared to face the soured brood hen to rescue a downy ball from the wet grass. More than once she had put her huge straw hat on her head and gone out to bring fresh water to them as they lay in the shade of the gooseberry bushes to escape from the heat of noonday. And now, except for the few that she had mournfully laid to rest, she had them all with her, With visions .I._ for the future that would " a ‘ her labors. For Marit,” like any girl of eighteen, ' saw great plans before ‘= J her, plans that were made more dawn-like by the light of her own youthful efforts. Show less
have Jean, Don, and Ruby over that afternoon—yes. quite happy, even though she did give her usual “last minute" instructions. This time they were about the current and gooseberry bushes in grandmother's back yard. Auntie had sprayed them for bugs three or four days before, so it would be safest... Show morehave Jean, Don, and Ruby over that afternoon—yes. quite happy, even though she did give her usual “last minute" instructions. This time they were about the current and gooseberry bushes in grandmother's back yard. Auntie had sprayed them for bugs three or four days before, so it would be safest to leave them alone. she said. Yes, of course, Lynn would tell his friends about it. Auntie was satisfied. The play began in the front yard so Lynn decided to postpone telling about the bushes until they came to the back yard; it would be rather odd to mention such things when no one would think of eating berries anyway. When the play did go to the backyard, Lynn decided to wait until mention would be made of the bushes—his friends would probably never think of them at all. Now they were having contests in tumbling. Don suggested that the winners should take gooseberries and currents for prizes; the others approved. Lynn said nothing—there had been a little rain, in fact, quite a lot. he thought, so there could be no danger. Auntie was just funny anyway. Lynn romped boistrously; he ate currents and goose- berries “like everything”—he didn't want to stop to think. When he did think, only one command rang through his mind, “In the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die." This warning had impressed him strongly when Auntie had read it from his Bible Story book. Now it returned to him with crushing force. He longed to run and hide. At last his friends were going, but of course they must say goodbye to Auntie. Jean was always so great on the “thank you’s"—her mother was that way too—if only she would forget the currents and gooseberries. But no, there it came: she had enjoyed them so much. The friends went home. Lynn might go and lie down on the couch, Auntie said. If only she wouldn't look so hurt, Lynn thought. 4 [Dial] Show less
The Organ With heavy throbs and swelling tones, Like tumbling down of heartless stones, Thunder Rolls from the depths of the organ In a/wful harmony, Echoing the terror of God. With breathing beats and silver light, Like silent rain that falls at night, Weeping Sobs from the heart of the organ In... Show moreThe Organ With heavy throbs and swelling tones, Like tumbling down of heartless stones, Thunder Rolls from the depths of the organ In a/wful harmony, Echoing the terror of God. With breathing beats and silver light, Like silent rain that falls at night, Weeping Sobs from the heart of the organ In sacred symphony, Revealing the sorrow of God. Like angel voices lifted high, Unfolding chorales from the sky, Singing Pours from the soul of the organ In joyful melody, Proclaiming the mercy of God. MARGARET CHRISLOCK, ’40. [Dial] 29 Show less
People hat ravel “Mc—CLUSKEE”—, sang out the conductor. With a shriek of brakes, and a bone-rattling jolt, the little local train stopped. The only passenger to board was a young lady. She came in slowly, greeted several of the passengers, and let her bags fall heavily to the floor. As she came... Show morePeople hat ravel “Mc—CLUSKEE”—, sang out the conductor. With a shriek of brakes, and a bone-rattling jolt, the little local train stopped. The only passenger to board was a young lady. She came in slowly, greeted several of the passengers, and let her bags fall heavily to the floor. As she came into the end of the car, a young man greeted her. They evidently had traveled home on the same train. “Hello. Where’s your companion?” he asked. “She’s still at home. Lucky kid. Doesn’t have to go back to work yet. Ho—hum. Wonder when this gallop- ing goose will start moving. Mind if I sit down here?” “Not at all.” “Let’s see, you’re from Minneapolis, aren’t you?” “No, I’m from Decorah, Iowa.” “Isn’t there a college there—what’s the name of it again?” “Luther College.” “Do you go to school there?” “No.” Awkward silence. The lady yawned. “I wouldn’t be traveling on New Year’s Day if I didn’t have to. This is too early in the morning when you’ve been to a dance. They had one here last night. Hall was jammed full. I didn’t know half the kids. Some got tight. Oh, they were a scream. I didn’t though. All I had was a little port. Makes yuh feel good. I got to bed early, just the same. Two o’clock.” » “Where do you work?” “I teach thirty miles south of Mankato. Home Ec. Say, probably we take the same bus. You go near Fair- mont on the way to Decorah, don’t you ?" > “Yes. The 10:15.” “Sure, that’s the same one. Be nice to have some company that far. Traveling can sure be tiresome other- [Dial] 7 Show less
Alone Hi: Is A Foawan Flam as he trudges on his way. Through mud and wet, through deadening heat. over caked earth, and sharp, hot stones that torture his poorly shod feet, he travels on. We know not where he comes from or where he goes, how far or how near; we only see him as he passes by and... Show moreAlone Hi: Is A Foawan Flam as he trudges on his way. Through mud and wet, through deadening heat. over caked earth, and sharp, hot stones that torture his poorly shod feet, he travels on. We know not where he comes from or where he goes, how far or how near; we only see him as he passes by and hear him cry his wares, sometimes loud and determined, sometimes soft and half- choked. Up and down the streets he goes, wide and dingy alike. After some kind soul has stopped him to buy his trinkets. he stumbles on, blinded by tears of deepest appreciation. Often snarling dogs dash out of dark alleys and snap at him, almost knocking the feeble man over. In the poorer districts, the children jeer and sneer at him and even harm his goods. At other times, a big "bully" will snatch what he has to sell, but the peddler is too weak to defend himself and too heartsick to care. He tries the better avenues, but the people meet him with disgusted glances as though he were a disgrace to the district. He tries the business section. People are hurrying by, anxious to reach some destination, many of them to buy the very kind of thing he has to sell, but no one notices. Others go into nearby places to eat. but he must go hungry. Some are hastening home to com— fort and a cheerful family; he has no place to go—not even a place to sleep. He waits patiently until the streets become dark and empty and then he starts for the edge of town where per- haps he may find a hay stack Show less
as relentless and steady as time itself. That is why I like to see a clock waste fifteen minutes or so when it stops or loses time. But I appreciate a clock even more when it steals a minute every hour. There are other things about which a clock reminds me. Each tick means some thinker or worker... Show moreas relentless and steady as time itself. That is why I like to see a clock waste fifteen minutes or so when it stops or loses time. But I appreciate a clock even more when it steals a minute every hour. There are other things about which a clock reminds me. Each tick means some thinker or worker who used his time well—not hastily, but steadily, and in doing so has accomplished worthwhile things. Each second means an Edison, a Lincoln, a Tennyson. No, not all time has been wasted; a few have used it to advantage. Clocks made me think, too, of happy hours that I have spent. Perhaps the same clocks that have witnessed these moments of joy were among those time-pieces which have ticked the endless moments of anxious wait- ing to hearts despairing for the life of a loved one. Many souls have passed on to the dirge of a ticking clock. To some it seemed a soft, receding benediction; to other souls it must have seemed a bitter curse and a stern re- minder of a life-time misspent. As I sit here and write, I listen to a clock ticking be- side me. On a distant tower, a clock is striking. Does this mean an hour wasted or an hour earned? Do not think that I am moralizing! I have not time for that. I just want to catch my breath a bit. If only clocks could stop more often. But no, there it is—tick—tock, tick-tock. That means time to use, time to use. JOEL LUNDEEN, ’40. [Dial] 31 Show less
