6pilogue The orchestra has begun playing its overture. Instruments of many different tonal qualities and pitches have sounded the initial note. Some are perhaps too loud, others lack animation, and a few may be flat or sharp; but on the Whole, every one lha responded Willineg with an en- deavor... Show more6pilogue The orchestra has begun playing its overture. Instruments of many different tonal qualities and pitches have sounded the initial note. Some are perhaps too loud, others lack animation, and a few may be flat or sharp; but on the Whole, every one lha responded Willineg with an en- deavor toward excellence. Each section is striv- ing to create an effect of harmony, and to in- spire its auditors. So have our group of writers begun; but they must also praceed—ever co-operating, ever alert, and ever vibrant with the creative spirit. They must constantly pursue the vision of a more perfect expression—now adding grace to the softer, more subtle emotion, then soaring to inspired heights of power; but ever reaching out toward a more adequate realization of the beautiful and true. Abner Batalden 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
Poet? Prayer 0 God, I cannot write! There are no words that can express the soul of me. You gave me too much feeling to recite The things I’ve known of joy and tragedy. But there are depths concealed Within the quiet souls of countless wordless men. God, let my feeling rather be revealed Through... Show morePoet? Prayer 0 God, I cannot write! There are no words that can express the soul of me. You gave me too much feeling to recite The things I’ve known of joy and tragedy. But there are depths concealed Within the quiet souls of countless wordless men. God, let my feeling rather be revealed Through open eyes than gifted tongue or pen. —BORGHILD ESTNESS, ’43 Snow At Mtg/If I watch each tiny snowflake As to earth it wends its way, Each one silently falling From the distant Milky Way. Again as I look through the window At each symmetrical flake; They fill me with constant wonder, At what our God can make. —THELMA ERICKSON, ’46 29 DIAL Show less
the same resolution,—“Next year no drastic changes; only the cleaning that is absolutely necessary". Again spring comes and again my mother begins to think of and to talk about house cleaning. So, for another year, we go through the same ordeal of spring house cleaning. -— MAY KROHN, ’43 Would 7... Show morethe same resolution,—“Next year no drastic changes; only the cleaning that is absolutely necessary". Again spring comes and again my mother begins to think of and to talk about house cleaning. So, for another year, we go through the same ordeal of spring house cleaning. -— MAY KROHN, ’43 Would 7/14! I Were The Carefree, boisterous little lad, Undaunted by the frets and cares Of a tumultuous world; Would that I were thee. Faithful, trusting little lad, Unspotted by the temptations Of a frivolous world; Would that I were thee. Laughing, joyous little lad, Unafl’ected by the sadness Of a cruel, hateful world; Would that I were thee. —GERALD THORSON, ’43 DIAL 24 Show less
Your Roommate and You YOUR ROOMMATE gets a cold and goes to bed. She walked in the spring slush without overshoes. You watch with envy as she gurgles down delicious grapefruit juice which you brought from the corner grocery. That afternoon you walk in the spring slush without overshoes. But you... Show moreYour Roommate and You YOUR ROOMMATE gets a cold and goes to bed. She walked in the spring slush without overshoes. You watch with envy as she gurgles down delicious grapefruit juice which you brought from the corner grocery. That afternoon you walk in the spring slush without overshoes. But you don’t get a cold. You just ruin a pair of stockings and get your shoes soggy wet. When they have dried, you discover they have curled up at the toes and give you a sort of elfin look. This is perfectly ridiculous because you are anything but elfinlike. You are long and skinny and wear spec— tacles. After dinner you have to bring your roommate some lunch. This is carried in an embarrassing little market basket just small enough not to get the dessert in. You wait as long as you can and then walk furtively through the dining hall. Of course, someone notices the basket and makes an appropriately witty remark. Feeling anything but witty yourself, you make a feeble attempt at humor and stride past magnificently. Suddenly you realize that the milk is spilling. There is a little wavery path of white splotches on the floor. You hesitate a moment, then pride wins out and you sweep thankfully through the door into the cool evening. You walk nonchalantly, as though you always carried a mar- ket basket on your arm. You try to look delightfully mysterious when you pass the house where lives the little boy who likes to throw limp snowballs at you. A group of college students ap— proaches and you hastily cross the street and become instantly and completely absorbed in watching the rather inane process of the garageman sweeping the driveway. It is not a very fascinating sight, but you hope that the students have not noticed you. You reach the dorm without further encounters and proceed upstairs. You look to see how many milk spots there are on your skirt. There are four. Your roommate lies placidly in bed. You learn, after careful and cautious questioning, that she also went between the school buildings without a coat. Next day you go between the buildings without a coat. All you catch is a scolding from the nurse. But you are not daunted. You shall get a cold and go to bed. Your roommate slips on the ice and sprains her ankle. You help her up, envisioning for her a few more lovely, quiet days at DIAL 4 Show less
Campus Ec/Ioes I AM THINKING TONIGHT of you who have seen spring come to the Augsburg campus; you who have seen the bits of grass on the green, and the black spots worn by the tread of hurried feet. You who have heard the first robin, and have seen buds on the trees that have been dreaming of them... Show moreCampus Ec/Ioes I AM THINKING TONIGHT of you who have seen spring come to the Augsburg campus; you who have seen the bits of grass on the green, and the black spots worn by the tread of hurried feet. You who have heard the first robin, and have seen buds on the trees that have been dreaming of them for so long; you who have heard the echo of laughter of youthful voices. Above all, I am thinking to- Ifight of you VVhO have seen and heard these dungg and yen within your heart have felt a tinge of sadness as I do now. For I shall not see spring come to the Augsburg campus next year. I am going to say goodbye to four years of my life that have brought realities that neither life nor death can ever take away. You, who have thought as I do now, do not wonder that I see again the familiar buildings with a new vision—a forward look and a backward look. There’s Old Main, for instance. By no flight of imagination can Old Main appear beautiful to me. Yet I cannot forget that the steps, unsteady as they are, bear the marks of the tread of loyal Augsburg men. Old Main does not have to be a beautiful build- ing. Ever since someone told me about the lonely immigrant boy who sat in his room in Old Main keeping Christmas Eve so far from home with a bit of candy, a candle burning, and a Book be- fore him, Old Main has been more than beautiful. It has been sacred. That boy was my father. To me, Memorial Hall is a symbol of faith and life. It is a sym— bol of the faith of those who gave so freely in order that Augs— burg might live and grow. And the laughter that echoes in Alpha and Beta and Gamma and Delta Houses is a symbol of the lives of you who are under the colors fighting for what we treasure atlkugsburg. I’m leaving Augsburg. Yet I know within myself that I am not really leaving. Part of me shall remain. Augsburg is a campus of echoes. And just as the echoes of fifty years have remained, so shall my echoes and yours remain. If you have ever sung “My God How Wonderful Thou Art”, if you have ever bowed your head and your heart in the most triumphant prayer in all Christen— dom — “For Thine is the Kingdom, and the power, and the glory 31 DIAL Show less
hum on past you, while others of the little savages sing their way up to you, then begin the attack. After slapping uselessly at a few of the myriad throng, you decide that you are outnumbered, and so, with a sigh, you turn your back on the little lake, and regretfully plod back from its shores. ... Show morehum on past you, while others of the little savages sing their way up to you, then begin the attack. After slapping uselessly at a few of the myriad throng, you decide that you are outnumbered, and so, with a sigh, you turn your back on the little lake, and regretfully plod back from its shores. —JACK HALEY, ’45 Nq'g/If Patrol Good night, my Love, My Dearest, sleep. Far off, beyond the farthest star, you lie. But I am here, suspended — Above the darkling sea’s moon-silvered waves. A part of infinite eternity. The velvet sky droops low caressingly, Scintillating, clear, the myriad stars gleam overhead; The moon hangs low, A narrow golden crescent fading into nothingness, A cradle for my love. Sleep sweetly now, my Own, And dream of me. My drowsy plane croons you a lullaby. Sleep — Sleep — The pale light glimmering in the East, Each dawn’s promise of the day, Is my token, Dear, That this night, too, shall end, That peace, and light, and love, shall have their day, And I, again, have you. —-CLODAUGH NEIDERHEISER, ’44 Show less
jingling of the harness, that we forgot all about how horribly inconvenient it was. Ah . . . the wrist watch is convenient like everything else that is modern and up to date. Even the pastor is beginning to dis- cover how simple life is when one wears a wrist watch —all the fumbling under the... Show morejingling of the harness, that we forgot all about how horribly inconvenient it was. Ah . . . the wrist watch is convenient like everything else that is modern and up to date. Even the pastor is beginning to dis- cover how simple life is when one wears a wrist watch —all the fumbling under the robe to bring out the pocket watch when he steps into the pulpit is eliminated now. We catch a gleam of the shiny elastic band (not even a strap buckle to fasten) as he em- phasizes a statement in his sermon. I am glad my own pastor still places his watch on the pulpit ledge; maybe I still am a little fascinated, as I used to be, by wondering what his reaction would be should his gesturing arm sweep it to the floor. And even the college professors, who are supposed tradition- ally to be uninfluenced by the unscholarly pursuit of recognizing that the world is in a hurry, are bowing to the wrist watch. In the old days there was a pleasure for the student in watch- ing his professor carefully place his watch on the table. It was significant to him that his professor realized that a lecture also was governed by the eternal laws of time, which being true, the rofessor was not ashamed to glance occasionally during the hour at his watch gleaming among his books on the table. And who could say that the professor’s placing the watch on the table was not also a symbol of security to the student, because, while the student naturally wanted to garner much of the wis— dom of the ages, it would have been a fearful thing to think that the professor, steeped in the lore and the love of wisdom, might forget himself some day and go steadily on imparting knowledge. Certainly the watch right before the professor’s eyes was a sym- bol of security to the student. Not that the student has to worry much about that phase of it any longer; because, except in two or three classrooms where the professors (and these few still wear the dignified badge of the pocket watch) are masters of the old school and still reverently impart knowledge for the love of knowledge, the professor, who like the student, has for an hour been giving surreptitious glances at a mechanical gadget strapped on his left wrist, at the first ring- ing of the bell, gathers together his books and joyfully departs. —EVA NELSON, ’43 II DIAL Show less
