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Title: The Dial June 1930, Page 07
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: To Man’s Estate GEORGE TANGVALD, ’29 HE boy “whose soul within him ne’er has thrilled” upon thought of his ﬁrst long pants has surely been conﬁrmed in vain. How well I remember the ambition and long- ing that ate at my Vitals as the crisis drew near that would usher me into full manhood, with its...
Show moreTo Man’s Estate GEORGE TANGVALD, ’29 HE boy “whose soul within him ne’er has thrilled” upon thought of his ﬁrst long pants has surely been conﬁrmed in vain. How well I remember the ambition and long- ing that ate at my Vitals as the crisis drew near that would usher me into full manhood, with its inalienable privileges such as smok- ing, wearing one's hat askew, and drinking coffee. At last my long pants arrived. Excitedly I opened the box and extracted its treasure. Shortly afterward I had put off childish things and insinuated myself into the trap- pings of manhood. Presently, the image of a young man could be seen in the mirror, precariously balancing on a hastily erected scaffold of grOcery boxes in order to discern the sartorial effect of breeches. My haste plus Newton’s law soon unroosted me; but I had seen and was happy. Soon, however, I was to receive the shock of my life. The dark woe that sprang up like an enveloping shade, shadowed the bright sun of happiness which was just on the eastern horizon. I was unproportion- ately developed below my ankles—a point I had missed in my hasty scrutiny before the mirror. Those big army shoes with loops on the back did not ameliorate the situation. But I swallowed my pride (which, by the way, is an excellent thing for people with big feet to do) and set out for school, whist- ling—which is another good thing for people with big feet to do. Truth is stranger than ﬁction. I felt stranger than both. As I walked over the hill, a jack-rabbit jumped up and “ran dis- mayed away.” And small wonder, for that day he saw the most ill-planned piece of architecture that ever ambled over a hill. First he probably saw a coat with a tight- belted center, such as you may see even yet on a few of the young men who were mar- ried at that time. But the triumph of the situation were those pants, so brief that they were always at half mast, and so tight that they gave the effect of a pair of parentheses ambling down the road. This the rabbit saw, and much more. Upon entering the village I straightened my necktie and made other general arrange- ments of the new ward-robe to give the best effect. A girl had smiled at me the week be- fore and I had walked with the gods ever since. She had smiled so gently that my heart had tumbled into the dust before her. I had even written poetry about her, in a1- gebra class, which was detestable anyway, and poetic genius coupled with an heart o’er- brimming with love cares not that a+b= . This morning, as always, the queen slam- med the back screen door and my heart turned a somersault. I wished I were that screen door because her sacred little hand had touched it. I stopped by the back gate and acted as if nothing great had happened. How slowly she came towards me. Would she never break that magic spell of silence? Needless to say she was as much shocked as I expected. I felt almost a little superior. But she?—she laughed! Oh, if only she could have known the bitterness and pain that came into my heart then. Oh those hard- hearted cruel women. Never again swore I to myself should another woman darken my life! I resolved that I was going to punish her by becoming a woman-hater and living a celebate life. Then she would come to me and beg me to take her back and I would ﬂing her aside and taunt her and scorn her. I walked beside her, saying not a word. I could sense that she was already sorry, but I would not yield. I walked to my desk in the mathematics room, took out my algebra book and to my disgust found several pages of love poems neatly folded within. With one wrench of my ﬁsts I had torn to hits my contribution to American love poetry. - That forenoon Prof. Foster was surprised to ﬁnd that I had worked out all my problems and neatly folded the paper and laid it on his desk. He smiled and wondered.
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Title: The Dial June 1930, Page 21
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: THE DIAL 19 United States, comes the American concep- tion of “cute”. A person who was originally shrewd to his own advantage may now be anything but that and still be “cute.” “Cute” is really a very convenient word. Asked by someone what your opinion of someone else is, you can always say that...
Show moreTHE DIAL 19 United States, comes the American concep- tion of “cute”. A person who was originally shrewd to his own advantage may now be anything but that and still be “cute.” “Cute” is really a very convenient word. Asked by someone what your opinion of someone else is, you can always say that she is cute. The same is true of clothes, of a boyish bob, or of an eﬁeminate young man. No one thinks of you as weak-minded or two- faced if the word “cute” is in your vocab- ulary. I can almost imagine a modern Eng- lish student informing an instructor by way of an examination paper that Milton’s Para- dise Lost is a cute poem. It is, naturally, not to be expected that anything so cold, expressionless, and remote as the English language should be spoken in a country founded upon freedom of con- science. please in the manner in which we please to say it—and under a perfectly good tense by such a contraction as “aint”. We speak of one thing as “awfully” pretty and of an- other as “pretty awful.” Dams and dams, having nothing whatever to do with engin- We are at liberty to say What we. eering projects, or with mending stockings, are evidences of education. Imagine telling an Englishman about “raising kids” instead of rearing children! They probably will be cute kids. “Cute” is a lazy man’s word which covers a multitude of sins. It speaks of mental stagnation, of a love for the path of least re- sistance, of cowardice which fears to say what it thinks. If you think a man is ugly, say that he is cute; if you think a hat is un- becoming, say that it is cute; if you are jeal- ous of another girl, say that she is cute. No one will know exactly what you mean and you will consequently be regarded as a per- son of acute judgment. There are words which we love to use as individuals. I think that every essay of mine contains, at least once, the phrase “of course.” I do not know just what it means, but it seems to be a stronger expression than “naturally” and to contain all the pre—re- quisites for the sarcastic remark which usu- ally follows. They say that sarcasm is a sign of weakness. It is wise to use words that match one’s character. So, if you are cute . . . @ Forgetting GRACE JENSEN, ’33 @HE’N I forget the sun is shining, That birds are singing, flowers bloom, The bees on rosy tables dining That laughter drives away the gloom,— Forgioe it, Lord, and send the showers, The clouds, the thunder, and the rain, For, if I will not learn by gentle measures, In love, Thou, too, must send me pain.
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Title: The Dial June 1930, Page 10
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: On Myself IVER OLSON, ’33 I am a Norwegian by descent, an American by birth, and a Canadian at heart. My parents both immigrated to this country from Norway, and by a strange coincidence, which I look upon to be a strange irony of fate, they met each other on a train between two small towns of...
Show moreOn Myself IVER OLSON, ’33 I am a Norwegian by descent, an American by birth, and a Canadian at heart. My parents both immigrated to this country from Norway, and by a strange coincidence, which I look upon to be a strange irony of fate, they met each other on a train between two small towns of North Dakota. Shortly afterward they were married and the tang- ible result of this union was a sprawling and bawling baby boy upon Whom a mother has lavished unmerited love for twenty-four years. My parents were young and yearning for adventure; so they decided to move to Can- ada, and before I had reached my ﬁrst an- niversary, I was living in a small sod-house on the prairies of the Canadian wilderness. This house had much in common with the one in which Abraham Lincoln spent the early years of his life. It was small with a low, improvised roof and had three windows and one door, which were only openings in the wall with nothing to shut out wind or rain. Three days after we moved in, a typi- cal Canadian snowstorm began raging. I have later been told that my father then took the quilts off the bed and nailed them over the door and windows to keep the snow out, while I was allowed to toddle around on the floor to keep warm. In later years I have appreciated a child’s wonderful and enviable power of forgetfulness. I was a very melancholy baby and cried at nearly all times, thereby annoying the grown-ups very much. Several men were living with us that winter and in a typical Viking demeanor they conferred together upon the advisability of carrying me out and burying me in a snowbank while I was asleep, because an effeminate boy like me would never amount to anything. When I became a little older, my melancholia was blended with thoughtfulness. I would think at all times, but usually look at the dark side of things. From this time on my parents scarcely knew of my existence except at mealtime. My melancholia proved to be a veritable “thorn in my ﬂesh” until I was thirteen years old. Nobody understood me and nobody would sympathize with me. At school and at home the other children wanted to shun me, chieﬂy because I was mean, they said but I couldn’t help it. My psychic make- up was such that the only times I enjoyed myself were when I could hide my sisters’ doll or break the dog-kennel that my brothers were making. Sometimes I would try to ef- fect a compromise by offering to join the other children when they “played house ;” but when they told me I could be their dog, I usually left them, being sure to damage their “house” ﬁrst. In my teens I found that my melancholia was dwindling away and contemplation took its place. I had not attended grade-school more than ﬁve winters before I refused to go any more. I hated to have company and chose rather to be alone. Father and mother tried to coax me to go to school as I might learn something, they said. I doubted this and besides I did not like to be among other people very much. I sought secrecy and privacy whenever I could. At the same time I enjoyed to read. My favorite pastime in the summer was to rise at dawn on Sunday mornings, take my book and go into the hay- loft to read and contemplate. Almost in- variably I read from a catechism written in the Danish language by a German Pietist, Philip Spener. This catechism contains one thousand two hundred and eighty-three ques- tions and answers, and was a source of un- ending delight to me. Needless to say, I had no intimate friends among the young people of my age, but still no one was angry at me because I no longer did any harm or mis- chief as I had done when a child. At the age of twenty I suddenly “woke
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Title: The Dial June 1930, Page 18
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: 16 THE whether I have any relatives in Cleveland, or any other town, for that matter. I can always reply that I have a cousin or some- thing like that there. In other words, I have more relatives than I could ever afford to give Christmas presents to. I was just thinking one day, that if I ever...
Show more16 THE whether I have any relatives in Cleveland, or any other town, for that matter. I can always reply that I have a cousin or some- thing like that there. In other words, I have more relatives than I could ever afford to give Christmas presents to. I was just thinking one day, that if I ever decided to become a traveler I could get free board at nearly every city I visited. I could go from here to New York and stop on the way to see rela- tives; go down to Florida, along the coast to California; to Washington and back to Min- neapolis, and get free board about every ﬁve hundred miles. The relatives on this route are but a part of the many relatives I have. The only continent upon which I have no known relatives is Australia. Strange to say, all these relatives are on my mother’s side. My father’s parents either were orphans or had no brothers and sisters because I have no known relatives on DIAL his side. He was the only child and he never told of any relatives. Young as I am, I have a baker’s dozen 01' children to whom I am uncle. Though none of them call me “Uncle”, I am proud of them anyway. I can still handle the oldest nephew, but he is anxiously awaiting the day when he gets big enough to “beat up on me.” In- cidentally he is but eleven years old, but stands ﬁve and half feet off the ground, so I don’t doubt that he will be able to realize his ambition some day. I have hopes of his be- ing an all-American football player, but that remains to be seen. Instead of counting sheep when I try to go to sleep, I merely begin counting relatives. So far, I have never reached the last one be fore sleep came. It is my life ambition that some day I will develop insomnia so that I can count them all, but I doubt if one night is time enough. a A Diary In Slang EMMET CORE, ’33 I am an awkward, happy-go—lucky, good- for-nothing, whose only pastime is riding a motorcycle. Except for this latter fact I would be practically unknown. Half a dozen times about the campus I have heard, “Who is the big egg with the boots?” The answer is always the same, “He’s the guy with the motorcycle.” Everything is expressed in those six words. Nothing ever worries me, and I laugh in one week and out the next. No one gets a bigger “kick” out of life than I. Last year I was bitten by the “College Bug,” so I quit my job in the East and dashed madly half-way across the continent with the sole idea of attending college. The follow- ing are the high-lights in the past year. I arrived at Augsburg eight months ago with vast stores of energy, a bank roll, and the crease sewed in my trousers. The energy has completely disappeared. The bank-roll is due for a period of recuperation. It could look no worse even if it had been overtaken by the Twentieth Century Limited. The trousers, though thin, still have the crease intact. I cared very little for football and far less for basketball, so I spent my spare mo- ments exploring the city and the surround- ing country.- Winter came and the time was then used reading books. Christmas arrived and I went home to salvage some shirts thrown away during a ﬂush period last summer. Some real meals gave me a rest from some of the atrocities of bachelordom. Back to school again in January and everyone was counting the days till Easter -44 -..-1
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Title: The Dial June 1930, Page 14
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: ...........a - a“... mwm 12 THE spective work and I was left alone at home with Aunt Ella and Mr. Musty, who was very poor company. Every day was the ex- act counterpart of every other day except DIAL Sunday. How monotonous, I thought; yet when I stood on the steps of the train and waved goodbye,...
Show more...........a - a“... mwm 12 THE spective work and I was left alone at home with Aunt Ella and Mr. Musty, who was very poor company. Every day was the ex- act counterpart of every other day except DIAL Sunday. How monotonous, I thought; yet when I stood on the steps of the train and waved goodbye, I was sorry that I had reached the end of my week at Aunt Ella’s. On Being Broke TRINE SWENSON, ’33 MPTY pockets! Worn out shoes! Ever so many society dues! I’m in a terrible pre- dicament! I haven’t even a two—cent stamp nor a penny postal card so that I can write home to my parents. I’m sure they like my letters, too, for almost every time I write, I tell of some bill or of some due that must be paid within a speciﬁed time. I can’t “bum” my roommate for a stamp nor a cent, either, for she’s as broke as I am. Spring doesn’t bring only one kind of fever, for now, it seems, every girl in our dormitory is com- plaining about the fund that is no more. My “dad” told me, too, in his last letter, that I’d better try to “go easy on the cash” for a while, until he receives his next salary, but I’m already without a cent. Realizing my condition, I replied immediately. I didn’t ask him for a check, but I hoped he’d read between the lines. However, I’m beginning to fear that he doesn’t think much of a gentle hint, for the only letter I have received since is a yellow- enveloped one—a frequent visitor who just sneaks into my mailbox and shoutingly re- minds me of a ﬁfteen or twenty-dollar bill that must be paid before a certain date. I wish some unknown, rich uncle thinking it my birthday or some other honor day, would send me a ﬁve or a ten. We can’t even go down to Fred’s any more. I’m thinking we should have gone “Scotch” before this. Such as it is, we’re trying to “scratch up” a few old books that we hope we’ll obtain a fortune for down at the second-hand book store. Unfortunately, though, we can’t tell the clerk a tale of woe about starvation. Looks would deceive us if we came with a story such as that. If my “dad” only knew how “broke” I am! He’d send me a check without any hesitation —perhaps not a fat one, just now, but enough to “tide me along” for a while, at least. He’s always generous when I do write to him for some money, but that’s just why I haven’t the heart, nor the nerve, to ask for more. I hardly dare look anyone in the face now for fear I owe him a ﬁfty-cent piece for a literary society pledge, or a couple dollars for an organization pin. Every time I get “a wee bit chicken feed,” some one is always willing to meet me somewhere and tell me of some good thing to which I can donate a little sum. I feel like two cents, myself, when mem- bers of one of the poor dormitories, trying to pay for a davenport or other piece of fur- niture that everybody uses, but myself, are seen, in the halls trying to sell a box of cup- cakes or a tray of doughnuts. I must tell them I haven’t a penny with which to buy. Last night, some of us “dorm” girls almost weak with hunger, we thought, and not a cent to be found anywhere, rampaged the pantry for something to eat. All we found, however, was coffee, some dry bread, and a couple dry doughnuts. We tried making the bread edible by toasting it and then ate it butterless, we boiled the coffee and drank it black, and chisled off bits of the doughnuts. All I hope now is that when I go to my mail box today I won’t ﬁnd a yellow envelope from the treasurer’s oﬂice, but a nice fat let- ter from “dad” with a “nicer”, fatter check inside it.
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Title: The Dial June 1930, Page 08
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: 6 THE DIAL That night I put all my books in a canvas bag, pulled my cap down over my eyes and, looking neither to left nor right, went home to get away from the eyes of the world. I deliberately snubbed her by not carrying her books. She stuck her tongue out at me. My reaction to this was, “Can’t...
Show more6 THE DIAL That night I put all my books in a canvas bag, pulled my cap down over my eyes and, looking neither to left nor right, went home to get away from the eyes of the world. I deliberately snubbed her by not carrying her books. She stuck her tongue out at me. My reaction to this was, “Can’t you think of any other improvements ?” I chuckled to my- self all the way home. However, as I neared home, I became solemn and frowned at Shep who came to meet me. But later I felt sorry for him and wept out my broken heart on his shaggy neck. He comforted me as much as he could and licked away the fast-ﬂowing brine. Then of a sudden I remembered my long pants, took my manhood in hand, and walked stiffly away. That night all the chores around the house were neatly done, and I went upstairs to brood. My mother was astonished at the alacrity with which my routine tasks had been performed. But she knew and felt sorry for me. Whether I was conscious of it or not, is hard to say, but it so happened that I was nice to mother for a whole week. I was careful not to smile and manufactured all sorts of doleful expressions which would tell to the world that here was a man who suffered deeply and unjustly. I hoped that the little twists of the corners of my mouth were the haggard lines of deep suffering. The signs of remorse and sor- row ﬂourished best when coached by the ap- plauding mirror. At supper I sighed loud and long several times. Oh what a painful world! Little brother was exhibiting to the family a hand much scratched by a kitten and “I never cried either.” Yes, such are the joys and sorrows of childhood,thought I, and said as much. Sister kicked mother’s shin under the table and was about to laugh when mother gave her a warning glance. Sister was my arch-enemy. I always connected her with the word ‘sin’ in Sunday-school, and now, as so often before, I wished that sin had never entered the world. % That Day Will Come! EINAR R. RYDEN, ’29 I sometimes wish, when in some deep distress, That I could ﬁnd, if but for one brief hour, That Happiness which all men seek, express But once my thoughts with that envisioned power— The power of the soul released, and, free From all that binds it to my Self, will ﬁnd My own true being and philosophy, And will refresh my tired and fevered mind. So it shall be. The sun may come and go A thousand times, but that dawn will arrive When I, in wending my way to and fro, Do heed the highest thoughts for which I strive. The hopes and joys of all the years are mine When I my soul in that Great Soul enshrine.
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Title: The Dial June 1930, Page 06
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: 4 THE DIAL want of need or sense of duty, were triﬂing away their existence in idle luxury. Others, on a short separation from toil and business, were drinking in deep draughts of invigorat- ing sea breeze. And a few were blissftu learning the meaning of the island’s epithet, “Honeymooner’s...
Show more4 THE DIAL want of need or sense of duty, were triﬂing away their existence in idle luxury. Others, on a short separation from toil and business, were drinking in deep draughts of invigorat- ing sea breeze. And a few were blissftu learning the meaning of the island’s epithet, “Honeymooner’s Paradise.” All, whether riding surfboards, canoeing, swimming, pos- ing as bathing beauties, 'or resting under some cool palm branch, were bedecked with spring’s richest colors. Even the sky’s pale blue and ocean’s darker shade withdrew to give this gay tulip-bed of apparel promin- ence. Could it be the vision of that group on the beach that now seems illusory? Later—back there in Hawaii—we motored up to the N uuanu Pali. This spot, the edge of a precipitous cliff over a thousand feet high, is the culmination of the Nuuanu Val- ley. This valley, beginning level with the sea at Waikiki Beach, inclines to the Pali across the island. But the phenomena which make the gradient valley and Nuuanuu Pali unusual are their walls made by two moun- tain ranges. These follow the valley up to the Cliff’s edge, where they almost meet, leaving only a small gap that presents the precipice. As we stood on the edge of that giddy height, my kind guide related to me some history connected with the spot. Early in the nineteenth century a certain ambitious Kamehameha had succeeded in subjecting the people of all the Hawaiian Islands except Oahu. The king and people of that island also he was determined to con- quer. After he had prepared himself for a stiff battle, Kamehameha and his large band of warriors early one morning landed their canoes on Waikiki Beach. Oahu’s sovereign, taken thus by surprise, realized that imme- diate resistance by his comparatively small band was unthinkable. So he and his war- riors began a retreat up the Nuuanu Valley. With the Oahu forces withdrawing, Kame- hameha saw his opportunity. He spread his men across the mountain-bounded lowland and gave rapid pursuit. In this manner the invaders drove on relentlessly until they had the Oahu natives backed up on the edge of the breathless drop. Kamehameha now saw the realization of his ambitions at hand. Considering the na- tive forces too numerous to capture, he de- cided to deal differently with them. He or- dered his men to charge forward, kill, or force the opposition over the cliff. A gruesome struggle followed. Many were killed; but larger numbers were hurled to a precipitous death. When Kamehameha considered the native warriors sufﬁciently diminished in number, he took the remaining few as captives. While listening to that story I had taken fearsome inspection of the endless distance the victims had to fall. Could the vicarious experience resulting from that contempla- tion have given me an unnatural feeling? But wait! there is always a last drop that makes the vessel overﬂow. No sooner had I gotten aboard ship and donned my “sal ” uniform than the Hawaiian train of events was rudely and radically severed. Heaving in and coiling the docking ropes, covering the hatches, putting up those heavy, un- wieldy ventilators—all had to be done in obeying ﬁrst this ofﬁcer, then satisfying the demands of the next. Those oﬂicers must have plotted against us sailors while we were ashore. Hours passed and still we had not eaten. Finally we were given dismissal for the small part of the night that remained. With the cessation of duty I stopped to consider my condition. I was dirty, wet with per- spiration, and savagely hungry. Is this reality? I wondered. Then my visit ashore -—back there in Hawaii—must have been a dream.
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Title: The Dial June 1930, Page 15
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: On Dirt HOWARD HALVORSEN, ’33 IF there is one thing that holds fascination for me, it is that much-hated and oft- debated article, dirt. I have always loved it. When a child, I revelled in a world of dust, mud pies, and dirt. I was no sooner cleaned up in a starched suit than I felt an indescrib-...
Show moreOn Dirt HOWARD HALVORSEN, ’33 IF there is one thing that holds fascination for me, it is that much-hated and oft- debated article, dirt. I have always loved it. When a child, I revelled in a world of dust, mud pies, and dirt. I was no sooner cleaned up in a starched suit than I felt an indescrib- able urge to frolic with my disreputable dog, Fleas. I was the recipient of many lectures from the older members of my family. I let their advice go “straight through,” and excused them on the grounds of their ignorance. How could they understand—they who had never felt the soft feathery dust between their toes on a hot summer day; they who had probably never mixed mud pies and let the soft mud ooze through their ﬁngers! I’ll never forget when Cousin Raymond and Aunt Anna came to visit us. Raymond always wore white shirts with ruffled collars. His hair was neatly parted, and he was pure- ly clean. Fleas and I had been building a castle out of our own sun-baked bricks, when mother called me to meet my relatives. “Dear, I want you to meet your little cou- sin, Raymond. I’m sure you will be real friends.” I was not so sure, when Raymond hid be- hind his mother’s skirts as if he were afraid of me. I was immediately ordered to the bathroom, whence I returned shortly, hav- ing left part of my “beauty clay” behind on the walls and towels and basin. Mother then said, in her “company voice,” “Run out and play, children,” and gave me a meaning look. Little Raymond was reluctantly released by his mother, with the parting admonition that he was not to get his nice suit mussy. Once outside, I introduced Raymond to Fleas. The dog greeted him in the usual way, by jumping on him and barking. Ray- mond began to cry, and I was somewhat put to it to persuade him that Fleas was harm- less. I asked him to help me ﬁnish the castle, but he refused, suggesting instead that we sit on the porch and tell stories. “Aw, come on, your Ma will never know you helped me build a little castle. It’s heaps of fun.” He refused ﬂatly at ﬁrst, but after I had pleaded a long time he rather ungraciously consented. After that we had a great deal of fun. He showed me how to build arches and tunnels, and a moat. I called him Ray, and he called me Howie. It was about that time that our mothers appeared on the scene. Aunt Anna grabbed Ray and jerked him away from me as if she were rescuing him from the black plague. She raved at my mother, “Your son is the cause of this. I wish I had never come here. Poor little Ray- mond, all covered with mud!” Then Ray began to wail in self-pity. Mother tried to excuse and explain, but Aunt Anna departed, enraged, with a disgraced Raymond at her side. I expected a terrible whaling, but mother only sank into a chair and said she was glad they were gone. Ray- mond was never held up to me as an example after that. One evening, a few years later, I stayed at home, and wandered out to the back yard. There hung my old swing from the branch of an apple tree, and underneath, the grass had been worn away by little feet and the dirt was still ﬁne and soft there. I longed to be a barefoot boy again, that I might en- joy it, but that was impossible—so I re- turned to the house in order to resist the temptation. Now, after being respectable and immacu- late all week, I love to get up on Saturday morning and don my oldest pair of over- alls, drive my pet “Lizzie” out of the garage, take some tools and crawl beneath it, there to spend hours of perfect enjoyment. And when I hear the call, “Howard,—dinner,” I’m reluctant to emerge and present myself at the house, where I am sure to be upbraid—
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Title: The Dial June 1930, Page 09
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: From the Sniff of a Whisk Broom MANLEY GJERDE, ’31 OMETIME'S a strain of music, or something which you see And sometimes even a little sniff will stir your memory. Thus one night when all was still, and I was free from care, I lazily played with a whisk broom as I sat in my rocking chair. Then I...
Show moreFrom the Sniff of a Whisk Broom MANLEY GJERDE, ’31 OMETIME'S a strain of music, or something which you see And sometimes even a little sniff will stir your memory. Thus one night when all was still, and I was free from care, I lazily played with a whisk broom as I sat in my rocking chair. Then I happened to sniﬂ’ of the whisk broom, and it made me think of the day When a hay loft was my bedroom and my bed was a mound of hay. I have traveled away to the northland when fall and the harvest have come, And joined the ranks of the many in the army of the harvest bum. Memories of this came back to me; they paraded through my mind And again I seemed to feel and live a life that is left behind; For the scent I got from the whisk broom reminded me of the way I would wake up in the morning with my nose in a whisk of hay. I recalled those frosty mornings that came while it still was night, We’d go down and feed our horses by smoky lantern light. I thought of how the stars still shone when the work of the day was begun And how they shone again above when the work of the day was done; Then after we’d had supper and our horses were put away, We would climb up in the hayloft and crawl into the hay. And so through days both hot and cold, from ﬁeld to ﬁeld we’d go, Taking our rest on Sundays, and when stopped by rain or snow. Then when the run came to an end, we’d go and get our pay, And button up our overcoats and hit the homeward way. We were not very sorry—it was far from us to grieve, For we felt good when we could say, “So long! Good luck!” and leave. Our work there was not pleasant in every way and turn, But the greatest of life’s lessons not in comfort do we learn. It’s the different things that we may do, and the things we hear and see That round out life’s experience like branches do a tree. Now I’m thinking I’ll never go back again, but recollections come, And I’ll cherish each little memory of the life of the harvest bum. E A Little Token LAWRENCE BUEIDE, ’31 NLY a little taken 01‘ the love I bear to you— A love that can’t be spoken, Though a million words I knew; But may the love of Jesus So ﬁll your heart with peace, And give you boundless riches 0f joys that never cease.
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Title: The Dial June 1930, Page 13
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: Of a Week at Aunt Ella’s MAURICE HELLAND, ’33 I felt quite proud as I approached Farmer Junction one August day. I was a full- ﬂedged traveler, having come all the way from Minneapolis entirely alone. I stood on the steps of the train and surveyed the group of buildings before me with a...
Show moreOf a Week at Aunt Ella’s MAURICE HELLAND, ’33 I felt quite proud as I approached Farmer Junction one August day. I was a full- ﬂedged traveler, having come all the way from Minneapolis entirely alone. I stood on the steps of the train and surveyed the group of buildings before me with a condescending air. “Hurry up, Bub, the train ’11 be moving.” I turned around to see the conductor. I hurried away blushing violently. “Bub!” the very idea!— My indignation was halted by the ap- proach and tender greeting of Aunt Ella, who treated me as if I still were a “kid,” but, in spite of that, was my favorite relative. After a short walk we reached her home. It had been a ﬁne mansion in the gay nine- ties. Now, despoiled of much of its grandeur, it was distinguished mainly by its size and neatness. Aunt Ella told me that I should have the tower room, which made my heart leap for joy. We walked up the ﬂower- bordered path to the front porch, where a long row of rocking chairs was standing, most of them being occupied. A ’sign “rooms and board” offered an explanation for this. I was introduced to each member of the group in turn. It would have been more pleasant if my aunt had said “Mister” instead of “Master” Helland. There was Miss Stitch, the village seams- tress; Kitty Fervor, who conﬁded to me that she “had retained her maiden name” which was a tactful way of admitting that she was an old maid; Mr. Musty, an old gentleman who, as he told me, came into the country to improve his health; Prof. Birch, the school teacher; and Clarence Flatt, who worked in the garage down on Main Street. I made myself comfortable in one of the rockers and waited for something to happen. Miss Fervor suddenly began to sing “Just before the Battle, Mother” in a high, nasal, soprano voice. The effect was startling, for she began in the middle of the stanza (per- haps where she had stopped when she was last interrupted). Not being used to either Miss Fervor or the rocking chair I fell back- ward, fortunately without hurting myself. “Oh!” said the ladies in chorus. Miss Stitch fainted. She was a thin plain woman who had few luxuries and indulged in one, fainting, very frequently since it cost nothing. Order having again been restored I saw Miss Reed, the librarian, approaching slowly up the walk, her face hidden by a book. When the ordeal of introduction was over she re- sumed her reading. Supper was an uneventful meal except that Miss Stitch surprised me by eating a great deal. After supper someone suggested that we have some music. “Do sing, Mr. Helland,” begged Miss Fer- vor. I declined, pleading a bad cold. Finally Miss Fervor and Clarence Flatt consented to sing a duet. The combination of Miss Fer- vor’s high nasal voice and Mr. Flatt’s boom- ing monotone was unusual, to say the least. As soon as I could, I retired to my room. The next morning I was awakened by the sound of the steady fall of rain on the roof. Mr. Musty observed that it was wonderful weather for the farmers. “The weather must be made for the farm- ers,” I mused, “and the rest of us take what we get.” At the breakfast table Miss Fervor was the “life of the party.” She discussed all the latest gossip. “I don’t see What that man sees in that girl,” she observed as she dis- cussed an approaching wedding. “Wasn’t it Ben Jonson who said, ‘A little learning is a dangerous thing, drink deep . . . er, ah . . . drink deep’ ‘2” she remarked learn- edly. Fortunately neither Prof. Birch nor Miss Reed were present to correct this mis- take which resulted from Miss Fervor’s “little learning.” Soon they had all departed to their re-
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Title: The Dial June 1930, Page 23
Collection: Literary Journals

Title: The Dial June 1930
Collection: Literary Journals

Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 24
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: lassmﬂil

Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 07
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: “ 4 "' “"“¢~A-—-'W “.me «a. .«~\».. ~_......... v THE DIAL 5 tors appreciated effort, even if intelligence were lacking. “Ingen kan tjene to herrer” was one of the sentences which I was re- quested to translate. This would be simple for those who understood Norwegian, but to someone who did not,...
Show more“ 4 "' “"“¢~A-—-'W “.me «a. .«~\».. ~_......... v THE DIAL 5 tors appreciated effort, even if intelligence were lacking. “Ingen kan tjene to herrer” was one of the sentences which I was re- quested to translate. This would be simple for those who understood Norwegian, but to someone who did not, it looked complicated. I had often heard my father speak of her- ring, and I knew that it was some kind of ﬁsh. So, even though I was not certain, I thought that perhaps the sentence meant, “N 0 one can catch two herring.” I hesitated to write this down, as it sounded rather strange, for surely, one can catch two ﬁsh. When I came home that evening, I asked my father if this were what it meant. He looked at me rather surprised for a second, and then he became very serious. Trans- lated, that line means, “No one can serve two masters.” Now, he is giving me special les- sons in Norse, whenever he can spare the time, and maybe, in the future, “J eg taler og forstaar norsk.” Meanwhile, I travel the pathway of the humble, for I have not yet qualiﬁed for the higher ways. __._¢<$¢>,.__._ An Episode from Life LUTHARD GJERDE, ’33 AWN had been glorious. Its soft mel- low glow had turned the stretching unevenness of snow drifts into an ocean of rose-tinted waves. Now the sky above was unusually clear and of such a deep blue as is rarely seen. It seemed that a perfect day was in the making. A young woman was gazing from the small, square window of a modest but neat- ly-kept farm house. She was strangely hap- py on this morning. She hummed to her— self as she picked the dry leaves from a tall rose plant that was her pride. Two deep red rose blossoms had been the reward for the pains she had taken in caring for it. With her husband, she had spent the past eight years on the farm on the rich prairies of mid-western Montana. Life had been quiet, but she had been happy in her own way. Her two children were the joy of her life. She was sending them off to school. The children, Betty and George, were radiant as their winter shoes crunched over the snow on the path toward the schoolhouse, just a mile distant and plainly visible. She smiled then, as they waved their mittened hands. Her eyes fell to the roses in the windows, and she thought how beautiful they were. The day had begun perfectly. But during the forenoon there came to be a tense feel- ing in the air; not an evil foreboding, but a feeling of the presence of something more than man. A dark wall of cloud had come up in the northwest. When she ﬁrst saw it, she called to her husband. His experience with the prairie told him to prepare for a lasting and powerful storm. His ﬁrst thought was of his children, and immediately he set off toward the schoolhouse. He was aware of a rolling ominousness in the lowering clouds as he hastened along. With the fright- ened children beside him, he turned his face toward the little habitation that meant so much to him. When he had gone about half the distance, a hush came over the earth. Not a breeze—not a snowﬂake in the still air. He knew What it meant—and it put panic into his brave heart. The loosened fury of winter was upon them in all its mysterious power and hope- lessness. The force of it came as a stagger- ing blow to the father who had taken his two children in his arms, and was defying the
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Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 17
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: THE DIAL 15 ment out of hearing myself—a doubly selﬁsh pleasure that is, for I do not consider the effect my “singing” may have on others. To be fair to myself, I must state that I do my most enthusiastic singing when I am alone in the house. Then I bellow forth in a thun- derous bass some...
Show moreTHE DIAL 15 ment out of hearing myself—a doubly selﬁsh pleasure that is, for I do not consider the effect my “singing” may have on others. To be fair to myself, I must state that I do my most enthusiastic singing when I am alone in the house. Then I bellow forth in a thun- derous bass some majestic and dramatic piece, or sentimentally, and with a sob in my voice, croon O, elsk mig litt! to my mirror. Washing dishes ceases to be a chore when you set commonplace conversation to oper- atic tunes. There is something which bor- ders on the sublime in such choice bits of music as “When, oh when, will you rinse the dishes,” (delivered dramatically in a re- sonant baritone), or a coloratura soprano trilling forth in reply, “How can I, how can I, when the rinsing water isn’t hot yet?” Of course it is frightfully barbarian to admit it, but I get just as much enjoyment out of hearing this opera (1 la Kitchen as I do when listening to a group of professional singers pouring forth a steady stream of passion in a language which I do not understand. And, of course, the home product is inﬁnitely less expensive. There is nothing like a bit of music as an interlude in an evening of assiduous study. Just stop your work, stand erect, throw out your chest, throw back your head and bel- low or trill forth (as the case may be) some favorite song, and see how much good it does you, and if you have a room-mate re- member “music hath charms” . . . . but use discretion. ——<¢¢>>F—— On Inferiority Complexes MATHILDA SAGENG, ’31 INFERIORITY complexes! Many people scoff at the idea of them and say that they are all humbug; but I know better than that. But then—why should I not, for I have one myself and can speak from ex- perience. I guess I have always been more or less conscious of it, but, not until I came to college, did I learn that this miserable feel- ing had such an imposing name. I am sure we had something about infer- iroity complexes in pschology, but I cannot recall just what it was. And then we learned about them in sociology, too. For one thing —“that they are caused by lack of adjust- ment to one’s environment.” That may be so, but I am quite sure it is not the cause in my case. There was also a great deal about psychosis—whatever that is—and psychoan- alysis. One thing is certain—I did not have to go to any psychoanalyst to discover mine. If you are not conscious of having one, do not try to discover one; because even though you may at times enjoy ill health, you cer— tainly never will be able to enjoy an infer- iority complex. If I were asked what causes them, I would immediately reply that they are caused by the mean habit some people have of always “rubbing in” things which they ought to have sense enough to keep still about. For instance, when I was a child, there was a time when I did not grow (in height) very much. Whenever I met people whom I had not seen for some time, they would always and invariably say that I had not grown at all since the last time they saw me. Then they would compare me with my cousin who was my age but several inches taller than I. That, of course, “brought home” the fact more clearly than ever that I was destined to be almost, if not quite, a midget. If I had only known then what I know now, I might have been saved a lot of heartache by ex- plaining to these “solicitous” people that I
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Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 21
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: THE DIAL 19 come over and take a nibble at Midas’ heels. The response was instantaneous; a growl, a snap, and the calf made one great jump and was gone—wagon and all. When the vari- ous parts of the combination were recovered they were well separated from each other, but the only damage done was...
Show moreTHE DIAL 19 come over and take a nibble at Midas’ heels. The response was instantaneous; a growl, a snap, and the calf made one great jump and was gone—wagon and all. When the vari- ous parts of the combination were recovered they were well separated from each other, but the only damage done was to the wagon and harness, and that only slight. After that the summer passed away very quietly for both us and Midas. We drove him as much as we had time for, and he was always ready to serve. Little did we realize how soon this happy state would end. When we were not present, father and mother had agreed that Midas was a terrible gardener and a worse horticulturist; and that since he was hardly ever in the pasture, he was too much of a nuisance to have around. Conse- quently, when there was need of meat, Midas was the one to suffer for it. That was a sad day for us, and it took a long time to forget our sorrow over his death. -———<<£>€>>——— The Higher Learning MANLEY GJERDE, ’31 F I should seek for knowledge -.And wisdom try to ﬁnd, Then must I not ﬁnd limits In my little human mind; There is more to life than learning Though the mind must have its part, The deepest things are only known In the chambers of the heart. Should I seek to know life’s problems, 07' try to understand The ways of life and living In this busy earthly land; Or should I help my fellowmen Through hardship and through strife, Then must I know the deeper things That go to make up life. And so, if I should try to know What this life really is, Then must I learn to know my God And bend my will to His; Then must I seek His guidance And implore His tender care Then must I learn to love Him And commune with Him in prayer.
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Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 10
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: 8 THE DIAL Once more we must be off. Soon we are following the faint jingle of the bell of the strange procession which has just preceded us. By the wayside a leper, his nose half gone, his eyes two uncertain holes, sends a child after us to beg. Further on a young man, who might have been so ﬁne...
Show more8 THE DIAL Once more we must be off. Soon we are following the faint jingle of the bell of the strange procession which has just preceded us. By the wayside a leper, his nose half gone, his eyes two uncertain holes, sends a child after us to beg. Further on a young man, who might have been so ﬁne and strong, wants money with which to buy food. We pass him by. The glassy eyes, the wasted form, the sallow skim—all proclaim him an opium ﬁend who would be willing to sell his wife or child to enable him to satisfy for a moment that craving which has robbed him of his manhood. ‘ t . Mother tells us that in America poppies grow in gardens. What a distant country that seems to us, as we roll along a dusty road in Cathay. We will always be the children of the Orient, for we have loved its people through our childhood; its ancient cities, with their crooked streets and alleys, have been our home; its ancient history is our heritage; its future will be our delight. % “%__*_ My Kikung Hills GRACE JENSEN, ’33 ANY a cottage empty stands, No garden tended by loving hands, All, all is still. Down in the valley the cataracts roar, Thunder forever, flow on as before,— But we have gone. Softly, the wind sobs its way through the trees, Answering pine cones commune with the breeze,— Yet none can hear. Sweetly, the violets that sleep in the shade, Lift tear-stained faces the dew-drops have made,— And no one sees. Then, gently lifting, heavy with pain, The damp mists rise and bring the rain That no one feels. No more I see them; covered they lie, Down in the valley a train crawls by My Kikung Hills.
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Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 14
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: A Village Constable BERTHA LILLEHEI, ’34 A village constable is one to whom the upholding of the law furnishes an out- let for his deep-rooted chivalry, a fulﬁllment of youthful dreams, a ballast to his hopes for the future, an excellent opportunity for ad- ventures, a chance for fame, and a...
Show moreA Village Constable BERTHA LILLEHEI, ’34 A village constable is one to whom the upholding of the law furnishes an out- let for his deep-rooted chivalry, a fulﬁllment of youthful dreams, a ballast to his hopes for the future, an excellent opportunity for ad- ventures, a chance for fame, and a needed sustenance for himself and his family. This office may not seem to furnish visible proofs of its value to the village constable, but it still is there. He differs very little from the “city con- stables” in that he very often exhibits a pe- culiar fondness for his morning nap. Of course, his strenuous work of the evening before, when he either had to lead home the little white-stockinged youngster who was being chased by the town bully, or had to subdue the unusually bothersome alley dog, will be sufﬁcient reason for his untimely nap. He partakes of breakfast at noon, dons his uniform proudly, strolls down main street and into the village drug store. Here you may be positive of ﬁnding him nearly any time of the day after his nap. He reads, con- spicuously, of the wonderful exploits of his brother workers, expounds at length on his newly discovered plan for trapping would-be “speed fiends,” whom he never sees, and puffs his enormous, foul, black pipe. He ter— rorizes the insigniﬁcant and grovels before “high hats.” This, as a matter of course, is business shrewdness, and not a shunning of the law! Others are sure to ﬁnd out all the ups and downs of police life through the ages when the constable is “wound up.” He is invited to social functions. His suit very seldom ﬁts, but what is that when he works for his country? His words are woe- fully lacking from Webster’s. Yet, he pro- tects the village from all danger and trouble, and he keeps the tongues, one at least, a- stirring! In that village constable, therefore, we see, perhaps, an unknown greatness, an un- plumbed depth for heroism, and an unsus- pected capacity for social and civic leader- ship. __I_¢<$.$>>__ On My Other Father MARTHA ROSSING, ’34 S a child I suppose I was as innocent as children generally are. My father has suggested that I was “spoiled”. At that my mother will smile apologetically. If I had been, it surely was not her fault. Whose fault could it be? Father and mother de- bated upon that question until I piped out, “I know! My other father.” That, I thought, removed the blame from my present father. Father looked at mother quizzically, and mother looked at him. She laughed joyously as she cried, “Yes, the other father is to blame.” ' I did not consider the possibility of wound- ing my parents’ feelings by inadvertently speaking of my other father. Apparently they did not mind my mentioning him. Mother always laughed, and father slapped his thigh in glee. My brothers and sisters never made any distinction between my father and my other father. They had called both father and spoke with as much familiarity and respect to the one as they had to the other. I did not notice that they were particularily shy at ﬁrst. If I had thought about that, I should have attributed my own shyness to my nature.
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Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 08
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: 6 THE DIAL storm to harm them. He had difﬁculty in getting his breath because of the force of the wind. But he kept doggedly on and made progress in spite of the storm, which enveloped and tore at him. He was still on the path and wondered why the narrow gate by the house never came. Suddenly,...
Show more6 THE DIAL storm to harm them. He had difﬁculty in getting his breath because of the force of the wind. But he kept doggedly on and made progress in spite of the storm, which enveloped and tore at him. He was still on the path and wondered why the narrow gate by the house never came. Suddenly, the realization of it all came to him. He was walking in a circle and following his own tracks. Stunned by the discovery he tried to break into a run. He wanted to run—- but the storm would not let him. He fought on and on, putting every ounce of his strength to work against the cruel storm. Another shock came when he spoke to his Betty and his George—there was no an- swer. It must be too cold for them. He tried to think; but that wind, and biting cold, and the driving snow that stung and blinded him was too strong. Hours of this seemed to pass, and he had come to the rea- lization that his Betty and his George were no longer suffering. He thought of his wife -—but he was doing his best. He broke into a sob and with a superhuman burst of strength he quickened his pace into a broken run. There was something beside him in the snow —the little gate which Betty and George had passed through on their way to school in the morning. His wife would be waiting ,—but what had he to bring to her? She was standing by the storm-shattered window. Her tear-streamed face showed that she had been more than anxious. As he sank into unconsciousness the last thing before his eyes was the rose plant—and its two deep red blossoms had wilted and were bowing their heads. . . . ‘ *v—hr 12%— Prayer ANNA PEDERSON, ’33 HOULD I be tempted to complain, If Thou in wisdom send as rain When sunshine was my heart’s desire; My weakness lead me, Lord, to see, And help me rise above it. Should I be tempted to perform An unkind deed, some night or morn, That worldly treasure I might gain; My folly lead me, Lord, to see, And help me rise above it. Should I be tempted to reveal In anger, envy, or revenge, An unkind tale about a friend; My selﬁshness lead me to see, And help me rise above it. Should I be tempted to refrain To seek Thee, God, and praise Thy name, Because I feared (mother’s scorn; My sin, Oh Lord, lead me to see, And help me rise above it. i .j gunman LR“! .
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Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 18
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: 16 THE DIAL had reached a “plateau of growth,” and that some people are destined to be taller than others. Another experience of a similar kind, which I am sure I shall never forget, seems almost ridiculous now; but it, too, helped to give me my inferiority complex. My parents had a small...
Show more16 THE DIAL had reached a “plateau of growth,” and that some people are destined to be taller than others. Another experience of a similar kind, which I am sure I shall never forget, seems almost ridiculous now; but it, too, helped to give me my inferiority complex. My parents had a small photograph of my older sister and me. It was a terrible picture, but, of course, it had its place in the family album, so was seen by all who ever came to the house. I was unfortunate enough to have white hair and very, very little of it, so I looked almost bald-headed. That was the point of attack. They would look at the pic— ture, look up at me, and shake their heads —most often adding that it certainly would be a pity if I had to go through life with only a few straggly strands of white hair. Oh, the worry this caused me; and how I wished that my hair had only been dark like my sister’s, so that they then could, at least, have seen the little I did have. There are many other similar experiences which helped to inculcate deeper into my being the knowledge that I was not quite like other beings—giving me just sort of a “shrinking up" feeling whenever I met peo- ple. I could always do my best when I was alone, because then I could be unconscious of all my faults, failings, and peculiarities. Because of these experiences, I can say that inferiority complexes are not humbug. Far from it—they are very real; and, try as you may, you cannot get rid of them. Of course, I must say that education and ex- perience alleviate them somewhat, but I know that I shall never be able wholly to overcome self-consciousness. I might philosophize about my inferiority complex, possibly bringing out some good ef- fects of it, but this, according to sociology is dangerous procedure as it may result in a “disintegrated personality." A better point of view might be to be proud of my complex, because at present it seems to be fashionable to have a complex of some kind or other— perhaps I am fortunate. A more consoling thought, however, was expressed by a writer some time ago. He said that one can be thankful for an infer- iority complex—thankful that it is not a superiority complex. mas»— Caritas Dei LAWRENCE BUEIDE, ’31 Wow great- the love of God must be, How inﬁnitely strong, That it can lift Immunity And turn its woe to song! More pure, by far, than whitest snow, More beautiful and fair Than all the good the angels know— The Gethsemane prayer. ’T was love that led the Savior down Unto a dying race, That all who will, might ever own The Father’s boundless grace. And oh, how tenderly His heart Doth feel our slightest pain! How fully He doth quench sin’s smart, And man is whole again!
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