14W 7:; 3W 7W ‘ Life is a paradox—so long, yet so short. Time flies, yet it stands still. I am young, yet I am getting old. I am now, yet some day I a shall not be. Life is strange, yet always familiar. Each day brings something new—be it but the old routine, it is still daily presented anew. It... Show more14W 7:; 3W 7W ‘ Life is a paradox—so long, yet so short. Time flies, yet it stands still. I am young, yet I am getting old. I am now, yet some day I a shall not be. Life is strange, yet always familiar. Each day brings something new—be it but the old routine, it is still daily presented anew. It is l forever rejuvenated, like a spring, until at last its running waters lie quiet in a valley far too beautiful to leave. We are but travelers 9 through this brief mite of eternity. One life is only a star in the " myriads of the heavenly patterns, a grain of sand in the hourglass of I time. For one short moment it is bright and moving; then, like a meteor, flames in a last attempt and is swallowed up into the well of darkness and space that is known as the past, yet encompasses the future and the unknown. Today the raw March wind is slipping its tense and life-giving fingers over and around the dwelling places of man. It is the same March wind that has sent the blood stinging to my cheeks since memory began. Twenty years and a thousand faces. Seventy-three thousand days and a thousand memories. And always the March wind. . . . Faces that are haloed with the rosy glow of friendship, faces hazy with forgetfulness, faces found only in the dark and forgotten re- cesses of the mind. Memories sifting out from nowhere and every- where; of people and places and things . . . of Mother and home—and the wind, always the wind. Skipping over the puddles ‘ of slush and racing across the damp fields, bringing to the distend- ed nostrils the giddy odor of spring, always fresh and new and l promising. Promising a better day ahead, a day of warmth and pleasure, a day of life; a day like the wind, vibrant and vigorOus, bringing a surge to the heart and a flush to the cheeks—and alive, always alive. Alive, like the way I feel when it lifts my hair and tosses it about A in wild swirls, when it captures me like it captures the clauds and ' sends all of us soaring into that world that only the imagination, coupled with an undefineable senSual pleasure, can touch upon—a Utopia fulfilling the hepe of a yet-to—be discovered promise. March is the boisterous and young month for a birthday. It forces the memory of years into forgetfulness with its ever-present outh and brings the promise of life to all who want to drink of its lieady wine. Even the sinking feeling in a heart just twenty dwindles into insignificance—the vague discontent springing from the philosophy of leaving the “teens” behind is dwarfed by a new Outlook on life. A life partly gone, but one gaining a renewed faith in the promise of the future, unknown, yet eternally alive. —Doms SWANSON Show less
ETERNAL SPRING My heart in gladness hails the coming spring, Eternal spring. Spring of my soul, though white the ground and bare. Though mortals weep and sigh. Though mortals hate and kill. Yet will I look to that eternal spring, Spring of my soul. -—KA'I'HBYN Tnonscm STAB FIRES Star fires... Show moreETERNAL SPRING My heart in gladness hails the coming spring, Eternal spring. Spring of my soul, though white the ground and bare. Though mortals weep and sigh. Though mortals hate and kill. Yet will I look to that eternal spring, Spring of my soul. -—KA'I'HBYN Tnonscm STAB FIRES Star fires Glowing, flowering Bursting up in fine arched splendor, delicate T o lose their fire in the sudden muck. One might think it better to have Never been But oh, To hold the fire for one brief instant: To arch in glory Through to oblivion. —DOROTHY SWANSON I t l Spring came With wild. exuberant shouts I greeted her. Love came too. With soft, ecstatic sighs I kissed him. But Love went. And now somehow Spring, too, has Gone. —PHEBE DAL: Show less
Expression Oh, there is beauty and there is glory Nigh too rich for man to see. - ; When mere mortal fellow humans are ‘ Filled with fire that cannot be Conquered by the dull and measured pace of life. n’ But when bursting forth to freedom. Climbing ever higher, Flames the joyous glad surrender... Show moreExpression Oh, there is beauty and there is glory Nigh too rich for man to see. - ; When mere mortal fellow humans are ‘ Filled with fire that cannot be Conquered by the dull and measured pace of life. n’ But when bursting forth to freedom. Climbing ever higher, Flames the joyous glad surrender of a man’s desire To speak out from his heart, Baring to all the world that feeling hidden there. To see the artist in his painting, The musician in his song. Or the writer in some wording Yielding to expression which belongs Not to him alone, which in himself he cannot hide. A“ __.. _u He only knows there is within That power he cannot deny, But must yield to its compulsion; ‘ And as he seeks to satisfy 1' This restless, bounding, driving urge Gives feeling that is a lovely thing to see. Oh, let not life so weary you With its drudgery and toil, That the spark which burns within Is corrupted and defiled So that at last it flickers out. No! Fan it to the fire which lightens the heart of man! For there is beauty and there is glory Nigh too rich for man to see, When mere mortal fellow humans are Filled with fire that cannot be Conquered by the dull and measured pace of life. -]ox{N HALEY Show less
Augsburg Cc::cg,:. George Sverdrup Lib“:iay ,. Minneapolis, MN 5549”- THE DIAL EDITED BY THE Aucsmmc COLLEGE WRITERS CLUB, WITH CONTRIBUTIONS FROM THE Scamnums CLUB. '948 AGQSBURG COLL: .4..Lw;.:.z‘v
After a long while she felt comparatively calm and still. Then she looked at Mark, and a bitter sense of loss gripped her heart. “Why did he have to die? He was such a good man,” she moaned, “such a good man!” + Chance Perhaps if I had hurried At a time when you delayed Or spoke instead of... Show moreAfter a long while she felt comparatively calm and still. Then she looked at Mark, and a bitter sense of loss gripped her heart. “Why did he have to die? He was such a good man,” she moaned, “such a good man!” + Chance Perhaps if I had hurried At a time when you delayed Or spoke instead of listened When first I heard your name Life would now he diflerent And our choice of love the same. --DON HEGG + Still of Night BETTY PLOYHAR A quietness was enveloping the whole world like a blanket, smothering all sound. A leaf, dropping from the top branch of a tree, slithered across the other leaves heaped upon the ground. The crickets chirped unusually loud. The sound echoed again softer and very muflled. There was a tiny swish as the wind gently brushed one blade of green grass against another, a faint slap as the water touched a rock near shore and retreated. I heard a pop as a fish came to the surface. There was no other sound. As night fell, the park had drifted away from the noisy daytime world into a vacuum of quiet. 63 Show less
it was wet. She took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. Clara was amazed. She couldn’t feel herself crying, yet she knew she was. It was as though she were miles away from here watching someone else at Mark’s side holding tightly to his hand and crying. She realized vaguely that doctors and... Show moreit was wet. She took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. Clara was amazed. She couldn’t feel herself crying, yet she knew she was. It was as though she were miles away from here watching someone else at Mark’s side holding tightly to his hand and crying. She realized vaguely that doctors and nurses went in and out, murmuring quietly as they did so. When the door opened she heard typical hospital sounds coming from the hall. This much of it was stark reality to her. Otherwise she was moving and acting without conscious thought. Was this a nightmare or was it real? "If it’s a nightmare, I hope I wake up soon,” she thought, her practical side still on the surface. Only dimly was she aware that more activity was going on in the room. Mark must be getting worse. She held on to his hand tighter. It was cold and moist. "Mark—say something. Mark!” She was shocked to hear her own voice. It sounded loud in the small room. She almost felt she should apologiZe for being noisy. Above her head one nurse looked at another. Her lips formed the words, ‘.‘Pulse much slower.” Clara was oblivious of everything in the room. She and Mark were sitting in the living room planning what to give the kids for Christmas. It had been so wonderful; they had planned on so many nice things. Of course, they had never been able to get them. Mark had felt bad when he realized what he had done. "I’ll never say a word about his drinking again. Just let him get well. Mark, oh you have to be all right!” She felt sick inside for somehow she knew. Mark wasn’t going to be any better. He’d die without ever regaining consciousness. He’d never know she didn’t care if he had liked to drink. The thought that he’d never know obsessed her. She had to have him know. “Mark!” she screamed. "Mark, I don’t care! Do you hear me! I don’t care!” There was a low moan. Then the room was completely quiet. One of the nurses took Mark’s hand from hers. “I’m sorry.” Tears flowed down her cheeks unchecked. It was a relief to let herself go. It didn’t matter if she did cry. Mark wouldn’t know anyway. 62 Show less
her way up to see Mark. She leaned against the wall of the elevator to steady herself. It was cold and comforted her. Without noticing what direction they walked, she followed the nurse through the many turns in the corridor till at last she stood outside Mark’s door. “You realize your husband... Show moreher way up to see Mark. She leaned against the wall of the elevator to steady herself. It was cold and comforted her. Without noticing what direction they walked, she followed the nurse through the many turns in the corridor till at last she stood outside Mark’s door. “You realize your husband isn’t conscious, Mrs. Mickelson. Of course, there is the possibility he might regain consciousness at any time. You can go in now.” The nurse’s eyes smiled reassuringly. To Clara, however, she was only a chunk of white clay with a streak of red for a mouth and tiny dabs of blue for eyes. Everything was blurred as she walked slowly towards the bed. She felt as though she were alone with Mark, though she knew a nurse was standing across the bed from her, keeping constant check on his condition. “It’s so unreal. That isn’t Mark. They’ve just bandaged some— one up and are trying to fool me. Mark’s probably home now wondering where I am.” She picked up his hand which lay lirnply on the bed. One glance and she knew. It was Mark. Only he had hands so large and worn, and only he had a wedding ring that wide. He’d wanted a wide ring.— “So people can tell from far away that I’m married . . . I’m proud of it, Clara.-—A ring as wide as we can find.” A choked sob forced its way out from deep within her. The room wavered back and forth before her eyes. She leaned heavily on the bedstand. In a few moments she again had her emotions under control. She swallowed hard before she whispered, "Is he any worse?” The nurse shook her head. Clara ached to ask if he were better but lacked the courage to do so. She was afraid to know the answer. “If only he gets well—I’ll never say another thing about his drinking. It doesn’t matter anyhow. We’ve never gone hungry— we’ve always eaten, and nothing else matters. The kids really don’t care if they don’t have all the things the other kids have. We can get along. I’ll never nag him about drinking. Never!” Her lips silently formed the words she was thinking. Her cheek tickled. She touched it with her hand and realized 61 Show less
"You want I should stay at the hospital with you or should I go stay with the kids? Never thought to tell nobody to go over.” "Stay with the kids, will you? I’ll be all right.” They lapsed into silence and Clara’s mind returned to its remi— niscing. "Clara, honest. I’ll never drink again. Marry... Show more"You want I should stay at the hospital with you or should I go stay with the kids? Never thought to tell nobody to go over.” "Stay with the kids, will you? I’ll be all right.” They lapsed into silence and Clara’s mind returned to its remi— niscing. "Clara, honest. I’ll never drink again. Marry me, please. I haven’t had a drop for three months now. Isn’t that enough sign that I mean it?” And Mark had been so contrite the first time he had come home drunk. "Clara, I didn’t mean to, honest. Please say you don’t hate me for it.” Their fifteen years of married life swirled around inside her, making her dizzy. "Floyd, don’t tell the kids. None of ’em know, so just say Mark is sick. Don’t even tell Sonny.” She had worked hard to keep her three kids from knowing that Mark drank, and they weren’t going to find out now. "Mark, if you come home drunk once more I’ll take the kids and go. You think I want them to know their dad comes home drunk all the time? Mark, shut up, won’t you? You’ll wake ’em up.” "I’ll go—upstairs—and—bring—’em—down—so—they—-can— see me.” “Mark—” her voice was horrified. uClara, I’m -— sorry — Guess—I’ll—go—sleep—now. Won’t— drink—again—ever—honest.” “Well, you ever do and we leave. Just remember that.” ——“We’re almost there now, Clara.” Floyd’s voice interrupted her again. "You sure you don’t want me to stay?” “Nope, you go on home.” The car stopped with a jerk. Clara forced herself to smile at Floyd. Her lips felt stiff and odd, but she thought they did turn up a little bit. “Tell the kids not to worry, won’t ya? Bye.” Her rubber heels made a soft plodding noise as she walked across the lobby of the hospital. She didn’t know what she said to the receptionist, but in a matter of minutes she was in the elavator on 60 Show less
Myra led the way up the steps to the balcony. Betty was smil- ing. It was so nice to have Myra with her again. "It’s foolish to quarrel over a man. I’m glad we are friends again,” Betty thought. It was so nice of Myra to ask her to go to church with her, parti- cularly to St. Johns, the most... Show moreMyra led the way up the steps to the balcony. Betty was smil- ing. It was so nice to have Myra with her again. "It’s foolish to quarrel over a man. I’m glad we are friends again,” Betty thought. It was so nice of Myra to ask her to go to church with her, parti- cularly to St. Johns, the most beautiful church in town. She hadn’t been there for years. They always attended the little church on the corner. She was anxious to hear the pipe organ and see the inside of the beautiful church once more. It thrilled her to be in the place again. She followed Myra down the aisle to the front of the balcony. Betty was awe-stricken with the beauty of the church. She looked at the ceiling—the sparkling chandeliers, the ornate wood- work. She noticed the huge pillars and the stained glass windows. Windows with Biblical pictures on them. Then she looked ahead. But there was no ahead. Nothing but space. Down—down. There were people there, or was it people? Things became blurred as the old feeling seized her. Betty tried to grip the railing in front of her, but there was no railing. Determined to fight the panic in her heart, she turned away. She would look in the hymnbook with Myra. Then the feeling would surely leave her. She simply wouldn’t look down. That’s all. She wouldn’t look down. She moved closer to Myra to see the song everyone was singing. Myra edged away and pointed down to a rack on the side of the railing with hymn-books in it. Betty reached down to get herself a book. But her eyes went farther to the chasm beneath. There was a buzzing that morning as the congregation of St. Johns in Evansville filed out of church. “I wonder who she was,” they said. “Psychological case, I guess.” “Too bad—Yes, killed instantly.” + MY PRAYER 0 soul of mine I plead with thee To lift my spirit high. 80 cast aside the inborn thoughts You know will do me harm; Take my heart and mold it true I pray to thee, 0 soul of mine. -—-DON HEGG 5'7 Show less
face. Myra had grabbed her just as she had thrust herself over the edge. What a terrific struggle that was for a ten-year-old girl—to get her playmate back up on the solid floor again. Betty was strangely quiet for about the next two days. She was not herself at all. “Why did you do it? Why did you... Show moreface. Myra had grabbed her just as she had thrust herself over the edge. What a terrific struggle that was for a ten-year-old girl—to get her playmate back up on the solid floor again. Betty was strangely quiet for about the next two days. She was not herself at all. “Why did you do it? Why did you try to jump into that hole? Don’t you know you could have been killed, you fool?” Myra had snapped. “I—I don’t know. I couldn’t help it when I looked down in that place. There was nothing else I could do. I had to jump.” Then more quietly she added: “I’m glad you caught me in time, Myra.” After that, Betty refrained from going into high places or from looking down if she had to be up on something high. Myra continued in her reverie. She and Betty had always ap- peared to be the best of friends. They did get along well until they started attending high school. Then they accused each other of stealing the other’s dates. Even that could be forgiven, Myra muttered to herself, but sometimes things can go too fan—As for stealing James from me, I could never forgive her for that. James Masewood had been pronounced the most eligible young man in the community. He was very handsome, had a nice per- sonality and, what was of the greatest importance to Myra, he had money. He and Myra were going steady, “practically engaged,” the town gossips had said, before Betty came home on vacation from college. Naturally the first person Betty visited on her return was Myra, her old school pal. It wasn’t long before James had become cold. Soon he was going with the more charming, less affected Betty. No, Myra could never forgive Betty for, that. Now Betty was Mrs. James Masewood. Myra was still Miss Myra Coldwell, an ex— tremely unhappy woman. Then Myra had left the community, determined to turn her back upon Betty and James Masewood forever. But, no, some- thing brought her back. And here she was in Evansville, walking to church with Betty. This was a Sunday morning when James was unable to get back from a business trip to Oakville. As they turned up the walk to the church, Betty pointed at the sign announcing services. “I guess services start at 10:45 after all.” "Yes, I guess they do,” Myra answered shortly. 56 Show less
Obsession RUTH PEDERSON Myra and Betty were walking to church. They were attractive women of about twenty-five years of age. Myra’s every action seemed to indicate that she was a woman of refinement. She was perfectly dressed. Everything she wore was the latest in style. Betty had a certain beauty... Show moreObsession RUTH PEDERSON Myra and Betty were walking to church. They were attractive women of about twenty-five years of age. Myra’s every action seemed to indicate that she was a woman of refinement. She was perfectly dressed. Everything she wore was the latest in style. Betty had a certain beauty that good clothes cannot give. Her beauty was of a more natural kind. Her hair came down to her shoulders, soft like a school-girl’s. Both women were talkative and happy- “I still think St. Johns services start at 10:4 5 rather than I I :oo,” Betty put in. Then she added brightly, “Oh, well, what’s the dif- ference? It’s too late now to make it on time if they do.” Then the girls walked on quietly, thinking about the days when they were children together. Myra recalled that fifteen years before she and Betty had been the best of friends. Before they had become rivals. Although un— related, the two girls had been taken as sisters by many. They were both dark. Both had long brown hair. But probably the biggest reason people had thought they were sisters was that they were always together. One night Myra would stay all night with Betty. The next night Betty would stay with Myra. Myra remembered the day they had been playing in the hay mow on her grandfather’s farm. It was fun sliding down the big pile of hay that was stacked in a huge slope almost to the ceiling. When they had become tired of that, the girls discovered a hole in the floor close to the wall. It was obviously a place to shove the hay down to the first floor for the cattle. Myra had seen it first. It was a hole about two feet square. She had gazed, fascinated, down to the wide expanse of floor beneath. Fascinated at so big a gap between the ceiling and the floor. “Oh, Betty,” she had called. uC’mere. There’s a hole in the floor. You can see way down in the basement.” Betty skipped over, got down on her hands and knees and peered over the edge with Myra. “Funny, isn’t it?” Myra had queried as she looked at Betty. But there was something wrong with Betty. Her face was white as a sheet. Her lip quivered as though she were going to cry, but even Myra could see it was something more serious than that. Conflicting emotions twisted her _55 Show less
"I wanna drink of water!” he announces in the tone of a man dying from thirst in a desert. You can, of course, absolutely re- fuse to give him any water and threaten him with dire conse— quences if he doesn’t go to bed immediately. But your best course of action is to get the water, and usually,... Show more"I wanna drink of water!” he announces in the tone of a man dying from thirst in a desert. You can, of course, absolutely re- fuse to give him any water and threaten him with dire conse— quences if he doesn’t go to bed immediately. But your best course of action is to get the water, and usually, his thirst quenched, he will crawl into bed. Then you crawl downstairs, your annoyance considerably heightened by the fact that your magazine has fallen to the floor, and you have lost your place. By this time, you feel sadly in need of nourishment, so you go into the kitchen and explore the refrigerator’s interior. You dis- cover a bottle of coke, and then you make a trip to the cooky jar, returning with a handful of chocolate chip cookies. You sit down at the kitchen table, and your eyes travel to the clock. It is nine, and you congratulate yourself on a job well-done. But a familiar voice behind you startles you and you turn to View the little imp standing in the doorway. "I’m hungry,” he proclaims gravely. You could sternly refuse him, but you fear he may make an un- favorable report to his mother if you do. Besides, he really does look wistfully appealing in his little white pajamas. You feed him One of the cookies and then lead him up to bed for what you sin- cerely hope will be the last time. Thirty solid minutes have passed, and not a sound has been emit- ted from the upper regions. You may now be reasonably certain that he is sleeping. Settle back comfortably in your chair, and finish your story. It is twelve o’clock now. You hear the front door being opened and realize that the parents of your little darling are home. They enter, and mother asks the inevitable question, “And how did my little boy behave?” Now you have no choice. There is only one answer. In your most earnest and sincere tones, you quickly and unhesitantly reply, “Perfectly, Mrs. Jones, just perfectly.” + Two hands without perfection Folded into mine Turn away each sorrow And change the rough to fine. —DON HEGG 54 Show less
