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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 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 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 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 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 11
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: THE DIAL 9 up.” I began to crave company and friends. I realized that it would not do to live as a recluse among civilized people all my life so I started out to make friends. I found this very hard. I had followed my inclinations in shunning society, and now I had to force myself to break away...
Show moreTHE DIAL 9 up.” I began to crave company and friends. I realized that it would not do to live as a recluse among civilized people all my life so I started out to make friends. I found this very hard. I had followed my inclinations in shunning society, and now I had to force myself to break away from those habits. When I really learned to know people I found that most of them were agreeable and that friends were not wanting. Since that time I have enjoyed life more than previously. In spite of my best efforts, however, I ﬁnd that I cannot break away from my old life entirely. I love to be alone and love to be let alone to commune with my own thoughts. I have now been at Augsburg for one school year, and that has been an enjoyable year. I am almost a stranger on the campus. No one cares very much for me and no one is displeased with me, to the best of my knowl- edge; so I am well pleased. I hope to con- tinue at Augsburg for some time still, and hope to make friends by trying to be agree- able. ~ @ Working on the Extra Gang JOSEPH ROEL, ’33 IT was on the ninth day of June in 1929 that a big husky gentleman stopped a friend of mine and me and asked us if we wanted a job. I had been in search of a position for some time, but to accept a job had never occurred to me. I asked John what he thought about it, and he said it would be better than loaﬁng, and so we accepted. Upon ﬁnding ourselves employed by the Northern Paciﬁc Railway, we inquired as to the nature of the work. We found that we were to be laborers on the Extra Gang which was going to work at a junction about thirty miles west of Fargo. The following morning we packed our clothes and other necessary belongings and boarded the train to Dilworth, Minn., where the division ofﬁce was located. The ﬁrst thing the ofﬁcial did was to give us numbers. John was given number thirteen and I thirty- nine. Thirteen, the number signifying mis- fortune, was rather hard to take, but we as- sured John that he had a chance of surviving the ordeal, and so he was somewhat com- forted. Needless to say, we were city-bred boys and accustomed to reposing between white sheets, but now they gave us a large white sack the size of a sheet and directed us to a straw stack whereupon we were informed to ﬁll the sacks with straw and use them for matresses. The older boys who had had previous experience were quite successful in their efforts, but we had to be content to lie in the hills and valleys which took natural shapes when we were stuﬂing the matresses There were four double bunks in our car, and so we chose the upper berths for our beds as it seemed to be warmer near the ceiling. After making our beds the dinner bell sound- ed, and we made a charge for the dining car. This meal, the ﬁrst one we ate since being employed by the railroad, proved to be a real experience. Such exclamations as: “Pass the Java and cow’s juice”—which, of course, signiﬁed, coffee and milk—and “Sic the dog over here”—meaning, send the weiners—were common expressions; and I understood them quite readily, but when one of them asked for the ground cherries I must admit I was confused. I told him I didn’t see any ground cherries, so he enlightened me a little by saying they were potatoes. John drove his car to Wheatland, North Dakota, and I went with him while the rest
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Title: The Dial June 1930, Page 12
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: 10 THE DIAL of the crew took the train. The next morn- ing we were ready to go to work. For break- fast we had pancakes but we couldn’t swal- low them. They were as tough as shoe leather but not nearly as digestible. John threw a few of them in the back seat of his car to use for blow out patches...
Show more10 THE DIAL of the crew took the train. The next morn- ing we were ready to go to work. For break- fast we had pancakes but we couldn’t swal- low them. They were as tough as shoe leather but not nearly as digestible. John threw a few of them in the back seat of his car to use for blow out patches, and another fellow put a stack of them on top of his box- car in order to let them dry so we could use them for fuel in our stoves. The cook be- came peeved at this, and so he had this gentleman ﬁred. Having had breakfast, we went out to get instructions from the foreman. John was assigned to the “Shovel pushers” crew and I got the water job. In case I was asked by anyone as to my position, I would invariably reply I was manager of the aquatic depart- ment. I must admit I was very much pleased with that title, even though I had to origin- ate it myself. My job was to ﬁll two kegs with water and ice before breakfast and dinner and place them on the motor car which was used to haul them to the crew. This occupied about thirty minutes a day and that was all I had to do. The rest of the day I threw rocks at telephone poles and other targets which pre- sented themselves from time to time. In the afternoon the foreman and I would usually go to town and drink sodas. I got along ﬁne with the foreman, because I was very patient when he would keep talking about the won- derful girl he was going to marry in October. Outside of this particular weakness he was an ideal boss. He had a strong muscular build and a very pleasant disposition. He never became hot-headed nor did he lose his temper during my stay on the railroad. He went ﬁshing with us in the evening as well as swimming in the hot afternoons. When it became so hot that we could hardly bear to work, he would dismiss the crew and take us to the reservoir in the motor car and then tell us to have a good time. All in all he was an ideal boss. John and I worked at this for about seven weeks before we resigned our positions and went back to Fargo. As I think of the good times we had playing football in the pastures —clad only in our pajamas—and swimming in the reservoir—attired in nature’s bathing suit—I cannot help but believe that these ex- periences alone were pay enough for the labor we put forth while working on the “Extra Gang.” E Two Crosses GRACE JENSEN, ’33 I cannot know, I cannot always understand God’s dealings, while I walk below, But, thru it all, I see the outline of His hand, And know that He must know. And if He knows, then He must love me, care For all my anguish and my strife. As, in my pain, I seek and ﬁnd Him suffering there I yield my all—in death and life.
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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 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 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 16
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: 14 THE DIAL ed for my unsightly appearance. A look in the glass ﬁlls me with delight. My hair is full of weeds and dirt, my face is decorated with greasy smudges, my hands—well, there are no words adequate to describe their per- fect condition. Once more I revel in dirt; once more I ﬁnd an outlet...
Show more14 THE DIAL ed for my unsightly appearance. A look in the glass ﬁlls me with delight. My hair is full of weeds and dirt, my face is decorated with greasy smudges, my hands—well, there are no words adequate to describe their per- fect condition. Once more I revel in dirt; once more I ﬁnd an outlet for my desires, an opportunity to abandon all else and return to frolic with my old favorite—dirt. Of Spring MAURICE HELLAND, ’33 I have planned for several weeks to write a scathing satire, but who could write a satire when spring is in the air. And spring is in the air although it is only the middle of February. This is the season when I, like other romantic individuals, go strolling down the street with my head in the clouds and my feet in the mud puddles. Under the puddles is ice, and ice has caused the downfall of more men than anything else, with the ex- ception of women. Although I have not “fallen for” the latter I fell for the former; the result being a complete reversal of the usual position of my head and feet, as I plunged from my rosy dreams into the cold realities of life. This slightly dampened my spirits and I made haste to reach home. I could not long remain indoors. Soon I was on my way to the public library. Spring had even penetrated into this storehouse of knowledge, for the librarian’s customary “shhh” was replaced by a quiet, but force- ful, snore. Here was Mr. Thomas, a ﬁne old gentleman who had been a great disappoint- ment to me. I once thought he was a former confederate soldier, only to discover that the uniform he often wore was that of a street- car conductor. Mr. Thomas adjusted his spectacles so that they were perched rather precariously on the end of his nose, and be- gan to peruse something which looked sus- piciously like a seed-catalogue. Occasionally he would brush back a stray lock of white hair (practically the only one he had, by the way), and on a scrap of paper he was jotting down a list of numbers. He told me conﬁ- dentially that he didn't dare let his wife see the catalogue, so he read it in the library—a martyr to the cause of Spring. Over in a corner sat a man of uncertain age whose facial characteristics were enough to pro- claim him half-witted even if he had not been eccentric in his dress and actions. I noticed that he was reading from a book of ’modern verse. He probably understands the stuff as well as any one else, I thought. I decided not to get the reference book which I needed for school since I knew I wouldn’t use it. I walked slowly, but not sedately, down Bloom- ington Avenue, swinging my arms as I went, not in order to keep warm, but to get in practice for the coming tennis season. After supper I really should study, so I retire to my room, place my books neatly on the table, sit down; hum a tune; whistle a bit; put my head out the window to see if there is a moon; nibble a cookie which I have “swiped” from the pantry; and ﬁnally decide to settle down to an hour or two of good, solid, concentrated study. Ho hum! “Ich liebe-du liebst-er liebt”; oh German is boring; besides I won’t have a test in it tomorrow. So I eat a cookie and start on history. After concentrating on this subject for four minutes (according to my watch), I throw the book over on the book shelf, grab my English text, open it, shut it again, and put it in my brief case. I see an assignment in my notebook, “Study the reformation in Germany.” What I need is a reformation in myself, I decide, but what’s the use when spring is in the air?
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Title: The Dial June 1930, Page 17
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: On Philosophizing OLIVER OLSON, ’33 VERYONE has a weakness, or should we say a hobby? We might call it an illu- sion. Next to a sensational gladiatorial com- bat or an atrocious persecution, Nero loved his ﬁddle; Fredrick the Great had a “craze” for unusually tall soldiers. My most serious...
Show moreOn Philosophizing OLIVER OLSON, ’33 VERYONE has a weakness, or should we say a hobby? We might call it an illu- sion. Next to a sensational gladiatorial com- bat or an atrocious persecution, Nero loved his ﬁddle; Fredrick the Great had a “craze” for unusually tall soldiers. My most serious weakness is that I like to philosophize,—oh, about most anything, even about myself sometimes. People who can not think ra- tionally like to deceive themselves by insist- ing that they can philosophize. Such a per~ son am I. - While I was in high school there was one certain girl who took malicious delight in calling me Socrates. I knew all too well that I did not have a Barrymore proﬁle, but I was conceited enough to resent being associated with the world’s ugliest-looking man. Fur— thermore, she was not a Venus, herself—far from it. She oftentimes made life miserable for me, but at any rate, she could not put a damper upon my tendency to philosophize, for I still have it today. People are prone to consider philosophiz- ing an indication of mental deﬁciency, or as an incurable morbid disease. I am altogether too optimistic to believe that I am nearing the verge of insanity; I am too young for that, and besides, so far I have been unable to discover any ﬂaws in my family tree. I like to philosophize about myself, not be- cause I am an egoist, but because there is no one that is more fascinating to analyze than oneself. It is often bitterly humiliating to ﬁnd that, when you are “weighed in the balance, you are found lacking.” There, there, I must refrain from becoming didac- tic. The great Greek philosopher, Socrates, said, “know thyself.” I ﬁnd myself well- nigh impossible to get acquainted with; there is an obstinate independence that bars self- analysis; I avoid solitude and meditation as though I am deathly afraid of being alone; I rush frantically about for something else to do. I pause to ask myself, “Can I always hope blindly and foolishly to ignore myself? Must I not sometime reckon with myself?” The answer is obvious. How disheartening it would be to see a cross-section of all my motives, my impulses, my aspirations! I would furtively and with deep shame hide such a cross-section from the critical scrutiny of my fellowmen. Self- ishness would stand out in bold glaring let- ters staring me in the face. I am sure that I would cast my eyes downward and keep them there, until the picture was taken away. I would ﬁrmly resolve never to philosophize about myself again. Of My Relations CLARENCE ELIASON, ’33 A lively imagination surely is an asset to anyone, and I am very much blessed with an imagination that sees all, hears all, and knows all. On one occasion I was pun- ished for using my imagination when the principal of the school I attended found that I had imagined I needed a bath on a certain ﬁne day in the late spring when it was just warm enough to go swimming. Since then, I have been rather careful about “playing hookey,” and using my imagination to keep me out of school, because of the measures taken by the truant ofﬁcers. There are occasions when I allow my imagination to have free rein, and one of them is when some fellow creature inquires
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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 19
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: THE DIAL 17 vacation! The months sailed by slowly but surely with the whole class making a very successful effort to preserve the assignment sheets pure and untainted for posterity. An- other quarter is gone before we realize it. Spring is almost here; students are a shade wiser, and purses...
Show moreTHE DIAL 17 vacation! The months sailed by slowly but surely with the whole class making a very successful effort to preserve the assignment sheets pure and untainted for posterity. An- other quarter is gone before we realize it. Spring is almost here; students are a shade wiser, and purses noticeably thinner. The eagle on that last dollar I spent resembled nothing so much as an ostrich. April, spring vacation, and a dash of four hundred and ﬁfty miles thru wind, rain, and snow, to get reinstated ﬁnancially and spend Easter Sunday at home. The return trip was cold and the next week was spent get-. ting warm again. Spring fever has the whole crew in her clutches. Two weeks of rain in May, and when plans for another Ark are drafted, the weather clears and everybody laughs again. Warm sunny afternoons spent in sprawl- ing on the Square or taking the curious for a spin on the “Harley.” They seldom ask for a second, though I value my neck as highly as any of them. Thus ends a very eventful year. The values of a college education cannot be de- nied. I can spell Czecho-Slovakia, though I cannot pronounce it. Christopher Marlowe wrote “Dr. Faustus,” and the formula for acetic acid is H02 H3 02. What else should anyone wish? E The Chosen Valley LUTHARD GJERDE, ’33 _ few more minutes of climbing, and I would be at the top! For the past half- hour I had been toiling up the steep, wooded side of a high and rocky elevation, from which I hoped to get a good View of the sur- rounding landscape. I could see a shelf of mossy, green-gray stone jutting out from the wall above. It must be the top of the peak. I waded through small patches of thorny bushes, climbed over piles of broken stone and eventually I managed to pull myself up on the ledge. I paused a moment, panting from the exertion. Then I looked up and gazed out at the grand scene before me. It was wonderful. Instinctiver I gazed toward the sky. I had a queer feeling that I was in a shadow. I became conscious of a wall of rock behind me, towering up above the rest of the elevation, which was merely a jumbled heap of broken boulders and thorny bushes, entirely covered with trees. At ﬁrst I was disappointed~disappointed because I had hoped for an unobstructed view of the land- scape on all sides of me, and disappointed be- cause I had determined to reach the top. I grew hopeful in a moment when I found that there was a wide break in the rock wall, which was full of boulders and the trunks of tall trees that had once ﬂourished there. In my hurry of anticipation I skinned both knees clambering over rocks, and tore my hands painfully on sharp corners as I pulled myself upward. Upward—toward what? I hoped I would not be disappointed this time. At last I reached the top. It was of solid stone, about thirty feet across and worn quite round, though broken up here and there. It was covered with a blanket of dry, brown pine needles which had accumulated through the years from several tall pines that seemed to ﬂourish in this queer place, far above the rest of the world. Only a few round bumps of stone were bald. The view from the lower ledge had been wonderful. This view was beautiful—border- ing on something divine, ﬁt for immortal eyes only. It was superb, inspiring, beyond the wildest ﬂights of my imagination. The
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Title: The Dial June 1930, Page 20
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: 18 THE DIAL gently sloping sides of the St. Croix val- ley were covered completely with trees, which at that time of the year were of rich varied green. In the center of the valley was the St. Croix, imprisoned by walls of solid gray rock. A little to the right of the river was a level area, in...
Show more18 THE DIAL gently sloping sides of the St. Croix val- ley were covered completely with trees, which at that time of the year were of rich varied green. In the center of the valley was the St. Croix, imprisoned by walls of solid gray rock. A little to the right of the river was a level area, in the center of which lay the Lake of the Dalles. It seemed, from my elevated viewpoint to be exactly the right size to be an ornament worn by this vast scene beneath me that is nature. As the sun glinted on the gently rippling waters of the lake, I saw it as a huge and richly brilliant diamond, ﬁt only to grace such a scene as this. The blan- ket of forest was covered with a thin veil of blue mist. The tall, darker pines stood out impressively above their smaller neighbors. My eyes followed the river. Its dark waters were scarcely visible between those high walls of rock. Only below the Inter-state Bridge did the waters break into a white foam as they rushed and swirled down a miniature rapids. Farther up was the large white power house which man, that demolisher of natural beauty, had dared to place here. Among the trees on the side of the valley near the power house could be seen the tops of some of the more digniﬁed buildings of the town that is nestled there, apparently unaware of the beautiful nature which surrounds it. Still farther back the sloping, misty, for- est-covered hills seemed to fade into nothing- ness as they blended with the blue sky to form a hazy and indistinct horizon. What a pity, I thought, that more people do not visit this God-made garden of misty beauty! It had thrilled and inspired me so that I was surprised when I came out of my reveries and found myself at the top of this high peak. I felt as though I had found a new friend; a friend without fault. But I would come back to this misty panorama that wore a robe of bluish green and a sparkling dia- mond! I would come back to renew our friendship, and I hoped that my scene would not change, for it was as near perfection as any of my imagined scenes of beauty. Re- luctantly, I tore myself away, to start down the rugged rock path on which I had toiled upward, seemingly an age ago. @ On the Abuse of the English Language F all the words to which I react with pre- judiced animosity, the word “cute” effects me most acutely. Speaking of cute babies and, in the next breath, of a cute man, is insuf- ferable. The babies, of course, who can do nothing in protest, look more adorable than before, but for a man who has been accused of being cute (it must be an accusation and not a compliment) to continue to be so is incomprehensible. Where a certain street and a certain avenue meet in Minneapolis, there stands a house known as “Dream Cottage.” It is cute. The arrangement of the furniture in the sit- ting-room is cute. The girls who live in it are cute. A certain young man who boards there says that they cook cute meals. It has been my delight, on winter, autumn, spring, and summer evenings, to spend an hour with these dreamers, dumplings (from the “Dump” where they used to live), or old maids, as they pretend to be. We have talked of many things over cups of tea and coffee and, last time, it was of “cuteness.” Noah Webster has this to say,——but per- haps it would be well if Webster were studied individually. Given second place in this dic- tionary, with its meaning limited to the .A..- .._.a..r-_...._._- < Ag...
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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 22
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: THE DIAL EDITORIAL STAFF Elm. Fossax, Editor-in-Chief LITERARY EDITORS MATHILDA SAGENG LYDIA HALLING BUSINESS MANAGERS Baum Damn: Om Hanan) FRESHMAN STAFF OLIVER OLSON VALBORG SVERDRUP MAURICE HELLAND ALBERT KNUTSEN Editor-in-Chief __ Literary Editor Business Mana 0 CM Assistant Business Manager ...
Show moreTHE DIAL EDITORIAL STAFF Elm. Fossax, Editor-in-Chief LITERARY EDITORS MATHILDA SAGENG LYDIA HALLING BUSINESS MANAGERS Baum Damn: Om Hanan) FRESHMAN STAFF OLIVER OLSON VALBORG SVERDRUP MAURICE HELLAND ALBERT KNUTSEN Editor-in-Chief __ Literary Editor Business Mana 0 CM Assistant Business Manager ‘Eable of Gontents Det var engang Charles Stangeland ........ “w”-.. Back There in Hawaii _________________________________ _-Abner Batalden ____________ .-__.__ To Man’s Estate George Tangvald .......... _._ That Day Will Come ____________________________________ .mEinar R. Ryden _ ........................ ._ From the Sniff of a Whisk Broom ................. .,Manley Gjerde ___--.__________.__._- A Little Token Lawrence Bueide w ___________________ r- FRESHMAN SECTION On Myself Iver Olson ..__.-,__._..-.._-.__-___- Working on the Extra Gang ....................... -__Joseph Roe] ..... __;_ _______ N Two Crosses .mGrace Jensen ______.____._..._.-. Of a Week at Aunt Ella’s _____________________________ _.Maurice Helland ___._-__....___. On Being Broke Trine Swenson _ _________ _. On Dirt Howard Halvorsen'_-_' ............. a. Of Spring Maurice Helland ____________ _._ Oliver Olson ........ ...__.._..__. Clarence Eliason ......____._.._.__ On Philosophizing Of My Relations A Diary in Slang Emmet Core -.______..-..._....____ The Chosen Valley _______________________________________ ___Luthard Gjerde ________________ -- On the Abuse of the English Language __________ .,Grace Jensen ____________ _.___ Forgetting Grace Jensen ...__._._w--.--__-..__ 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 15 16 17 18 19 Published semi-annually by the literary organizations of Augsburg College, Minneapolis, Minnesota
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Title: The Dial June 1930, Page 23
Collection: Literary Journals

Title: The Dial June 1930, Page 24
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: § 3

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