Coming hrough KAREN AND ROSELLA were wandering about in the attic of their dormitory. Now attics in homes are bad enough, what with webs of this and that kind, occasional mice and layers of dust, but for real excitement there is nothing like the attic in a dormitory. Trunks, boxes, old books,... Show moreComing hrough KAREN AND ROSELLA were wandering about in the attic of their dormitory. Now attics in homes are bad enough, what with webs of this and that kind, occasional mice and layers of dust, but for real excitement there is nothing like the attic in a dormitory. Trunks, boxes, old books, more webs, not infrequent mice and inumer— able layers of dust go to make up a thrilling place after dark, especially with only one flickering candle to wage war on the shades of night. Karen is one of the braver maidens, and Rosella, al- though by nature timid, can be brave too when the occa- sion demands. The two girls were looking for an um- brella that had been packed away. It had been found and the girls were about to grope their way down stairs again when suddenly, Without any warning, Karen’s foot went through the floor, through the plaster, down, and on. N ow she happened to be holding the candle, too, at the same time. Her hand shot up as though she felt the Statue of Liberty shouldn’t be outdone in her sweeping gestures toward the sky. “Oh, Why did I swipe that chocolate cookie from the Dining Hall!” thought Karen. “Well, at least if I break my leg we won’t have that French test tomorrow.” During this brief time Rosella had been undecided whether to stay and say goodby to Karen or to flee while there still was something to flee on. But now she saw that Karen really had decided that halfway through the floor was far enough and had stopped her sudden descent. Now the thought struck her—how would she ever get Karen out if Karen’s leg should be broken. But the lady [Dial] 11 Show less
and so forth. However, when one of these tasks is ready for performance, the performer is nowhere to be found. Needless to say, pay day finds him close at one’s heels. He now looks so agreeable and angelic that one has not the heart to recount his failures to carry out his ap- pointed tasks. He... Show moreand so forth. However, when one of these tasks is ready for performance, the performer is nowhere to be found. Needless to say, pay day finds him close at one’s heels. He now looks so agreeable and angelic that one has not the heart to recount his failures to carry out his ap- pointed tasks. He will beg—nay, entreatr—that he be wakened at seven o’clock sharp. He will even go so far as to suggest that he be lifted bodily out of his bed if he fails to respond to this stimulus. This all takes place the evening be- fore. When the zero hour arrives and he is called, he pays not the slightest heed. When efforts other than vocal are used, he becomes very agitated, and orders in no uncertain terms that the aggressor leave his room. Whereupon he immediately sinks quietly back into the waiting arms of Morpheus. In spite of all this adverse criticism, we love him dear- ly and console ourselves With the analogy that an uncut diamond is a precious stone, but when cut and polished it becomes a rare gem. We honor time. MILDRED CASPERSEN, ’40. {[75611] 23 Show less
have been forced to write from their cells. From time to time, according to custom, we are given paper on which to write our thoughts for the benefit of the out- side world. What should I write, now that it is my turn? I have lost my voice this morning. This is my only means left of talking. What... Show morehave been forced to write from their cells. From time to time, according to custom, we are given paper on which to write our thoughts for the benefit of the out- side world. What should I write, now that it is my turn? I have lost my voice this morning. This is my only means left of talking. What can I say that would help someone out in the world? I can’t describe my life here. The solitude of this heavy, black night is never cut. The emptiness of this life is overpowering. All must give in. N 0 one has ever lived more than a few months in this place. My turn is also coming. I can feel even now that my body is wasting away. That music—music—music. From where does it come? Is it in my ears, and does my weakness betray me already? My limbs are wasting away. The flesh is falling from the creaky, stiff bones. The life is going from this body. Soon death shall come and free me from this misery. Now I sit dumb and count the beads—everything else is gone. MARION LUND, ’39. Prayer The day is done; It is complete. I have sat awhile At Jesus' feet. MARGARET CHRISLOCK, ’40. [Dial] 21 Show less
The Last Sermon DEAR REV. STRONG: We feel that we are speaking in accordance with the wishes of the congregation when we ask you to give up your work as minister in this place. Signed, the Board. That was all—just those few words. But it was all that was necessary to turn the former unspeakable... Show moreThe Last Sermon DEAR REV. STRONG: We feel that we are speaking in accordance with the wishes of the congregation when we ask you to give up your work as minister in this place. Signed, the Board. That was all—just those few words. But it was all that was necessary to turn the former unspeakable joy of the pastor to utter despair. As Reverend Strong sat in his dimly—lit study, he thought of the sermon, his last, which he must speak on the following day. How hard it would be to say good- bye to the people he loved so well—to the work which meant all to him. His chances for new work were gone. He was too old, they said—old at sixty. At the beginning of dawn, a bent, worn figure walked up the path leading to the little church. Faltering slight- ly at the steps, the pastor entered. Having found him- self unable to stay in his study any longer, he had wan- dered to the quiet church. As he walked up the aisle to the altar, he thought of the morrow when he must do so for the last time. His heart ached at the thought. Hun- dreds of times he had walked there, but what a strange and lonely feeling it was when he knew that soon it would be over. There would be some- one else to walk that path, someone else to use the large, [Dial] 27 Show less
EASTER 1 937 T E DIAL VOLUME NINE Publist by the Augsburg College Writers’ Club EDITOR - - - FORREST MONSON ASSOCIATE ED.—MARGAREI‘ Sm Bus. Mam—RANDOLPH PAULSON
Calvary From within Gethsemane, By His Father sent, To the Hill of Calvary, Once our Savior went. There I see Him sufl'ering, Bearing all my sin, Dying His great love to bring To my heart within. I can see the wounds that bled In that bitter hour; How His precious blood was shed, Filled with... Show moreCalvary From within Gethsemane, By His Father sent, To the Hill of Calvary, Once our Savior went. There I see Him sufl'ering, Bearing all my sin, Dying His great love to bring To my heart within. I can see the wounds that bled In that bitter hour; How His precious blood was shed, Filled with cleansing power. Vision hard to understand For the sinful mind; Yet what fills the heart's demand In this Truth I find. M be... Q [Dial] 17 Show less
“Yes, I sang in the Concordia Choir for two years. My range isn’t particularly great but the experience has meant a great deal to me. Do you plan on taking up the ministry?” “No, I don't. I plan to go into medicine after teach- ing a while." “That’s a wonderful profession. One needs Christ... Show more“Yes, I sang in the Concordia Choir for two years. My range isn’t particularly great but the experience has meant a great deal to me. Do you plan on taking up the ministry?” “No, I don't. I plan to go into medicine after teach- ing a while." “That’s a wonderful profession. One needs Christ everywhere and there is no better way of being of ser- vice to humanity in general. That's one of life’s highest objectives.” Thoughtful silence. “I wonder if I might read this chapter on the Gregorian Chant when you are not using the book." “You’re welcome to it now. I was planning to retire soon. Good night. I hope you’ll enjoy it.” “Good night." RANDOLPH PAULSON, ’38. Guidance He took my hand, He clasped it firmly. Who could it be that walked beside me? Lo, He spoke, yet somewhat strangely: “Little child, behold, I’ll lead thee.” MARGARET CHRISLOCK, ’40. [Dial] 9 Show less
Auntie’s Nephew LYNN Awoxr: WITH A START. Sunlight was streaming in on his bed. It must be Easter morning, he thought— but no, it couldn’t be, because Easter was past. 0 yes, now he remembered his dream. He had seen angels be- side a grave. He had seen a man in shining clothes going up into the... Show moreAuntie’s Nephew LYNN Awoxr: WITH A START. Sunlight was streaming in on his bed. It must be Easter morning, he thought— but no, it couldn’t be, because Easter was past. 0 yes, now he remembered his dream. He had seen angels be- side a grave. He had seen a man in shining clothes going up into the sky, and a light shining down from heaven, shining into his face. But there had not always been this light shining. There had been darkness, gloom, and fear. Lynn re- membered yesterday. He had been lying on the couch in grandmother’s parlor. The alternating and occasionally simultaneous “tick—te-tocks” of grandmother’s kitchen clock and bedroom clock, a sound ordinarily so thrilling to the boy, was unusually ominous to him now. His heart throbbed painfully—pounded as if it were trying to “out-beat” the clocks, but to no avail—the regular, yes, horribly regular, “tick-te—tock, tick-te—tock”, went on. The belated dusk of a summer evening was “pulling her wool over the eyes” of the town. As it grew darker, the lump in Lynn’s throat grew bigger. He wouldn’t be able to swallow anymore, he thought—but why didn’t Auntie come? She would spank him of course, but why wait? The town refused to be ensnared by darkness; a light glared forth at each street corner—one of them glared into grandmother’s parlor. The light helped, Lynn thought—but no, the figures on grandmother’s Persian rug began to take on ugly shapes. Lynn trembled. But presently Auntie entered the room and sat down beside him. # t * Yes, Lynn had been a bad boy, there was no doubt about that. He had been happy when Auntie had let him [Dial] 3 Show less
This cup of hope was the only one of joy to which Marit could turn. When circumstances forced her to think of more bitter portions brought by her brother. she would flee out to the release od’ered by the stars at night, and there pour out her woes before her God. She loved Rudy, but the... Show moreThis cup of hope was the only one of joy to which Marit could turn. When circumstances forced her to think of more bitter portions brought by her brother. she would flee out to the release od’ered by the stars at night, and there pour out her woes before her God. She loved Rudy, but the ungratefulness of her brother made it hard. “0 God," Marit prayed. “if somehow I might be used to open a way for him." Soon she was leaving, but the hardest task before her was to leave knowing that the one for whom she thought she would give all was soon ready to drift beyond the reach of his anchor. Supper was finished in silence. Marit tried to eat as if she enjoyed the simple meal, but the lump in her throat made it awkward. “You’ll stay home with me tonight, won’t you brother ?" For an answer, Rudy flung his fork upon the table and left the room. Marit heard him in his room upstairs and she could tell by the sound of his steps that tonight, too. she would be awake until morning when he came back. And what she dreaded most of all was his uncertain steps upon the stairs, and the way he would rest half way up, and the sound of his sleeve rubbing against the wall. In the dark room, Marit sat still for a long time. The clouds parted, letting the moon shine in through the nar- row window. A cricket chirped. Slowly the girl arose. struck a match and lit the smoky lamp. She reached for a well-worn book, opened it and read, “For my love they are my adversaries. But I give myself unto prayer." Then the clouds covered the moon. A cricket chirped. All was still. # t t Two evenings later Marit again went out to the stubbly grass outside the house, but this time there were no chickens to flock around her. No, but she had something else, something richer than she had dreamed of. For as she stood there, looking again to the East, a new vision came before her. She felt it was a greater vision, a 14 [Dial] Show less
Whenlfirstawokeitwascoldmddarhandlwas hungry. I waited for light. but it would not come. I counted the minutes away, and then the hours. I tried to make time go faster. My efl'orts were futile. The harder I worked the more stubborn Time became. I could go on no longer. Soon I heard a scraping noise... Show moreWhenlfirstawokeitwascoldmddarhandlwas hungry. I waited for light. but it would not come. I counted the minutes away, and then the hours. I tried to make time go faster. My efl'orts were futile. The harder I worked the more stubborn Time became. I could go on no longer. Soon I heard a scraping noise and a small slot on the floor opened. A tray was pushed in. I had a meager meal of something that I could not call food. It was just bulk to my deadened senses. The half inch of provided candle would have lasted until I was through eating; it seemed that the air became blacker than ever when in- stead I saved it for future use. It was still, dark, cold, and clammy. I was chilled— chilled with the thick, wet air. I got up and walked around. It was so black that I couldn't see my hand. I held out my arm and stepped cautiously forward. My hand soon found the wall. It was wet soil. Soon it came over me—I was in the great underground prison. the vault of the living dead. By saving the candle scraps for a few days, I finally got enough to make a more careful investigation. I found that a small shaft in the ceiling admitted the only outside air. Of course no light could ever come in. and little of the foul air could go out. I have never been able to determine time. I do not know day from night. The fellow that brings my food is surly. I do not bother often to speak to him. I should like so much to talk with someone, but I have no friends to visit me. At rare intervals one may have company out in the hall —on the other side of the black—out where there must be light. I remember now I heard many years ago that no one can ever again see a human being after once going in this place; one can only hear voices. For- tunately, I don’t have to have company to hear voices; lately, the whole room has been filled with strange voices from nowhere. Now I am given this pen with which I have to write something. I have often read thoughtlessly what others 20 [Dial] Show less
The Living Dead THESE COLD, STU-T FINGERS do not easily grasp this pen in my hand. My fingers no longer move across the page as they should. They seem not a part of this body. The dim, nervous light of the tiny candle shows me that they are becoming claws. A crooked, broken body no longer needs... Show moreThe Living Dead THESE COLD, STU-T FINGERS do not easily grasp this pen in my hand. My fingers no longer move across the page as they should. They seem not a part of this body. The dim, nervous light of the tiny candle shows me that they are becoming claws. A crooked, broken body no longer needs the straight hands of my youth. Claws serve the better to scoop the dank soil; 3 man must do something with his time. I sit here—alone. My mind often goes back to the early days. I see Mother and Father; Father was hard. but his was a cruel life. My body was satisfied. even though I never really lived. I never dared to feel alive inside. Now even my body does cry out in rebellion against God and man. The pangs of cold and hunger and thirst would drive me mad. I used to feel I was mad. This silence was driving me crazy. Now the little voices speak to me. I am never alone. ’. This room is cold. and dark, and dead. My soul is dead. My body is becoming bent and hairy. This Italian prison is hell. I know not how long I have been here. I had often read in the pa- pers that no man lives over six months here. Yet this seems years. ' That night, how long ago . was it now? Oh yes, it was ' her birthday—my Mother's birthday. I must say “Moth- ' er” softly now—the words are too dear to be taken 18 [Dial] Show less
Deep Dark River—A Story of the SouthImId. Author. Robert Rylee. Farrar & Rinehart, N. Y. 308 pages. “DEEP DARK RIVER" is a stirring tale of Mose, a negro with a soul on fire for a living God. The story is writ- ten with deep understanding, an element of humaness. It is a flashlight picture of the... Show moreDeep Dark River—A Story of the SouthImId. Author. Robert Rylee. Farrar & Rinehart, N. Y. 308 pages. “DEEP DARK RIVER" is a stirring tale of Mose, a negro with a soul on fire for a living God. The story is writ- ten with deep understanding, an element of humaness. It is a flashlight picture of the Southland, beautifully colored by the drowsy, happy song of cotton fields, yet infinitely sad. Sad, because these negroes knew no happy song that was not wrung from sadness. The aimless futility of the lives of these folk is brought out in its right proportion by the writer of Deep Dark River. He leaves no facet of that life unturned to show us that truly here has lived a suffering, surrendering. subservient race. The deep, dark river is splendidly symbolic of life ite- self, a limitless stream flowing ever on, mysterious. beau- tiful, subdued at times, yet relentless in its awful, all- inclusive sweep. To me the reading of this story has meant the meet- ing of a character, Mose. There is a certain wholeness about him, a sense of the unity of all life. An abundance of tenderness seemed to permeate his being. He loved his people, and gave wholeheartedly of himself that others might share in his spiritual victory. He met with tragic misfortune at the hands of certain whites. He is torn completely from his happy mode of life, and seems to be crushed utterly under the black heaviness of it all. Yet to the very end, we feel that no matter what might be that darkness, nothing could conquer the glorious spirit of exultation that burned, a steady flame, in the soul of this man Mose. Through imaginative devices and dramatic settings. the author, Rylee, has achieved an atmosphere that is sad, yet infinitely beautiful. One critic has called this story a second Uncle Tom's Cabin, and although it may never reach the renown of the latter, it is undoubtedly one of the masterpieces of recent literature. UNA LE, '38. 32 [Dial] Show less
Pieces Is this life A motley maze of pieces. A queer, confusing heap of hammered metal? I wonder why it is so hard To make the pieces match. It seems that I've been moving them so long! I want a pattern. I thought they'd all slide into place And be a lovely something I could see, And touch, And... Show morePieces Is this life A motley maze of pieces. A queer, confusing heap of hammered metal? I wonder why it is so hard To make the pieces match. It seems that I've been moving them so long! I want a pattern. I thought they'd all slide into place And be a lovely something I could see, And touch, And say to others, "There, you see? That’s what it all should be!" But no, It is not so. I just keep moving, Fumbling, Getting tangled in the pieces. The thread, It must be there! The one, you know, That ties them all together? I’m getting sort of tired. But once I heard A symphony rehearse. To my poor heart it seemed A melody of hope. So I’ll just keep on moving, Fumbling, Getting tangled in the pieces! UNA LE, ’38. 10 [ Dial ] Show less
The Clock THE CLOCK in the kitchen had run down just a few moments ago, making it necessary for me to wind it and set it again. As I did so, I began to think about clocks. If there is anything in this world besides sin and death to which people are slaves, it is to time, that power that seems to... Show moreThe Clock THE CLOCK in the kitchen had run down just a few moments ago, making it necessary for me to wind it and set it again. As I did so, I began to think about clocks. If there is anything in this world besides sin and death to which people are slaves, it is to time, that power that seems to be epitomized in every clock. It is rather annoying to see the overly-confident, mocking face of a clock peering at me from every nook and cranny wherever I go. Often. when I see a clock, I think of it as looking down benign- ly and condescendingly upon the silly and harebrained antics of men, who gallop dizzily hither and thither in the belief that they are extremely busy and that they are using their time unusually well. If you will observe carefully, however, you will find that an hour of waste is often the result of an hour of haste. Any clock must have a hard time to keep down a healthy fit of laughter when observing the time men waste in trying to spend their time well. Every clock would uphold the old adage about haste. Certainly the clock in the tower of the city hall or a similar vantage point would have ample opportunity to test such a well-worn saying. Talking about time—I think that the grandfather clock in the hall, the wall-clock in the kitchen, and the school-clock in the library could tell a host of tales about hours and minutes wasted. Sometimes, when I stand face to face before a clock, I have to blush! Many have ticked the minutes through hours of useless reading, of aimless clatter, or of artless laziness. A clock is almost 30 [Dial] Show less
A Change of Air “OH, WHAT A DAY! What a day !" thought Bert aloud as she sat on the stoop, while her eyes wandered to the road she longed to travel. To her ears came the familiar, but indistinct mutter- ings of Mrs. Hohenschuh who was preparing a savory meal of sauerkraut and sausages in the... Show moreA Change of Air “OH, WHAT A DAY! What a day !" thought Bert aloud as she sat on the stoop, while her eyes wandered to the road she longed to travel. To her ears came the familiar, but indistinct mutter- ings of Mrs. Hohenschuh who was preparing a savory meal of sauerkraut and sausages in the kitchen. The smell (Bert could not call it odor) came in guests through the open door. Secretly she anticipated the coming meal. Mrs. Hohenschuh came to the door. Looking down at her daughter she said anxiously, “You'se tired, Bert. Did I not say you must not work so hard. Ach, it even iss too much, such working, for a big woman like I am even." Bert did not express her disgust as usual, but only sighed a deep, deep sigh. “But mother, it cannot be helped with Arlie so sick and even the doctor saying that he should have a change of air.” Her mother shook her head, “Ach, ya, such a life it is. I will find the hammer, Bert, and the windows open, so he can be getting some change of air.” “Do,” Bert cried, and jumping up she ran into the hot. close room where Arlie was lying pale and thin. She turned to look out of the window, down the road that lay like a ribbon, down the road the doctor had gone and the road she hoped to travel some day soon with Arlie, Maynard, and mother for a change of air. Meanwhile the sun was setting. The odor of sauer- kraut pervaded the entire house, and the man on the bed moved heavily and moaned. INGVALD ROSSING, ’40. 26 [Dial] Show less
worn Bibleonthepulpitsaneoneelsetolightthe candles. Ashereachedthesltsr.hesnnktohiskneescrying. “My God, my God!” Then death he was shown the crucifix of Christ. A divine peace enlightened the (see of the person. That morning, when the parishioners adhered to hour the last sermon to be given by... Show moreworn Bibleonthepulpitsaneoneelsetolightthe candles. Ashereachedthesltsr.hesnnktohiskneescrying. “My God, my God!” Then death he was shown the crucifix of Christ. A divine peace enlightened the (see of the person. That morning, when the parishioners adhered to hour the last sermon to be given by their pastor. they found him lying by the altar, his Bible in his hand. opened to the words, “Come unto me all ye that labour sud are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." His last sermon was now preached. Sm Dunn. '39. 28 [Dial] {.1 Show less
