THE DIHAL VOL. 11 FEBRUARY, 19307 No. 1 EMIL FOSSAN, Editor-in-Chief LITERARY EDITORS BUSINESS MANAGERS MATHILDA SAGENG BERNER DAHLEN LYDIA HALLING OLAF HELLAND 2% @able of Gontents LDOOK‘IK‘IO)O1CJT>>WN H O H N H [\3 H 00 H p H C21 SIGNS OF GOD P. A. Sveeggen THE FATHER OF THE MAN ______________... Show moreTHE DIHAL VOL. 11 FEBRUARY, 19307 No. 1 EMIL FOSSAN, Editor-in-Chief LITERARY EDITORS BUSINESS MANAGERS MATHILDA SAGENG BERNER DAHLEN LYDIA HALLING OLAF HELLAND 2% @able of Gontents LDOOK‘IK‘IO)O1CJT>>WN H O H N H [\3 H 00 H p H C21 SIGNS OF GOD P. A. Sveeggen THE FATHER OF THE MAN _________________________________________ -George Tangvald THE TIDE ______________________________ “Maurice Helland ON A SUMMER EVENING ____ _- .__._Valborg Sverdrup PRO ET POST Grace Jensen “PUPPIES” John N ordberg SPRINGTIME _,_..Lawrence Bneide SUPPLICATION ______ _. Grace Jensen ON BEING ALONE -_ Grace Jensen THE PRINCE OF PEACE __._,Lawrence Buez‘de ABERRATIONS? ._ ____ _. _ Norman Anderson SONNETS ____________________________ “Orville Knutson THOSE GOOD OLD DAYS - . Manley Gjerde GROWING PAINS ,Berner Dahlen OF WRITING ESSAYS _ Grace Jensen WAS IT ONLY A DREAM? ___.Lyd'£a Halling WHEN DAY IS DONE _ Grace Jensen H O} Published semi-annually by the literary organizations of Augsburg College Minneapolis, Minnesota. age»? Show less
THE DIAL 9 that must be banished in heedless pleasure —-only to terrify us again with quiet insis— tence. I am never quite so lonely as when I am at a party, and I would like to think that there is a difference between being lonely and alone. Alone, I have a world which con- cerns me intimately:... Show moreTHE DIAL 9 that must be banished in heedless pleasure —-only to terrify us again with quiet insis— tence. I am never quite so lonely as when I am at a party, and I would like to think that there is a difference between being lonely and alone. Alone, I have a world which con- cerns me intimately: a world of books, of poetry, of music, of my ideals and philosophy of life; a peak where I can gain a perspec- tive, though yet apart from the action. When lonely I am thrown into a sphere which does not interest me; there is no contact with my surroundings. I am plainly bored. (When you are homesick, analyze and see if that is not your condition.) When I am alone, I can be honest with myself. That, at least, is an honorable goal for which to strive. @ The Prince of Peace LAWRENCE BUEIDE, ’31 WOT many welcomed Thee to earth, Thou great incarnate Word, And Bethlehem in blindness failed To own her new-born Lord. ’T was in a stable—for no inn Would ope its doors to Thee— Thou wert received a welcome guest By utter poverty. Thou came to men of humble heart— For they had need of Thee— And made them rich with joy and peace In Thy nativity. Come now to us with peace and love To banish doubt and fear, And bring to naught the power of sin That often grieves us here. We hail Thy coming, Prince of Peace, This happy Christmas day. Our hearts we give to be Thy throne, And gladly own Thy sway. W. Show less
The Father Of The Man GEORGE TANGVALD, ’29 (6‘0 have been born is a distinction that most people claim. But to have been born in a sod shanty—on April 1, is an honor that the gods do not hand out every day. The fact that this favor has been shown me, al- though it has not won me any laurels yet,... Show moreThe Father Of The Man GEORGE TANGVALD, ’29 (6‘0 have been born is a distinction that most people claim. But to have been born in a sod shanty—on April 1, is an honor that the gods do not hand out every day. The fact that this favor has been shown me, al- though it has not won me any laurels yet, has at least kept me from becoming an alder- man. To recount all the vicissitudes of my long and speckled career is not my intention. I shall merely relate some outstanding in- cidents from my childhood. When my father was told that I resembled him, his heart went out with compassion. Trying to console my mother, he remarked a little absent-mindedly, “Well, anyway, he has your hair.” Then he started as he noted that I had inherited his baldness, and ad- j ourned grinning sheepishly.* It may be well to mention here that my parents had long been thinking of a name for me. In fact, on the desk in my father’s study was a list that ran about as follows: Ellen Louise, Hester, Evangeline, Elizabeth, and Camilla. But when Camilla arrived, they thought he might resent such an ap- pellation; and immediately they began scour- ing thru poetry, fiction, and mythology for a name more nearly approximating the gen- der. To find a satisfactory name was not the easy task that it had been previously, for now grim reality stared them in the face. How could they do me justice? That was the question. But my considerate parents decided to use, not justice, but mercy. Thus it happens that my name is not Loki. In- stead, I received the cognomen that is uni- versally associated with cherry trees, hatchets, and veracity. But since there were only cottonwoods on our farm, I never saw any occasion for being truthful. "' My nurse to whom I owe all my information about my birth and early childhood is a very trust- worthy and veracious old lady. “In delay there lies no plenty." So my parents soon began planning a career for me. My father wanted me to be a minister, but my fond mother insisted that I become president. He, being tenderhearted, yielded to her importunities, but on this condition, that I run on the Republican ticket. I, being too young to have any strong convictions in politics, made no protest. I early became proud of the fact that my father had been named after me. One day, when I was about five years old, he took me with him-fencing. I made myself useful by handing him hammers, staples, and sundry other implements. When the fence was put up, I surveyed with pleasure the handiwork which he had helped me complete. When we had returned home and were putting away the hammers and staples, I addressed my father thus, “Well, George, I guess we did a pretty good job.” He looked at me. That was the last time I called him George. In the fall of that same year life began in earnest. One morning my mother woke me early. In one hand she had a pair of shiny new boots with copper toe-caps; slung across her arm was a pair of regular “he-man” overalls with honest-to-goodness suspenders. I rubbed my eyes in wonder and delight. “Get up, you must get ready for school.” My heart sank. I realized then that blessings never come unalloyed. Yes, I was still in the vale of tears. That my mother kissed me when she sent me off did not improve matters. But, as I trod along, I gradually forgot the indignity I had suffered. On my way I passed two- men who were breaking stones in a nearby field. I thought of the five-pound tobacco box in which my lunch was neatly packed. They would, of course, ask me for some to- bacco. I would refuse politely, but firmly. Imagine my chagrin when they didn’t even look up. Well, they’d be sorry some day. Show less
Of Writing Essays GRACE JENSEN, ’33 I wish I could write essays that don’t taste like—~well, like “lutefisk” when one does not like it. Some people write on inspiration. My problem has always been to get inspired at the right time. I have felt inspired to write poetry in church, but I seriously... Show moreOf Writing Essays GRACE JENSEN, ’33 I wish I could write essays that don’t taste like—~well, like “lutefisk” when one does not like it. Some people write on inspiration. My problem has always been to get inspired at the right time. I have felt inspired to write poetry in church, but I seriously doubt that the minister would appreciate the compli- ment of my wandering thoughts. The other night I woke up in the wee hours and must needs go through the life history of the three or four cats and the one or th0 dogs with which I had had intimate acquaintance. My bitterness increases when I realize what those unfortunate victims, my classmates, will have to suffer as a result of my mid- night soliloquies. Essay writing may be an ordeal, or it may be a delight. It is an ordeal, certainly, if one “grabs” a subject, gets feverish over it, and tries to write something in half an hour, just because one must. Not every one is gifted in self-expression by way of pen and ink, but, if one is, good essays do not come in thirty minutes. They have seemed, to me, to be the product of the lifetime of the person who has written them. Letter writing is one form of original com- position in which we all indulge, to a greater or less degree. We have all received letters in which the words were as heavy and as awkward as shovels, and others in which it seemed as if the writer were speaking direct- ly to us. Ever since I was ten years old, I have had an extensive and varied correspon- dence. What a wealth of literature or rub- bish two cents, or five, may bring to one’s door! This'comes from Canada: “These prairies, covered with lanky, un- kempt grass, and ragged small bushes; this wind—so keen, so buoyant, so boisterous and happy that it seems to fill you with strength and courage and the desire to do great things; the wheat fields, rippling with light and shadow, like green lakes; this fragrant air; these glorious sunsets; these vast skies with their million stars, far brighter than any that shine above your roaring city! Far and above all, this freedom, this healing sil- ence, this peace that the lonely prairies give l” This from Australia: “I might add that it was fearfully cold, and Aunty and I lay on deck well wrapt in rugs, while Uncle kept us well supplied with hot water bottles. The waves crashed over the deck and swirled beneath our chairs. . . . I went to my cabin fairly late that night. The ship was pitching and heaving and doing the ‘Charleston’, and when I awoke next morning I felt a great deal worse than I would care to admit.” From such correspondents as these, I have received a wider interest in many things and the will to try, at least, to wield my words as gracefully as they have done. One who has seen a sunset, heard a water- fall, or felt an evening breeze; one who has seen children playing on the street, or lovers strolling on a wooded path; one who has felt a falling leaf, or seen a budding tree, must have something about which to write. They are there. We fail to see their beauty, or, finding it, grope blindly for words with which to mirror them to others. Trying to write poetry is a very good ex- ercise, if one has an imagination, a waste- basket, and a sense of humor. The result frequently jingles rather than harmonizes, but the world does not weep over what is not published. So I write on. Those who write because of an inner “I must,” instead of an outer “Thou shalt,” will not have misunderstood another “lutefisk” essay. “r A 5....-. “on; Am “a. At... C.:M‘""‘ 1 Show less
Aberrations? NORMAN ANDERSON, ’30 0 the still sleepy student sallying forth to satisfy the cravings of the natural man over at “The Club”, the journey, now- adays, is like taking a plunge into the chilly waters of a mountain stream. Both acts are usually means towards desirable ends; both,... Show moreAberrations? NORMAN ANDERSON, ’30 0 the still sleepy student sallying forth to satisfy the cravings of the natural man over at “The Club”, the journey, now- adays, is like taking a plunge into the chilly waters of a mountain stream. Both acts are usually means towards desirable ends; both, likewise, require a good deal of mustering of courage; and both, finally, in their con- summation, well repay the sufferer for his pains. Though the actual distance from North Hall, facetiously dubbed the “wooden-men’s dorm” because of its frame construction, to Old Main, which houses the college refectory, is but a scant two-hundred feet, to our hesi- tant student, standing coatless and hatless at the door, it looms vastly greater. Mentally he surveys the icy path to gastronomical satisfaction that he must tread, and already he cringes in anticipation of the bite of sharp North Wind. And he wonders if Lindbergh in the cockpit of his plane before taking off on that epoch-making flight, didn’t feel just about the same as he himself does now. But hold! Has our friend’s imagination grown suddenly over-fertile, or are his senses still befogged by Morpheus? Why! snow, ice, and wind are no common enemies of comfort today. They have lost their usual forms and characteristics and have become living, tangible antagonists who await his coming to the arena (that was the campus) and will battle him to death! He, too, catches the spirit and is no more the common man. Gone are the habiliments of the scholar. In their place are the ac- coutrements of a medieval warrior. Vanish- . ed, too, has Peer Fanseer, the pale stripling, and in his place stands Conqueror, a sturdy warrior and seeker of higher things, but whose immediate wants are frustrated by mighty foemen. “Why,” he meditates, half aloud, “not even Christian had sterner or craftier opponents than these. “Take Sir Cold Blast, for example, lurk- ing there, just around the corner. He’s able to freeze whole lakes and rivers at a breath, and he’s come all the way from the frigid North to fight me! “And there’s Sir Icy Walk, sleek and treacherous beneath his thin covering of snow in the road that I must travel. He would laugh in derision to see me tripped up. Sir Snow Bank is powerful, too. He must be the Slough of Despond. I know he's Icy Walk’s best ally. But I’ll fight them—- all of them, and I’ll win the victory l” So Conqueror strides forth. Cold Blast’s first breath is as cool as the hand of death and fairly strangles him. Conqueror hurls his javelin with terrific speed full at the face of his windy enemy, but in vain. Cold Blast is as sound as ever and advances to envelop him in a cloud that sends prickly chills up and down his spine. How Cold Blast can bite! Still Conqueror fights onward. Sir Snow Bank is met at every step, and, thrust as hard as he may, Conqueror cannot subdue him. In fact, Snow Bank seems to whisper an accompaniment to every crunching step Conqueror takes. This is its substance, “I’ll get you yet, I’ll get you yet l” Only Icy Walk is silent. He seems to exult in anticipation as he leers up at Conqueror. Now he is in the midst of his journey. He walks stiff-legged, like a mastiif sidling up to a strange bulldog. Icy Blast has numbed him through and through, and clings to him like a leech. But the lights ahead gleam brightly through the gloom. Soon Conqueror will be at the king’s table, feasting merrily on the fat of the land and proclaiming loudly his victories over these tenacious enemies. There will be sweet mu- sic too, and fair maidens to smile up at him Show less
“ 4 "' “"“¢~A-—-'W “.me «a. .«~\».. ~_......... v THE DIAL 5 tors appreciated effort, even if intelligence were lacking. “Ingen kan tjene to herrer” was one of the sentences which I was re- quested to translate. This would be simple for those who understood Norwegian, but to someone who did not,... Show more“ 4 "' “"“¢~A-—-'W “.me «a. .«~\».. ~_......... v THE DIAL 5 tors appreciated effort, even if intelligence were lacking. “Ingen kan tjene to herrer” was one of the sentences which I was re- quested to translate. This would be simple for those who understood Norwegian, but to someone who did not, it looked complicated. I had often heard my father speak of her- ring, and I knew that it was some kind of fish. So, even though I was not certain, I thought that perhaps the sentence meant, “N 0 one can catch two herring.” I hesitated to write this down, as it sounded rather strange, for surely, one can catch two fish. When I came home that evening, I asked my father if this were what it meant. He looked at me rather surprised for a second, and then he became very serious. Trans- lated, that line means, “No one can serve two masters.” Now, he is giving me special les- sons in Norse, whenever he can spare the time, and maybe, in the future, “J eg taler og forstaar norsk.” Meanwhile, I travel the pathway of the humble, for I have not yet qualified for the higher ways. __._¢<$¢>,.__._ An Episode from Life LUTHARD GJERDE, ’33 AWN had been glorious. Its soft mel- low glow had turned the stretching unevenness of snow drifts into an ocean of rose-tinted waves. Now the sky above was unusually clear and of such a deep blue as is rarely seen. It seemed that a perfect day was in the making. A young woman was gazing from the small, square window of a modest but neat- ly-kept farm house. She was strangely hap- py on this morning. She hummed to her— self as she picked the dry leaves from a tall rose plant that was her pride. Two deep red rose blossoms had been the reward for the pains she had taken in caring for it. With her husband, she had spent the past eight years on the farm on the rich prairies of mid-western Montana. Life had been quiet, but she had been happy in her own way. Her two children were the joy of her life. She was sending them off to school. The children, Betty and George, were radiant as their winter shoes crunched over the snow on the path toward the schoolhouse, just a mile distant and plainly visible. She smiled then, as they waved their mittened hands. Her eyes fell to the roses in the windows, and she thought how beautiful they were. The day had begun perfectly. But during the forenoon there came to be a tense feel- ing in the air; not an evil foreboding, but a feeling of the presence of something more than man. A dark wall of cloud had come up in the northwest. When she first saw it, she called to her husband. His experience with the prairie told him to prepare for a lasting and powerful storm. His first thought was of his children, and immediately he set off toward the schoolhouse. He was aware of a rolling ominousness in the lowering clouds as he hastened along. With the fright- ened children beside him, he turned his face toward the little habitation that meant so much to him. When he had gone about half the distance, a hush came over the earth. Not a breeze—not a snowflake in the still air. He knew What it meant—and it put panic into his brave heart. The loosened fury of winter was upon them in all its mysterious power and hope- lessness. The force of it came as a stagger- ing blow to the father who had taken his two children in his arms, and was defying the Show less
THE DIAL 15 ment out of hearing myself—a doubly selfish pleasure that is, for I do not consider the effect my “singing” may have on others. To be fair to myself, I must state that I do my most enthusiastic singing when I am alone in the house. Then I bellow forth in a thun- derous bass some... Show moreTHE DIAL 15 ment out of hearing myself—a doubly selfish pleasure that is, for I do not consider the effect my “singing” may have on others. To be fair to myself, I must state that I do my most enthusiastic singing when I am alone in the house. Then I bellow forth in a thun- derous bass some majestic and dramatic piece, or sentimentally, and with a sob in my voice, croon O, elsk mig litt! to my mirror. Washing dishes ceases to be a chore when you set commonplace conversation to oper- atic tunes. There is something which bor- ders on the sublime in such choice bits of music as “When, oh when, will you rinse the dishes,” (delivered dramatically in a re- sonant baritone), or a coloratura soprano trilling forth in reply, “How can I, how can I, when the rinsing water isn’t hot yet?” Of course it is frightfully barbarian to admit it, but I get just as much enjoyment out of hearing this opera (1 la Kitchen as I do when listening to a group of professional singers pouring forth a steady stream of passion in a language which I do not understand. And, of course, the home product is infinitely less expensive. There is nothing like a bit of music as an interlude in an evening of assiduous study. Just stop your work, stand erect, throw out your chest, throw back your head and bel- low or trill forth (as the case may be) some favorite song, and see how much good it does you, and if you have a room-mate re- member “music hath charms” . . . . but use discretion. ——<¢¢>>F—— On Inferiority Complexes MATHILDA SAGENG, ’31 INFERIORITY complexes! Many people scoff at the idea of them and say that they are all humbug; but I know better than that. But then—why should I not, for I have one myself and can speak from ex- perience. I guess I have always been more or less conscious of it, but, not until I came to college, did I learn that this miserable feel- ing had such an imposing name. I am sure we had something about infer- iroity complexes in pschology, but I cannot recall just what it was. And then we learned about them in sociology, too. For one thing —“that they are caused by lack of adjust- ment to one’s environment.” That may be so, but I am quite sure it is not the cause in my case. There was also a great deal about psychosis—whatever that is—and psychoan- alysis. One thing is certain—I did not have to go to any psychoanalyst to discover mine. If you are not conscious of having one, do not try to discover one; because even though you may at times enjoy ill health, you cer— tainly never will be able to enjoy an infer- iority complex. If I were asked what causes them, I would immediately reply that they are caused by the mean habit some people have of always “rubbing in” things which they ought to have sense enough to keep still about. For instance, when I was a child, there was a time when I did not grow (in height) very much. Whenever I met people whom I had not seen for some time, they would always and invariably say that I had not grown at all since the last time they saw me. Then they would compare me with my cousin who was my age but several inches taller than I. That, of course, “brought home” the fact more clearly than ever that I was destined to be almost, if not quite, a midget. If I had only known then what I know now, I might have been saved a lot of heartache by ex- plaining to these “solicitous” people that I Show less
THE DIAL 19 come over and take a nibble at Midas’ heels. The response was instantaneous; a growl, a snap, and the calf made one great jump and was gone—wagon and all. When the vari- ous parts of the combination were recovered they were well separated from each other, but the only damage done was... Show moreTHE DIAL 19 come over and take a nibble at Midas’ heels. The response was instantaneous; a growl, a snap, and the calf made one great jump and was gone—wagon and all. When the vari- ous parts of the combination were recovered they were well separated from each other, but the only damage done was to the wagon and harness, and that only slight. After that the summer passed away very quietly for both us and Midas. We drove him as much as we had time for, and he was always ready to serve. Little did we realize how soon this happy state would end. When we were not present, father and mother had agreed that Midas was a terrible gardener and a worse horticulturist; and that since he was hardly ever in the pasture, he was too much of a nuisance to have around. Conse- quently, when there was need of meat, Midas was the one to suffer for it. That was a sad day for us, and it took a long time to forget our sorrow over his death. -———<<£>€>>——— The Higher Learning MANLEY GJERDE, ’31 F I should seek for knowledge -.And wisdom try to find, Then must I not find limits In my little human mind; There is more to life than learning Though the mind must have its part, The deepest things are only known In the chambers of the heart. Should I seek to know life’s problems, 07' try to understand The ways of life and living In this busy earthly land; Or should I help my fellowmen Through hardship and through strife, Then must I know the deeper things That go to make up life. And so, if I should try to know What this life really is, Then must I learn to know my God And bend my will to His; Then must I seek His guidance And implore His tender care Then must I learn to love Him And commune with Him in prayer. Show less
8 THE DIAL Once more we must be off. Soon we are following the faint jingle of the bell of the strange procession which has just preceded us. By the wayside a leper, his nose half gone, his eyes two uncertain holes, sends a child after us to beg. Further on a young man, who might have been so fine... Show more8 THE DIAL Once more we must be off. Soon we are following the faint jingle of the bell of the strange procession which has just preceded us. By the wayside a leper, his nose half gone, his eyes two uncertain holes, sends a child after us to beg. Further on a young man, who might have been so fine and strong, wants money with which to buy food. We pass him by. The glassy eyes, the wasted form, the sallow skim—all proclaim him an opium fiend who would be willing to sell his wife or child to enable him to satisfy for a moment that craving which has robbed him of his manhood. ‘ t . Mother tells us that in America poppies grow in gardens. What a distant country that seems to us, as we roll along a dusty road in Cathay. We will always be the children of the Orient, for we have loved its people through our childhood; its ancient cities, with their crooked streets and alleys, have been our home; its ancient history is our heritage; its future will be our delight. % “%__*_ My Kikung Hills GRACE JENSEN, ’33 ANY a cottage empty stands, No garden tended by loving hands, All, all is still. Down in the valley the cataracts roar, Thunder forever, flow on as before,— But we have gone. Softly, the wind sobs its way through the trees, Answering pine cones commune with the breeze,— Yet none can hear. Sweetly, the violets that sleep in the shade, Lift tear-stained faces the dew-drops have made,— And no one sees. Then, gently lifting, heavy with pain, The damp mists rise and bring the rain That no one feels. No more I see them; covered they lie, Down in the valley a train crawls by My Kikung Hills. Show less
A Village Constable BERTHA LILLEHEI, ’34 A village constable is one to whom the upholding of the law furnishes an out- let for his deep-rooted chivalry, a fulfillment of youthful dreams, a ballast to his hopes for the future, an excellent opportunity for ad- ventures, a chance for fame, and a... Show moreA Village Constable BERTHA LILLEHEI, ’34 A village constable is one to whom the upholding of the law furnishes an out- let for his deep-rooted chivalry, a fulfillment of youthful dreams, a ballast to his hopes for the future, an excellent opportunity for ad- ventures, a chance for fame, and a needed sustenance for himself and his family. This office may not seem to furnish visible proofs of its value to the village constable, but it still is there. He differs very little from the “city con- stables” in that he very often exhibits a pe- culiar fondness for his morning nap. Of course, his strenuous work of the evening before, when he either had to lead home the little white-stockinged youngster who was being chased by the town bully, or had to subdue the unusually bothersome alley dog, will be sufficient reason for his untimely nap. He partakes of breakfast at noon, dons his uniform proudly, strolls down main street and into the village drug store. Here you may be positive of finding him nearly any time of the day after his nap. He reads, con- spicuously, of the wonderful exploits of his brother workers, expounds at length on his newly discovered plan for trapping would-be “speed fiends,” whom he never sees, and puffs his enormous, foul, black pipe. He ter— rorizes the insignificant and grovels before “high hats.” This, as a matter of course, is business shrewdness, and not a shunning of the law! Others are sure to find out all the ups and downs of police life through the ages when the constable is “wound up.” He is invited to social functions. His suit very seldom fits, but what is that when he works for his country? His words are woe- fully lacking from Webster’s. Yet, he pro- tects the village from all danger and trouble, and he keeps the tongues, one at least, a- stirring! In that village constable, therefore, we see, perhaps, an unknown greatness, an un- plumbed depth for heroism, and an unsus- pected capacity for social and civic leader- ship. __I_¢<$.$>>__ On My Other Father MARTHA ROSSING, ’34 S a child I suppose I was as innocent as children generally are. My father has suggested that I was “spoiled”. At that my mother will smile apologetically. If I had been, it surely was not her fault. Whose fault could it be? Father and mother de- bated upon that question until I piped out, “I know! My other father.” That, I thought, removed the blame from my present father. Father looked at mother quizzically, and mother looked at him. She laughed joyously as she cried, “Yes, the other father is to blame.” ' I did not consider the possibility of wound- ing my parents’ feelings by inadvertently speaking of my other father. Apparently they did not mind my mentioning him. Mother always laughed, and father slapped his thigh in glee. My brothers and sisters never made any distinction between my father and my other father. They had called both father and spoke with as much familiarity and respect to the one as they had to the other. I did not notice that they were particularily shy at first. If I had thought about that, I should have attributed my own shyness to my nature. Show less
6 THE DIAL storm to harm them. He had difficulty in getting his breath because of the force of the wind. But he kept doggedly on and made progress in spite of the storm, which enveloped and tore at him. He was still on the path and wondered why the narrow gate by the house never came. Suddenly,... Show more6 THE DIAL storm to harm them. He had difficulty in getting his breath because of the force of the wind. But he kept doggedly on and made progress in spite of the storm, which enveloped and tore at him. He was still on the path and wondered why the narrow gate by the house never came. Suddenly, the realization of it all came to him. He was walking in a circle and following his own tracks. Stunned by the discovery he tried to break into a run. He wanted to run—- but the storm would not let him. He fought on and on, putting every ounce of his strength to work against the cruel storm. Another shock came when he spoke to his Betty and his George—there was no an- swer. It must be too cold for them. He tried to think; but that wind, and biting cold, and the driving snow that stung and blinded him was too strong. Hours of this seemed to pass, and he had come to the rea- lization that his Betty and his George were no longer suffering. He thought of his wife -—but he was doing his best. He broke into a sob and with a superhuman burst of strength he quickened his pace into a broken run. There was something beside him in the snow —the little gate which Betty and George had passed through on their way to school in the morning. His wife would be waiting ,—but what had he to bring to her? She was standing by the storm-shattered window. Her tear-streamed face showed that she had been more than anxious. As he sank into unconsciousness the last thing before his eyes was the rose plant—and its two deep red blossoms had wilted and were bowing their heads. . . . ‘ *v—hr 12%— Prayer ANNA PEDERSON, ’33 HOULD I be tempted to complain, If Thou in wisdom send as rain When sunshine was my heart’s desire; My weakness lead me, Lord, to see, And help me rise above it. Should I be tempted to perform An unkind deed, some night or morn, That worldly treasure I might gain; My folly lead me, Lord, to see, And help me rise above it. Should I be tempted to reveal In anger, envy, or revenge, An unkind tale about a friend; My selfishness lead me to see, And help me rise above it. Should I be tempted to refrain To seek Thee, God, and praise Thy name, Because I feared (mother’s scorn; My sin, Oh Lord, lead me to see, And help me rise above it. i .j gunman LR“! . Show less
16 THE DIAL had reached a “plateau of growth,” and that some people are destined to be taller than others. Another experience of a similar kind, which I am sure I shall never forget, seems almost ridiculous now; but it, too, helped to give me my inferiority complex. My parents had a small... Show more16 THE DIAL had reached a “plateau of growth,” and that some people are destined to be taller than others. Another experience of a similar kind, which I am sure I shall never forget, seems almost ridiculous now; but it, too, helped to give me my inferiority complex. My parents had a small photograph of my older sister and me. It was a terrible picture, but, of course, it had its place in the family album, so was seen by all who ever came to the house. I was unfortunate enough to have white hair and very, very little of it, so I looked almost bald-headed. That was the point of attack. They would look at the pic— ture, look up at me, and shake their heads —most often adding that it certainly would be a pity if I had to go through life with only a few straggly strands of white hair. Oh, the worry this caused me; and how I wished that my hair had only been dark like my sister’s, so that they then could, at least, have seen the little I did have. There are many other similar experiences which helped to inculcate deeper into my being the knowledge that I was not quite like other beings—giving me just sort of a “shrinking up" feeling whenever I met peo- ple. I could always do my best when I was alone, because then I could be unconscious of all my faults, failings, and peculiarities. Because of these experiences, I can say that inferiority complexes are not humbug. Far from it—they are very real; and, try as you may, you cannot get rid of them. Of course, I must say that education and ex- perience alleviate them somewhat, but I know that I shall never be able wholly to overcome self-consciousness. I might philosophize about my inferiority complex, possibly bringing out some good ef- fects of it, but this, according to sociology is dangerous procedure as it may result in a “disintegrated personality." A better point of view might be to be proud of my complex, because at present it seems to be fashionable to have a complex of some kind or other— perhaps I am fortunate. A more consoling thought, however, was expressed by a writer some time ago. He said that one can be thankful for an infer- iority complex—thankful that it is not a superiority complex. mas»— Caritas Dei LAWRENCE BUEIDE, ’31 Wow great- the love of God must be, How infinitely strong, That it can lift Immunity And turn its woe to song! More pure, by far, than whitest snow, More beautiful and fair Than all the good the angels know— The Gethsemane prayer. ’T was love that led the Savior down Unto a dying race, That all who will, might ever own The Father’s boundless grace. And oh, how tenderly His heart Doth feel our slightest pain! How fully He doth quench sin’s smart, And man is whole again! Show less
How a Freshman Keeps Humble RUTH Osmrws, ’34 NTERING college in the ranks of the freshman class, may have its compensa- tions, but it also has its drawbacks. I came to Augsburg with a desire to learn something, and a few things are now locked in the archives of my mind. There they shall remain... Show moreHow a Freshman Keeps Humble RUTH Osmrws, ’34 NTERING college in the ranks of the freshman class, may have its compensa- tions, but it also has its drawbacks. I came to Augsburg with a desire to learn something, and a few things are now locked in the archives of my mind. There they shall remain till its walls crumble and de- cay. Freshman are poverbially supposed to make mistakes, but it is not necessary to make as many as I did. My brother and I were registering, when a gentleman walked up and cordially greeted us and inquired our names. My brother responded by asking him if he were one of the instructors. An interested listener hastened to tell us that we were addressing the president of the college. An introduction to him was not a bad way to start one’s educational career. Soon after this, I went to an English class, where the instructor informed us that we were to read some essays. He assigned for study, Montaigne’s “Of Friendship” and also mentioned some essays by Grace Jen- sen and Iver Olson, who, I imagined, must be some modern essay writers, of whom I had never heard. I had often been told that the best way to start out a new term was to study your lessons, at least, the first few assignments. I was open to advice, so I pro- ceeded to the library, and asked for some essays by Grace Jensen, Montaigne, or Iver Olson; it did not make any difference to me. The assistant librarian seemed puzzled for a moment; then he laughed, and brought me the “Dial”. I still did not understand his unseemly mirth and hoped I would not have that effect on everyone. As I began to read, I discovered the “Dial” to be a college publication, and in it, I saw the names, Grace Jensen and Iver Olson, with “ ’33” inscribed beneath them. As comprehension broke through the cloud, I began to notice the tem- perature in the library. It seemed very warm and uncomfortable. I read the essays in suffocated silence, trying to concentrate on the subject matter in them, rather than to think of myself. Did all seniors have an ignominous past like mine would be? I pursued among other studies, Norwe- gian, and it was a breath-taking pursuit as far as I was concerned. Every time I at- tempted to answer a question or interpret a sentence, I could be depended upon to get the wrong meaning or roll the wrong let- ters around my tongue. Norse was the me- dium of my forefathers, but how they ever understood one another, baffled me. My in- structor was very patient and did not seem half as discouraged as I felt about my ever learning the language. Every day I became deeper and deeper en- tangled in an amazing amount of words which I neither understood nor could prd nounce correctly. The thought of an impend- ing mid-quarter examination filled me with dread. I studied the vocabulary, but the words just would not stick in my American mind. Then, those little articles before the words annoyed me. What difierence did it make, anyway, whether one said “en” or “et”? Much against my earnest hopes and wishes, the mid-quarter examination arrived. I took a look at the questions and groaned inwardly, for I did not know the answers to any of them. Nevertheless, I answered every question, as I had heard that instruc- Show less
THE DIAL 13 In those days I used to run away and pout, because my brothers would openly laugh at me. If anything is embarrassing, it is to be laughed at by one’s own brothers. I secretly hoped that they would be reprimanded. I still cherish a bit of resentment. They might at least have told me,... Show moreTHE DIAL 13 In those days I used to run away and pout, because my brothers would openly laugh at me. If anything is embarrassing, it is to be laughed at by one’s own brothers. I secretly hoped that they would be reprimanded. I still cherish a bit of resentment. They might at least have told me, so that they could not torture me for the rest of my life. I was my father’s handy-man. When I trailed along, I would tell him all about my other father. When I helped him repair the fence, I told him that my other father would not let me steady the staples as he fastened them. Father would not let me either. He told me it would hurt my fingers. It would not do to hurt my fingers. I remarked that my other father had let me put them in place. Once he let me pound as he held the staple. Father laughed and looked at his hand. I wondered why he should do that. One of my favorite pastimes was playing with my father’s nose. My other father’s nose was crooked, because I had twisted it so much. I was glad my father’s nose was crooked, so that I could not make it worse than it was. My other father’s kisses tickled. I noticed later that the reason for this was his long beard. This beard had undoubtedly been the cause of many of his miserable moments. I had pulled it, twisted it, or braided it as I pleased. He must have been very patient. Father remarked once that he could never bear it. If he ever had a long beard, I should be careful about pulling it. My father had no beard. It was the lack of one that made me think I had two fathers. When mother told me that my father and my other father had always been the same per- son, I wept bitterly. I seemed to have lost a friend. I hoped for a long time that it was not true, but it was only too true. I have never had more than one father. ———<>———— A Self—Made Man Who Worship His Maker ERNEST G. ANDERSON, ’34 E have many species of self-made men, but one is outstanding: the man who is unable to forget his success. He is con- tinually lighting fires at the shrine of his great god, HIMSELF, meanwhile chanting a litany of praise that is full of self-adora- tion. He never wearies of telling those un- fortunates who happen to be present when he performs his devotions how great a man he is, and how mightily he hath wrought. It becomes a passion with him that all men shall know that he is a self—made man, one who has reached the pinnacle without the help or favor of anyone. He appears to be obli-_ vious of any greater Power in the destinies of men as he speaks of his wisdom, com- mends his foresight, or applauds his master- strokes. He never fails to point out the ex- tent of his achievements nor to make invidi- ous comparisons with some lesser fortunate “So—and-So.” This, strangely enough, leads him to recount his acts of mercy, revealing the generosity of nature which prompted him to give a dime where a dollar was need- ed! There is such a remarkable mutual un- derstanding among his various parts that his right hand never fails to inform the left hand of what it has just done. This, of course, is a great and useful trait to a self- made man, for he can always be assured of full recognition for all he doeth. For ex- ample, he may have given to the poor out of his superfluity, and is thereby entitled to praise. If no one bespeaks this generous deed, it can be quickly made known by his Show less
Scenes from Cathay GRACE JENSEN, ’33 HE dusty road winds onward toward the city, the walls of which rise dimly in the distance. On either side, the fields of poppy and of wheat stretch away toward the hills. A man with sandals, a plain two- pieced suit of cotton indigo, and a broad— brimmed straw... Show moreScenes from Cathay GRACE JENSEN, ’33 HE dusty road winds onward toward the city, the walls of which rise dimly in the distance. On either side, the fields of poppy and of wheat stretch away toward the hills. A man with sandals, a plain two- pieced suit of cotton indigo, and a broad— brimmed straw hat pushes a barrow loaded with coal before him. Always luring him on is the protesting falsetto squeak of the large wheel, a wheel which has travelled noisily over many miles. If the wind were favor- able, a sail would be hoisted to aid him on his journey, but today he must stop occa- sionally to wipe the perspiratlon from his brow. The outline of the city wall has faded in the sudden darkness. There is no twilight to foreshadow the coming of the night. Crows which have been thieving in the fields all day, fly over the city wall just before the gates are to be closed, as though afraid that they might be shut out. They gather in dark companies among the trees to caw the gossip of the day, or to fight for a favorable position upon a favorite branch. When their quarrelling has ceased and the rustle of their wings proclaims repose, night has come down upon the city. ‘ In the yard our friend of the road is squatting with other travellers. A circle of them has gathered about the flickering light of a vegetable oil lamp and are enjoying a meal together. A bowl of noodles, with some garlic and redpepper, enjoyed in good com- pany is the right of the wanderer. Lulled to rest by the munching of the mules, twenty or more of them may sleep together on a little straw upon the ground or in the stable. If there are no bandits in the district, they will be up at dawn to travel on upon the winding road, lured ever forward by the plaintive melody of the wheel—barrow. It is three o’clock in the morning. Already figures have begun to move in the half light. Two tired missionaries’ children who, it seems to them, have just fallen asleep, are urged to get up, for it is better to travel in the cool morning than during the heated noonday. Miraculously, mother has boiled and cooled the water for the day’s supply. Father has tied a large lunch basket to its position on the rear of a cart. The drivers have, with encouraging curses, backed the mules into their places. A crack of the whip over their ears and they are off. As always the road twists and turns be- tween the fields or leads into some village. Curious children gaze at the white strangers, laugh gleefully, and call after them, “Foreig- ners! Foreigners! Foreign devils!” The winding road was intended to cause the evil spirits to lose their way. * * * In the shade of a group of trees an awn- ing has been raised and benches arranged about a table. Here an old couple sells tea and soup to thirsty wayfarers. What is your honorable name? How old are you? Where do you come from? Where are you going? How many sons have you? Are your parents living? These questions are to be answered in the same courteous way in which they are asked. For a moment the j ingling of a bell attracts our attention to the road. Two mules approach, bearing between them a rough coffin. Almost losing his balance as he sways with the motion of the beasts, an hypnotic-looking rooster is perch- ed sleepily upon this box. Within him the spirit of the departed is being carried to its resting place. The owner of the mules walks unconcernedly by their side, singing an ancient tune about his grandmother. Show less