00 Milton’: er/l More horrible than raging Vesuvian vomit, Belching forth with waves of ruin, lies This infernal region of Hell eternal; here Is no redemption, grace, or mercy shown, No joy, or peaceful bliss, only anguish and despair. The howling of countless, scorching, licking flames, As they... Show more00 Milton’: er/l More horrible than raging Vesuvian vomit, Belching forth with waves of ruin, lies This infernal region of Hell eternal; here Is no redemption, grace, or mercy shown, No joy, or peaceful bliss, only anguish and despair. The howling of countless, scorching, licking flames, As they cruelly torment the souls of thousands damned, Can scarce be heard above the screaming terror Of those enchained. All around arise Sulphuric odors, smoke, and salted tears. And from his lofty throne—where never yet A ray of light doth reach or air doth stir Save from his subterranean furnace—sits The dreaded ruler of all this horrid vale. And each time one, with cry of terrible anguish Would move the hinges of the iron gate, This huge Arch-Angel hurls him squirming anew Writhing within the lake of liquid fire. What hideous fiend, or monster, or rare brute Could bear the heat of this tumultuous sea, This endless range of horror, stench and smoke? Milton, the gods of Hell are living yet! —NORMAN NIELSON DIAL Show less
Pastoral Did/m1 A dark, heavy blanket of clouds hung low over the landscape. The morning had been stifling and oppressive—a sure sign that we would soon have rain. The morning passed, the afternoon wore on, and I tinkered with my uncle’s mowing machine, trying to get that obstinate piece of... Show morePastoral Did/m1 A dark, heavy blanket of clouds hung low over the landscape. The morning had been stifling and oppressive—a sure sign that we would soon have rain. The morning passed, the afternoon wore on, and I tinkered with my uncle’s mowing machine, trying to get that obstinate piece of machinery in working order. Finally, after what seemed an age to me, I neared the completion of my task, and glancing up at where I thought the sun was, or ought to be, I calculated that it must be time for afternoon lunch. As I made my way to the house I thought to myself, “Perhaps I can get some hay cut right after lunch, if the rain will only hold off a little longer. It wouldn’t take long to finish that piece of millet southwest of the barn.” While eating my lunch, I obtained my uncle’s permission to mow the rest of the hay, while he took the tractor to do some plowing in the adjoining field. Happily I led the horses out of the barn and hitched them up. Perhaps I could get a breath of fresh air out in the open fields. As usual, my dog, Trixie, was eager to go along; for going out into the field meant lots of fun for her—chasing rabbits, gophers, snakes, pheasants, and even grasshoppers. Now, although Trixie was not a pedigree dog, she had many of the fine characteristics and qualities that pedigree dogs possess. She was small, perhaps not more than a foot and a half tall, slim, and exceedingly active. She moved with a quickness and grace that few dogs could equal. Her jet black fur fell in waves over her back and was interrupted only by four brown-stockinged paws, two tufts of brown above her eyes and the brownish tip of her bushy tail. A mere look or remark to her caused her to respond in a way which made me feel she understood. I loved Trixie with all my heart, because I knew that she was my friend and faithful companion wherever I should a g Arriving at the field some ten minutes later I irmnediately be- gan to make the rounds. Trixie, of course, as all dogs do, persisted in running in front of the mower—-the most dangerous place. There were countless times when she stopped right in front of the sickle, and just as I was prepared to stop the horses, she would 19 DIAL Show less
To College Friend: in the Service Sometimes in lonely, quiet, dreary hours My anxious troubled mind recalls again The happy moments that were ours, when We had not felt the sting of selfish powers. The flag that waved so high on freedom’s towers Seemed there to guard each ivy—covered wall. Partings... Show moreTo College Friend: in the Service Sometimes in lonely, quiet, dreary hours My anxious troubled mind recalls again The happy moments that were ours, when We had not felt the sting of selfish powers. The flag that waved so high on freedom’s towers Seemed there to guard each ivy—covered wall. Partings in spring brought tears, but in the fall Our joys were shared by stars and winds and flowers. 0 friends! Where are you now? And why this fear Of Death? They taught us nought of hate and war That rends men’s souls apart. Will you no more Find joy ’mid scenes of youthful laughter here? Can tears avail, O God, to bring them back? I hear Thine answer, Lord, and kneel to pray . . . —-NORMAN NIELSON Metamorp/msk It came at last— On soft, velvety feet, Filling the world with white wonder. It kissed alike the ruddy checks of happy children, The tired, wrinkled faces of the old. It covered with its fluffy whiteness A blackened, grimy street, And filled a hundred hearts with calm and peace, Such as the gently falling snow Alone can bring. —CLARA GUDIM DIAL Show less
I-Ie obtrusiver displays this offensive wound, and pointing to it, whines— a professional whine, of course, — and mutters about his miseries to arouse sympathy. The unconcerned passers-by take no heed of his ever-present beggar’s wallet, nor bother to consider that a few coins might save him from... Show moreI-Ie obtrusiver displays this offensive wound, and pointing to it, whines— a professional whine, of course, — and mutters about his miseries to arouse sympathy. The unconcerned passers-by take no heed of his ever-present beggar’s wallet, nor bother to consider that a few coins might save him from starvation. He is worthy of nothing but curses and insults. He is merely a miserable wretch to the Chinese public and not to be regarded as a human with body, mind, and soul. EVELYN OLSON, ’41 An Ideal Conversationalist F conversation is the dress of the mind, the manner in which one converses and the essence of what he says will be a fair index to his character traits. One can learn a great deal about a person by marking thoughtfully what he says or does not say about others. A chatter-box quickly reflects his shallowness. If we desire to talk all the time we had better acquire the characteristic depicted by Mark Twain: “he had a good memory and a tongue hung in the middle of it.” A lady once remarked, “If there is nothing else to talk about there is always the weather to fall back upon.” Most people choose to avoid such talking-machines whose subjects of conversation are practically limited to weather re- ports. “The smaller the calibre of the mind, the greater the bore of the perpetually open mouth.” Conversational ability is an art and springs from the storehouse of the mind. When the words fall spontaneously and are spoken charitably and without afiectation or desire for self—elevation, one can appreciate what is said. Open-mindedness, sincerity, unselfish- ness, frankness seasoned with tact, and a good sense of humor are desirable qualities in a conversationalist. He keeps the ball rolling without condescending to gossip however true is the news bit indulged in. Since conversational ability is an art and since art pro- poses to give nothing but the highest quality to your moments, it is worth striving to attain. Surely it is within the reach of all. SYNNOVE STENBERG, ’41 DIAL 26 Show less
I Wish I Could Write I WISH I could write. I wish I could write. Reading what others have written gives me much pleasure and almost as much pain because I can’t do it. All pale blue and yellow over there behind the church steeple. The sky is beautiful this evening. God is everywhere in the quiet-... Show moreI Wish I Could Write I WISH I could write. I wish I could write. Reading what others have written gives me much pleasure and almost as much pain because I can’t do it. All pale blue and yellow over there behind the church steeple. The sky is beautiful this evening. God is everywhere in the quiet- ness about me. Strange, to feel such grandeur and solitude in the city, such majesty, and power and glory. I wish I could make you feel it. I dream and imagine things that are so interesting and real to me that I just live in them. If I try to tell them to you they be- come drab and unreal. They sound silly. There are all sorts of interesting people about me. They have the most interesting faces, and the stories behind them! Some of them I just imagine, some of them I know, but I can never convey them to you so that you can know them. Sometimes my feelings—but if I try to describe them to you, you’d think me strange or sentimental because I’d express them clumsily. There are times when it seems that that which is within me will actually smother me. Will it always be like this? “Words beat against my heart like birds with broken wings.” Sara Teas— dale expressed that for me. I never could. I wished their wings would become whole; so they could roar out from my heart into yours. I wish I could write. MABLE NELSON, ’41 DIAL 32 Show less
Prairies in Winter THE wind is bitterly cold. The elements in wild abandon hurl the snow against my face; each particle stings like the lash of a whip. My hands are almost numb and my feet, practi- cally devoid of feeling, stumble along in the drifts. I shiver in- voluntarily, and draw my coat... Show morePrairies in Winter THE wind is bitterly cold. The elements in wild abandon hurl the snow against my face; each particle stings like the lash of a whip. My hands are almost numb and my feet, practi- cally devoid of feeling, stumble along in the drifts. I shiver in- voluntarily, and draw my coat more closely around me. A few feet ahead, the lights of home shine feebly through the blackness of the night. My sigh of relief is only a gasp carried away on the wings of the storm. The scene changes. Snow is falling in soft flakes. It covers the grey old weatherbeaten buildings, ravaged by prairie wind and rain, and makes a white silhouette of the few brave poplars on our main street. The moon looks down on the prairie world, bathing it in a pale yellow light. From my position by the gate I see the raflroad tracks to the left fornnng tvvo thnn fanniy gleaming lines. The country road running parallel to them is a mere black thread winding among the hills until it fades into the hofizon. Again the scene changes. The air is crisp and cold and clear. I cannot feel the raw, penetrating wind heavy with black smoke that makes my eyes smart and almost suffocates me. The sun is shining from a sky of cloudless blue, and the reflection of its rays seem to make each snowflake sparkle with a dazzling brilliance all its own. I cannot see buildings coated with a sooty grime, rising far above me, and almost shutting out the view of God’s skies. The black snow is gone. There is a crunching sound under— neath my feet as I walk out the “Blue Trail” that leads out of our little prairie town. I do not feel treacherous, icy sidewalks be- neath rne. Why do I feel so gloriously free? Why do my spirits soar un- til they almost reach the blue sky above me? I am a child of the prairies. They call me with a call that I cannot resist. Carl Sand- burg says, “I have loved the prairies as a man with a heart shot full of pain over love.” I love them, too. To my memory will always come the thought of a moonlit night on the prairies when “the only sound’s the sweep of easy wind and downy flake.” I will see the wild winds swirling the snow in fury across the DIAL 28 Show less
On Spaghetti DANTE had his Inferno, I have my spaghetti. As a matter of fact, I think that Dante must have encountered spaghetti at one time or another previous to the writing of his masterpiece because only a person subjected to violent torture and tribula- tions could ever so magnificently... Show moreOn Spaghetti DANTE had his Inferno, I have my spaghetti. As a matter of fact, I think that Dante must have encountered spaghetti at one time or another previous to the writing of his masterpiece because only a person subjected to violent torture and tribula- tions could ever so magnificently describe that Place. Then I think that spaghetti has had something to do with the life of that eminent Italian statesman, Mussolini, he of the dour visage, for only one who has had repeated contacts with the ignominious thing could so perpetually wear such a mask of ferocity. You may wonder why I attribute these to spaghetti. I shall endeavor to show you by citing some of my experiences with the detestable animal, or fruit. After all “Truth is stranger than fiction." As a very young child (and may I add, an exceptionally [fright child) I toddled along beside my mother, happy and carefree in the knowledge that I would some day attend Augsburg and thus be an outstanding success in my chosen field. Gradually I became aware of a great weight pressing down upon my innermost being, an indefinable something that bore more heavily upon my soul as time went on. Suddenly my superior brain began to function. In a flash it dawned on me that I had an arch enemy! I began a methodical search for him, or it, or whatever else my fertile brain chose to call it in the happy past, leaving many a stone unturned ininy‘wake Then I sat down to my first plate of spaghetti. AsI looked at the spaghetti lying so serenely and plaintively on the platter, I thought that here was another dish to placate the gourmet in me. But with my first attempt at bringing the plaguy stuff to my mouth, I knew that I was wrong. The spaghetti suddenly became possessed, squirming and writhing until it finally fell back on the plate. Therein lies the tale. Every time I would take up a forkful, it would fall back in a most tantalizing manner. In some instances if I were lucky, I would manage to catch one or two strands, but these vvere feVV and far betvveen. As I vainly attempted to nourish myself, a load seemed to be lifted off my mind. I knew that I had found my arch enemy! Spaghetti! I was confused, bewildered. Then my mind began clearing and I became cool and collected, I must fight this thing, DIAL 30 Show less
_ The Return PER CAME CLOMPING up the stone pathway, his wooden shoes crunching down the lesser bits of gravel on the path, his massive figure stooped as if under a heaw load. He walked up the steps and paused for a moment. The door opened slowly and two anguished grey eyes peered out at him from... Show more_ The Return PER CAME CLOMPING up the stone pathway, his wooden shoes crunching down the lesser bits of gravel on the path, his massive figure stooped as if under a heaw load. He walked up the steps and paused for a moment. The door opened slowly and two anguished grey eyes peered out at him from under a white cap. “They found him,” was her only reply. Her eyes grew dull. “Yes, they found him," said Per bluntly. “They're bringing him here.” He slowly slumped into a creaky chair, and sat with his head in his hands, the whole burden of the tragedy bearing down his mighty shoulders. Elsa sat down near him in silence. She did not weep, she only sat numbly, staring at the fish net in the corner. Her eyes spied a hole in the net. Fragmentary thoughts kept running through her mind— “1 must have Olav fix that when he comes home. He is so good at fixing things—and making them, too. Even when he was small —she could see him now, a small chap standing tall to reach the top of the fireplace, mussing his flaxen curls so they would stand on end, adding to his height, his childish voice piping, "Some day, when I am big like papa, then—” He’d had high hopes. He would be an officer in the king’s navy, maybe Admiral some day. How handsome he would have looked in an Admiral’s uniform! Her mother's heart quickened at the image—then slowed to a muffled pounding. He can never be Admiral now, she realized, nor even a lieutenant. She looked up. Per hadn’t moved. He was silent. Maybe that queer numbness was stealing around his heart, too, the numb- ness that stiflled and deadened you, made you wish you were down under the bottom of the sea where—No, she wouldn't think of that! The sound of crunching gravel came to her ears. “They are bringing him,” she said softly. The steps came nearer. They stopped. She heard a subdued knocking and dragged herself to ‘ the door, slowly. The knocking came again. She opened the door. Four men walked in, heads bowed. ‘ They were carrying him, but he was covered up. She wanted to tear the covering off and see him once more. Then she remem- bered—“The sea does terrible things to men,” her father's voice came droning off in distant memory. DIAL 22 Show less
Dirty lap MINOMOTO KIRUCHI was almost happy. He had seen a blasting hurricane of metal spew from his guns. The intoxicating thun- der of mighty engines still pounded in his ears. And so he growled insistently, “I like it! I like it!" as he zoomed up over the Philippine jungle towards his... Show moreDirty lap MINOMOTO KIRUCHI was almost happy. He had seen a blasting hurricane of metal spew from his guns. The intoxicating thun- der of mighty engines still pounded in his ears. And so he growled insistently, “I like it! I like it!" as he zoomed up over the Philippine jungle towards his companion escort plane. After all, it had been great fun to see the bomb blasts an- nounce the surprise attack. It had been rather amusing to see the American soldiers cut down as they dashed for their planes. At least it was better than in Nanking. Minomoto shuddered. Some of those Chinese had an uncomfortable resemblance to one’s own relatives. These Americans didn’t make one feel so much like a murderer. There was something inhuman about those icy, lifeless, blue eyes and deathly pale skins. They re- minded one of the white funeral palls of the Orient. —White— the color of death, the color of greedy, money-grabbing Standard ‘ Oil agents. White—the color of Americans . .. Minomoto suddenly jerked back to reality. Straight down from the sun plunged a menacing black shadow. Two sharp bursts of gunfire, and Minomoto’s companion hurtled earthward in flames. Minomoto banked swiftly, got his sights on the Amer- ican, pressed the button—no ear-shattering staccato roar fol~ lowed. Out of ammunition! Bullet holes were creeping up his left wing. Fascinated he watched them, then just in time kicked into a spin. The diving enemy passed close, so close that he could clearly see the pilot's face. It was familiar. The air of supercilious superiority . . . the expression of intolerant smug- ness. It was typically American, of course, but—oh, yes, he re- membered that classmate of his from “lashington U. David Wentworth was his name. Minomoto’s face reddened. Four years of insults came back with a rush: Snubbings by fraternities . . . his skin was dusky ivory, instead of butchershop red. A scholarship lost . . . he had black, deceitful eyes, instead of blue ones. The sky is blue, and back of it is empty space. . . . No connection, of course. Some of them had brains. But they couldn't recognize a human being when they saw one. Glances and whisperings when he talked to a white girl. . . . Yet his moral code was higher—they were materialistic pigs—and his mind keener, and he felt more deeply . . . better by any man's standards. Once, while talking to Mar- ion, Wentworth had hit him—she was his girl, wasn’t she? 15 DIAL 5? I113 31‘} {- Show less
the poor animal, that it would commit suicide right away if it knew about it. A frog is slimy even on the outside; what a mess would there be in the inside! I was completely depressed. Finally, as a man, I collected all my courage and went to the laboratory—in the third week. I was only five... Show morethe poor animal, that it would commit suicide right away if it knew about it. A frog is slimy even on the outside; what a mess would there be in the inside! I was completely depressed. Finally, as a man, I collected all my courage and went to the laboratory—in the third week. I was only five minutes late, due to my inner struggle. There was my frog, fresh and happy, conserved in formalin. I looked at him; he looked at me impudently. I was afraid; he was not. (No wonder; if I were dead, I would not be afraid, either.) I was white; he was shamelessly green. I studied his external features; he waited patiently, annoying me with his formalin odor. I opened his mouth and looked into it; he did not care; he did not even bite my finger. I made a drawing, the lines got jittery. The frog was not jittery at all! I admit it was unjust; I admit I had no right to do it; I admit I should have pitied the poor little frog; I am sure it was not right, but I got mad at this stupid, quiet creature, which seemed to be highly amused about my state of mind. What right had this frog to destroy my inner balance? What right did he have to bring me into such mental conflict and fear. No! This was enough; it was too much already! I turned the frog around, took scalpel and scissors and began working. Incision,—one, two, three cuts in one direction,—one, two, three, four in the other direction. The ventral side was open. I was surprised, startled. Now I saw with my eyes that my beloved imagination had lied, had deceived me, had fooled me. Me, who had treated her always well, who had believed her blindly. Now I saw it! The frog was just pretty inside; not as ugly as the entrails of a stupid chicken! The intestines, which I was so shocked at, were there in cute little curls; heart, liver, stomach, kidneys, all were just perfect, clean, not slimy. at all. Gracefully and neatly every organ was fitted in. A lovely masterpiece of creation—this little frog; and I, stupid fellow, was expecting an awful mess. I did not faint. After all this excitement I was only hungry. —HENRY P. STAUB, ’43. 5 DIAL .I‘..—_.’.hla Show less
Pete SOMEHOW, I can't find the exact words to describe him. He was so magnificent no words could ever do him justice. He was the most beautiful horse I have ever seen. the most glorious I have ever had! How beautiful, how beautiful he was! His body was a per. fectly made poem. His white markings... Show morePete SOMEHOW, I can't find the exact words to describe him. He was so magnificent no words could ever do him justice. He was the most beautiful horse I have ever seen. the most glorious I have ever had! How beautiful, how beautiful he was! His body was a per. fectly made poem. His white markings lightning bolts against a storm darkened sky; his stockinged legs clean and trim: his tail long and oddly, surprisingly waved; his neck arched stiflly, all hauteur and defiance; his mane a banner of courage; and his eyes lost in the rapt visions of a brave heart. That was Pete. Pete could run. Those clean white legs of his opened like gigantic scissors when he paced, and cut the air like jackknives when he galloped. He loved to gallop. He loved to run with the wind tangling his mane and reddening his eyes. To know the sun, warm and sweet, was dancing at his heels and to feel the shadows, carefree and gay, playing on his smoothly rippling muscles—that was his joy. Then to race, to outstrip the other horses, to taunt them, slow unfortunates, with his even rhythm, his saucy “racing form” that—that was complete satisfaction indeed. Pete always had to win the race. It was for this he had been born; it was for this he had to die. It was at once his heritage and his destiny. —-HELEN THOSTENSON, ’42. otA-L 8 Show less
minds me of all the wars and legislation and great industries and churches and farms and small businesses active out there in the world, and I must perforce turn from the window mildly aston- ished that the quiet scholar in his conservative suit and tie is still there engaged in lecturing. I feel... Show moreminds me of all the wars and legislation and great industries and churches and farms and small businesses active out there in the world, and I must perforce turn from the window mildly aston- ished that the quiet scholar in his conservative suit and tie is still there engaged in lecturing. I feel then that the college pro fessor and his lecture is of necessity a permanent institution. It is good that it is so. The undergraduate absorbs slowly but surely from the college lecture that which aids him in his search for truth. l9 —EVA NELSON, '43. O Immortal Love 0 Immortal Love That dips beneath life’s wave And flounders o’er the grave of hopes eternal, My heart despairs; ‘ i ' ‘ ‘ It is forlorn. Life’s tempest pulls me down Beneath the sea of anguish. Dead deathless dreams reveal to me The sadness of grief’s sorrow. Sweet Love of life, Impart to me the hope that lives. To flee from here I do not wish. I only ask that I might see, And having seen— Know Thee, O Immortal Love. —GERALD THORSON, '43. DIAL Show less
To a Poet Thou hast in sadder moments Brought to my soul A quiet touch of calm. In grayer hours Thou hast thrilled me to the peaks Of ecstasy. And then gently led me Into quiet moments of meditation With my Maker. —GLORIA Bummm‘, '43. The Summer Is Over The. summer is over, The summer sun has set... Show moreTo a Poet Thou hast in sadder moments Brought to my soul A quiet touch of calm. In grayer hours Thou hast thrilled me to the peaks Of ecstasy. And then gently led me Into quiet moments of meditation With my Maker. —GLORIA Bummm‘, '43. The Summer Is Over The. summer is over, The summer sun has set In aching red and burning blue, In blazing gold and weeping pearl. It hid us in its warmth when it was high. Now the forlorn sky reveals our dull and lonely hearts. You will not miss me much. The autumn days will slip away; The twilights fade into the nights; The nights into the quiet eternity of sweet forgetful- ness. You see, my love, the summer is over. —HELEN THOSTENSON, ’42. DIAL 12 Show less
VVentworth had gone flying through the air. It was legitimate jiu’jitsu, but they called it dirty Jap fighting. As if they had ever heard of Bushido, or the Emperor Jimmu, or. . . . Insufferable upstarts, that's what they were. Insulting, persecuting, and even hitting. . . . Minomoto was now... Show moreVVentworth had gone flying through the air. It was legitimate jiu’jitsu, but they called it dirty Jap fighting. As if they had ever heard of Bushido, or the Emperor Jimmu, or. . . . Insufferable upstarts, that's what they were. Insulting, persecuting, and even hitting. . . . Minomoto was now climbing straight into the sun. He knew he didn't have a chance. The American had the better plane. America had more of the necessary metals, larger oil fields, and greater material wealth to buy the very best of labor and equip- ment. Not that David \Ventworth and his countrymen had themselves to thank for these things. A capricious fate had dumped the richest land of all the world into their unsuspect- ing hands. Their ancestors were the riff-rail of Europe. Those unable to stand the struggle at home had fled to the New \Vorld; now one of their upstart descendants was challenging Minomoto Kiruchi, the worthy scion of one of Japan's finest families, the proud bearer of a thousand year old name. Minomoto’s jaw set. He would show them. Material superior- ity and a white skin weren‘t everything. Intangibles of the spirit and character still counted. ‘ He let the pursuing American come closer. Wentworth didn't fire. It was too hard to aim against the sun. Now Minomoto heard the American start climbing above him. This was the moment. He looped backwards in an incredibly tight semicircle. He did it fast, and came out, upside down, headed straight for his antagonist’s windshield. Machine guns barked uncertainly. Wentworth swerved desperately to avoid Minomoto's rush. But Minomoto did exactly what he intended to do. He sheared ofl' VVentworth‘s right wing with his landing gear, and then calmly righted his ship. It had been very neatly done. Probably not another officer in His Imperial japanese Majesty's air force— nor any other air force, for that matter—could have duplicated the feat except by luck. Not that he hadn’t been lucky. . . . Minomoto circled; then swooped low to look at VVentworth’s burning plane. It made him almost happy. These Americans . . . they deserved to be.. .. Minomoto thought of the sack of N anking. He grimaced wry- ly. Perhaps these Americans weren’t so bad after all. He caught sight of a descending parachute, and remembered a final, un- pleasant duty. Then Minomoto became genuinely happy. He was out of ammunition. -—(}EORGE IJNDBECK,’44. DIAL 16 Show less
And They Didn’t Call Him Hero... THE MUSCLES in his shoulders knotted as be bent over the an- cient oars of that old flat-bottomed scow. Yet he moved with the effortless timing that comes from rowing miles and miles over blue, fresh water. Andrew Benson, Swedish-tongued boatman, was meditating.... Show moreAnd They Didn’t Call Him Hero... THE MUSCLES in his shoulders knotted as be bent over the an- cient oars of that old flat-bottomed scow. Yet he moved with the effortless timing that comes from rowing miles and miles over blue, fresh water. Andrew Benson, Swedish-tongued boatman, was meditating. Well, maybe not meditating, but thinking— maybe reviewing the past. The air that hung over the lake was torpid and lightning sent jagged, terrifying beams of electricity across the somber sky, as old Benson creaked home from his day's fishing. It was this same sort of a night forty years ago, when the Sea Wing sank. The sky looked the same. The air was dank and close; cirrus clouds hung like projectile balloons over the miles of churning, dark vvater. The Sea Wing had been an excursion boat, a sternwheeler about three hundred feet long, four decks high, and she pos- sessed the finest colored orchestra on the upper river. She had groanineg docked at the sun-whitened pier and was patiently waiting for the people to throng her huge decks, when the storm began to blow. They warned her captain, a hulking, stubborn man, but he paid no heed to their warnings. Confident of his ship's durability, he ordered the holding cables cast off and shoved off into the churning lake. At ten that evening, when the craft rounded Point-no-Point, the gale hit her full force. Stunned by the force of her first real "blow," she floundered and rolled over on her side. A maelstrom of frantic, panic-stricken people grabbed faulty life belts and leaped over her crumbling side. The captain, condottieric even in last moments, was killed when a huge geyser of water pounded her gunwales and lower deck. It was at that moment that Andrew Benson, then a boy of twenty, returned to his home off Point-no~Point, and saw the Sea Wing slowly settling. Quickly he rowed to her upturned side. Thirty-one times he paddled to and from that mile-distant shore, each time carrying at least one passenger. From the four- hundred water-soaked excursionists that were on the steamer that night, seventy-one were rescued by this gallant. Although early dawn brought launches and searching parties, he continued his vigil until the last person was saved. DIAL 6 Show less
Tale of 3 Rabbit Ir WAS SUMMER and a pleasant morning. Myra came home much delighted over her recent purchase. ' “The cutest iron-grey rabbit," she said. “A rabbit?" I asked. "Yes," she answered, “I thought he would look too cute among the hedge bushes in the back yard." M-m-m-hm. Cute. What was... Show moreTale of 3 Rabbit Ir WAS SUMMER and a pleasant morning. Myra came home much delighted over her recent purchase. ' “The cutest iron-grey rabbit," she said. “A rabbit?" I asked. "Yes," she answered, “I thought he would look too cute among the hedge bushes in the back yard." M-m-m-hm. Cute. What was Myra thinking about! Did she expect a rabbit to 1011 around in the shade all day? Already I had visions of his nibbling generously at the forget—me-nots, the zinnias, the canditufts, the Canterbury bells, but then—they were her flowers—and her rabbit, too. “Iron—grey,” I mused, “Iron- grey." Grateful to my knowledge of biology, I affirmed that he was true to mother nature's provision for protective coloration. The shade of his coat had been changed for the summer. But who was going to care for him? He would have to be fed. I vowed I would keep utterly silent about that. After all, I had enough to do around the place, and that wasn’t a chore for me anyway. Why, in fact, if she had suggested my doing it, I'd have refused, that’s all. I’d have just refused. I hated to admit that I was anxious to see the rabbit. l deter- mined that I would be wholly unenthusiastic to Myra about her buying him. At my earliest convenience I glanced slyly out the back window. No rabbit did I see. Chuckling to myself, I thought: “The little fellow must be frisking about somewhere." This process went on all morning. No word was mentioned about his being fed, but I wasn’t going to introduce that phase of it. Toward late afternoon my conscience bore down, and I began to feel actually sorry for him. I went out to investigate, for as yet I hadn't seen him. Yes, there he was stationed comfortably— among the hedge bushes. No wonder Myra couldn’t resist pur- chasing him, for as she had said, he was “cute.” I did my utmost not to frighten him, and slipping back into the house, I tried to decide what to fix him to eat. Just what did a rabbit like? After scanning the premises hastily, I noticed the newly arrived groceries. From out of one bag arched some long, green, leafy carrot tops. Carrots! That’s what he would like. So I unpacked two large, orange carrots. I thought he would need a drink of water, too, so I secured a large pan and filled it to capacity. Thus provided, I departed on my philanthropic mission. All this I did as unobtrusively as possible, for I didn’t want to 13 nun. s. Fifi . ... -ma—. ‘3. Show less
The voice choked and there was a long pause. Soon the voice continued. “Well, all of a sudden a big wave came and pushed the boat over and we were tossed out into the water. We both swam for the overturned boat, Olav made it. I didn’t! The boat was just a few feet from me but I couldn't make it.... Show moreThe voice choked and there was a long pause. Soon the voice continued. “Well, all of a sudden a big wave came and pushed the boat over and we were tossed out into the water. We both swam for the overturned boat, Olav made it. I didn’t! The boat was just a few feet from me but I couldn't make it. I was just about to go under when I saw the boat coming toward me. He couldn't have made it by swimming with the boat and pushing it that way because there was a high wave about to break over us and there wasn’t time, so he just gave it a big push and let go of it. After the wave had broken over me, I saw him swimming and struggling with his boots." The voice paused again and all Elsa could hear was the heavy breathing of the men. "Well, a wave washed me up on an island and I stayed there until the storm was over. A rescue party came and picked me up. They couldn’t find Olav. "Yesterday some children out swimming near the shore of the mainland found a body with only one boot on, and that half oil. I thought, perhaps—I went down to see—I could tell it was him by the boot, I brought him here—” The muffled voice trembled and stopped. All was quiet in the other room, but Elsa did not dare to open the door and enter. —-EVELYN HENRICKSON, ’45. You I want to talk with you tonight— You are so kind. I wish that you would take me by the hand And lead me to a quiet spot Where we might talk. It seems that you would understand If I would say, “I wish I were a little girl again." You always seem to know how deep a hurt has been, You soothe the pain. Please come. I want to talk with you tonight. . -EBBA JOHNSON, '42. out 2‘ hv'uobvflw Ali-til; .’ a. ,;,.j""’-.' .. 6. l h R ,2 L” l! l? f. l: l. k y- Show less
Dissecting a Frog DID YOU EVER 'FAINT? I am terribly afraid of fainting, since I fainted once when our teacher explained to us how a soldier dies if he inhales this awful, green, sweet-smelling Phosgen~ poison gas. He made it clear-excitingly clear—to usl First the fine capillaries of the lungs... Show moreDissecting a Frog DID YOU EVER 'FAINT? I am terribly afraid of fainting, since I fainted once when our teacher explained to us how a soldier dies if he inhales this awful, green, sweet-smelling Phosgen~ poison gas. He made it clear-excitingly clear—to usl First the fine capillaries of the lungs are destroyed and the man drowns in his own bloodwater. Breathing becomes impossible. From the water which collects in the lungs the blood dries out and clogs together so that the heart can't pump it anymore; and even if you would slit up the whole arm. no blood could flow out; it would be so sticky. I imagined this all so vividly: the waterfilled lungs,the plugged up hearn the upturned eyestfl the sokfien but to rip up the whole arm—that was too much,—I fainted. Afterwards I was ashamed; I was so mad at myself. This was all so interesting; something real about war—and I fainted! My only consolation was that one of my classmatesfa big, husky fellow, followed my example. Since that day I have been afraid of fainting in the classroom, and I had a special horror about dissecting. Only once I thought: “If I only could faint now!" But that was—when my Greek pro- fessor caught me copying an exercise from my neighbor. Of course, then it did not work. The fear that my consciousness could walk away, leaving me alone lying deadlike, white-faced on the floor, arose to new life when I registered for anatomy laboratory. I was really angry and sneered at myself, "And you think of enlisting in the medical corps! Ha! Ha! That is a nice joke, my boy! You would faint seeing the first wounded." During the first two weeks of laboratory work I did not cut the frog, as I was supposed to; I cut my classes. My bad conscience grew from day to day; I became moody; I lost weight. Would that ever be awful, if I would faint in class! I had the wildest ideas of the interior of a frog. Never could I forget the smell and sight when my mother used to take out the entrails of a chicken. An audacious grip, and she had her hands full of a slimy substance, composed of stomach, intestines, gallbladder, different organs, I don’t even like to name, and small smashed eggs. I hardly dared to watch her; my appetite for chicken dinner disappeared, and I felt a strong dislike for stupid chickens. And a chicken is a creature even superior to a frog. My imagination painted such a horrible picture of the inside of DIAL 4 Show less
Andrew Benson, rescuer of some seventy-odd people, didn't get a medal or a bronze statue for his bravery; he got a gruff “Thank-you," and after a few months the incident and the heroic young man were forgotten. But times were hard in those days . . . a man had to be tough. . . . —Dch MCGUIGAN, ... Show moreAndrew Benson, rescuer of some seventy-odd people, didn't get a medal or a bronze statue for his bravery; he got a gruff “Thank-you," and after a few months the incident and the heroic young man were forgotten. But times were hard in those days . . . a man had to be tough. . . . —Dch MCGUIGAN, ’45. Days to Come Backward then my thoughts were turning To the days when life was young, When we trod the halls of learning Ere our sterner lives begun. Saw a vision pass before me Of the friends that then we knew, Saw the campus white in winter Under skies of steely blue. Saw again on memory’s canvas Clearly etched, those buildings stand, 1 Saw the hall clock plainly pointing, Chapel hour was at hand. So I came back to that far present, Felt my sixty years and more; And I knew a sigh escaped me, As I closed my memory’s door. —EVA NELSON, '43. 7 \ our. Show less
