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Title: The Dial February 1930, Page 20
Collection: Literary Journals

Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 24
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: lassmﬂil

Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 07
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: “ 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
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Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 17
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: 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
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Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 21
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: 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.
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Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 10
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: 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.
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Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 14
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: 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.
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Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 08
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: 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“! .
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Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 18
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: 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!
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Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 06
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: 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-
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Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 15
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: 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
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Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 09
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: 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.
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Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 23
Collection: Literary Journals

Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 13
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: , .25; .35., THE DIAL 11 ner. Into the making of the ﬁrst, many sleep- less nights had entered, many trying mo- ments, overcome in patience, and through it all the warfare with self had to be unceas- ingly waged. Her sister stated that she had not had one sound night’s rest in four years, having...
Show more, .25; .35., THE DIAL 11 ner. Into the making of the ﬁrst, many sleep- less nights had entered, many trying mo- ments, overcome in patience, and through it all the warfare with self had to be unceas- ingly waged. Her sister stated that she had not had one sound night’s rest in four years, having always to be on the alert for her mother’s needs, night and day. If she were a remnant, it was not due to the quality of the article, for her character and her spirit must have been of the ﬁnest type to discharge so successfully a very dif- ﬁcult duty. She was a ministering spirit to one who needed her care, and who called for spiritual as well as physical help. It meant not only keeping the tired and weak body as comfortable as possible, but also con- soling an impatient and anxious soul. Mil- ton’s verse describes very ﬁtly such hidden lives: “They also serve who only stand and wait.” Such service means often a turning from the shining path of personal hopes and aspir— ations to the long, heavy road of care and worry. It meant exchanging beautiful dreams for a hopeless, exacting reality. But there is a recompense for a faithfulness that does not waver at the loss of personal hap- piness. Around the bedside of that frail mother hovered the spirit of One who looks deeper than our human wisdom and judg— ment can penetrate. Mingled with the thank- ful utterances of the mother for her daugh- ter’s care was the sound of His voice: “He that ﬁndeth his life shall lose it; and he that loseth his life for My sake shall ﬁnd it.” We should be thankful for occasional upsets as we trundle our little cart of prejudices through the world. Here is one that spills our narrow conceptions of human happi- ness, usefulness, and beauty of life uncom- promisingly into the dust—an unwanted woman discovered as an absolute necessity in some one’s life. MW, Wintry Winds AGNES M. FREIJ, ’32 (ZSHE dusk falls gray and mystic Around my cottage small. Deep shadows press through windows While night encircles all. The wind blows weird and threat’ning; The snow-flakes strike the panes. The sounds send icy shudders Creeping through my veins. And in this lonely night time Visitors grim and cold Come singing in the wind-storm With voices loud and bold. They come in through my windows To lurk in corners gray, To make my lone heart sadder, As ’round my house they stray. Strange sounds my soul make mournful I hear them o’er and o’er, All night the wind’s sad moaning Around my cottage door.
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Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 19
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: The Block BEATRICE HELLAND, ’31 S I sat studying one day I looked out the window and saw a score of co-eds coming out of East Hall, bound for the board- ing club. Would it not have seemed strange, I thought, to have seen such a group on the campus ﬁfteen years ago? In those days Augsburg was...
Show moreThe Block BEATRICE HELLAND, ’31 S I sat studying one day I looked out the window and saw a score of co-eds coming out of East Hall, bound for the board- ing club. Would it not have seemed strange, I thought, to have seen such a group on the campus ﬁfteen years ago? In those days Augsburg was strictly a gentleman’s insti- tution. Folks had not yet realized that there was something worth training beneath the feminine coiffures. West and East Halls were then “den gamle 0g den nye professorboliger.” The Nydahls, the Harbos, the Lilleheis, and the Hendrick- sons were among those who called Augsburg “home”. I do not know how well our parents liked this arrangement, but we, the younger generation, found it ideal. The students would perhaps have prefer- red the co-eds to the contingent of “P. K.’s” (professors’ kids), one or more of Whom seemed to be always under foot. They had, very likely, their deﬁnite ideas about us, but I wonder if they realized just how carefully they were being watched and judged by those campus “brats”. I still have a deep feeling of respect and admiration for a certain student who car- ried me home from church on his shoulder during a raging blizzard. I have fond me- mories of students who were “child-minded” enough to stop and turn the rope for us when we were engaged in that most fascinating of springtime activities, jumping rope. I have vague recollections of a more imaginative scholar who used to take me upon his knee and tell me wonderful stories of chocolate houses and mountains of ice cream. Even now as I go from room to room in West Hall, memories come crowding back. Here is where I fell down the long stairway and mother had to come and kiss the “hurt ;" here, the parlor where I used to sit and practice my piano lesson and watch the clock; there, the alcove where father always performed the mysterious rite of decorating the Christmas tree. Then there is the sidewalk behind the Main which is especially good for roller- skating; the entrance which makes such a grand fort for snowball ﬁghts; the old, spreading cottonwood tree which was always the goal for our favorite games of Run Sheep Run and Stillwater. Each time I walk down the Seventh Street driveway I think of it as the old slide down which we coasted, skiied, and rolled until we looked like an army of little snowmen come to life. I am afraid we did not appreciate the efforts of our more sensible elders who sprinkled sand on the driveway to make it more safe for pede— strians. Every morning we lagged through Mur- phy Square on our way to the Monroe school, but as soon as we were dismissed we came skipping back to “The Block”, for there all our interests lay. It was our world. Recollections of childhood scenes are al- ways attractive. Others may scoﬂ" at the drab appearance of our campus. They may think it inadequate and uninteresting, but, somehow, its shortcomings are hidden from our eyes. To us it is a place of beauty, for in every nook and cranny dwells a memory of the days when we lived and laughed to- gether on “The Block.”
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Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 04
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: 2 THE DIAL easily subdued were the most uncertain in the matter of a yield. I came to love certain portions for their faithfulness in respond- ing to our care, but for others I had a dis- trust: they accepted every care and atten- tion, but deceived us at harvest time. it t t # With this new...
Show more2 THE DIAL easily subdued were the most uncertain in the matter of a yield. I came to love certain portions for their faithfulness in respond- ing to our care, but for others I had a dis- trust: they accepted every care and atten- tion, but deceived us at harvest time. it t t # With this new contact and affection for the soil came strange thoughts and fancies, dim gropings after wispy solutions to the mysteries of life, which somehow seem united with the soil and our relations to it. What was this mighty indwelling force that could transform a black ﬁeld into a carpet of green almost over-night? What reposed un- derfoot, unfelt and unseen, yet able to send a frail crocus through the hard surface of the prairie? I began to sense something of the reality of God, not in deﬁnable terms or clear—cut experiences, but as the answer, someday to be vouchsafed, to all the per- plexing and mysterious questions of life. * * * O I noticed that the soil was also the cause of tremendous changes in human lives. It would arouse ambitions in men’s breasts un- til they seemed almost possessed in their urgency to become rich through the soil. It gave freely but exacted a tribute from these pitiful creatures that included every- thing from the loss of friendship with their own kind, to the loss of mental powers and life itself. I heard the story of Olle Skulstad. He lived alone on his big farm, except for an extra man at the busy seasons of the year. He would not spare his body or even stop to give it the food it needed. They told of the moldy bread dipped in black coffee, the hurried gulping of some cold, canned vege- table, and then his rush to be out in the ﬁeld again. He died alone from a blow given by his horses. 1! SI I! t The soil was often a handmaid of romance. Hopes, fond expectations, and plans were nourished upon its promise. Vows were made that could be kept only on condition of its fruitfulness. Men were eager to show the starry-eyed, yet clear-minded, woman of their choice what two strong arms and the soil could bring forth. The eternal round of replenishing the earth was kept going be- cause one hundred and sixty acres of rich soil held forth the key to the house of hap- piness for two trusting human beings. # i i t She was a woman who had sinned griev- ously, but she had also paid for her moment of pleasure with her life. Tongues wagged, heads nodded knowingly over gossipy cups, while whole boneyards of skeletons were locked up by these self-complacent souls as they hurled their cries of “Unclean! Un- clean!” at the lonely woman on her death- bed. But a kindlier friend awaited her when they cast her out, for the sheltering arms of mother earth accepted the poor, withered body without a murmur or re- proach. The words, “Dust thou art; to dust shalt thou return” fell upon our hearts like the shovels of earth upon the coffin; we had proved ourselves less than dust in sympathy, in forgiveness. * *‘ * II The young lady in the seat ahead tired of the card game. She raised the shade and looked out upon the prairie, now gray and mysterious under the evening shadows. “What a terrible place to live in!” she ex- claimed, “nothing but endless acres of bar- ren prairie. I pity the person that has to live here all his life.” “And yet there are men who make this desert bloom,” returned her partner. “What you think is dreadful is to them a paradise of wheat, cattle, and broad pastures.” “Yes, that may be all true, but no doubt these same farmers are just as stupid as the cows they milk, and as blind to the ﬁner things of life and culture as the dirt out
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Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 03
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: THE DIAL VOL. III DECEMBER, 1930 N0. 1 Soil ERNEST G. ANDERSON, ’34 S the fast transcontinental train swept westward into the prairie lands, and nearer home, I lost interest in my book and feasted my eyes upon the welcome and fa- miliar landscape, now fast graying under the approaching twilight....
Show moreTHE DIAL VOL. III DECEMBER, 1930 N0. 1 Soil ERNEST G. ANDERSON, ’34 S the fast transcontinental train swept westward into the prairie lands, and nearer home, I lost interest in my book and feasted my eyes upon the welcome and fa- miliar landscape, now fast graying under the approaching twilight. Two passengers in the seat ahead also glanced once or twice at this, to them, apparently new country; then pulling down the window shade with a shiver, one of them, a young lady, picked up a deck of cards and invited her companion to take part in our national indoor sport. I sank into a reverie. Was it all so fearful, this country of prairies, of rolling sun-kissed hills, of plains bursting with rich soils? I knew it did not matter what these strangers thought of my country, but why was it con- sidered so fearful that our lives should have the tang of the soil? The Soil! I was fas- cinated by a thought that our lives are moulded and affected by the inﬂuence of the soil. * a: a: a: I was conscious of it very early. It en- tered my life ﬁrst as a playmate, later as a taskmaster, and ﬁnally as a well-loved friend. There was nothing quite so satis- fying as soil when we sought our games. It served admirably as a medium of expression for our life in miniature, an imitation of all that we observed. In it caves were dug, dams were built, harbors deepened for our Armadas; and when Romulus and Remus altercated, it served as a weapon of offense and defense. During this time it was all rather impersonal; except for the discom- fort which accompanied periodic removal of particles which persisted in clinging to us. The soil had not as yet awakened any deﬁ- nite reaction within me. I remember, though, how pleasant the wagon tires sounded on the gritty road, and the thick, puffy clouds of dust which sprang up around the horses’ hoofs as they stepped along the loose track. * * * * Our stay in the make-believe world is short, and soon I had to take my part in reality’s sterner games, and my old play— mate left me. When we next met, it was as opponents in an ancient combat, man’s struggle with the soil—for his bread. It became my taskmaster, and how I chafed under the new-found yoke! How my body ached after a long day’s work in the dusty ﬁelds! The soil became insolent in its tyran- ny, placing stumbling-blocks to my weary feet in the form of large, hard lumps of clay. When evening came, I walked home with an air of defeat, depressed at the thought of a life-long struggle with the soil, of stumbling over chunks of earth. * It * * As I grew physically better ﬁtted to per- form the heavy farm work, almost unawares to me, a change took place in my attitude to- ward the soil. I learned to love it, and be- gan to perceive in a dim way that it re- sponded to love. It was anxious, I felt, to return our labor, our care, and our seed with an abundant harvest, if we would but be loving and honest in all our work. Not all the ﬁelds were equally valuable. The most
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Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 11
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: Character Sketches The Cynic GERALD SVEEGGEN, ’34 A cynic is a disillusioned idealist or an atheistic thinker who sees beneath the tinsel of his existence with its beckoning mirages and tantalizing desires into what he thinks is the root of life. He sees and thinks more clearly than does that...
Show moreCharacter Sketches The Cynic GERALD SVEEGGEN, ’34 A cynic is a disillusioned idealist or an atheistic thinker who sees beneath the tinsel of his existence with its beckoning mirages and tantalizing desires into what he thinks is the root of life. He sees and thinks more clearly than does that general class of people who live in a state of placidity, never bothering to probe beneath the surface of their systematized lives. He realizes that the everyday hopes and disappointments with which we are plagued are but natural sequences in the order of things, and that we are merely puppets on the ever shifting scenes of our lives. He sees that every being is endowed with a certain proportion of good and bad, and that our customs, our conventions, and our habits are only superﬁcial attributes which attempt to cover our naturally worldly minds with a false standard of perfection, and that only a few puppets are lifted above the milling masses of humanity. He laughs at the folly in his own life, at his feeble attempts to gain riches and glory, and at the same hopes in the lives of the people about him; and he looks down upon and sneers at his brothers who are pursuing ideas and hopes that they will never reach, for idealists are his favorite objects of ridi— cule. He knows that the happiness pursued by all will not come through satisfying his worldly desires or gathering riches. Such happiness is a snare set for those who do not realize that they are nothing but scintillating bubbles, which burst into nothingness at the touch of our groping, ever clutching hands. He feels no joy of living. He does not realize that, pitiful as it might seem to him, this brief period in the span of eternity is a path to a ﬁnal justice. All this he thinks, but the more he thinks, the more he realizes that, despite his callous attitude, he is pursuing the same vain hope of peace and happiness that he derides in his fellow men; but he cannot ﬁnd it, and so, in bitter desperation, he laughs. ————<¢a>>—-#— An Old Minister FRITJOF MONSETH, ’34 N old minister is the personiﬁcation of understanding and the incarnation of adaptability, a piece of humanity that can automatically ﬁt into any situation or envir- onment. He is interested in and acquainted with every profession and occupation in life. When he visits a farmer parishioner who is especially fond of horses, his liking becomes the same. He follows his friend to the stable and very ably discusses the merits and de- merits of a horse. He knows all the horses by name and walks along the alley to see if they are all in the barn. His host follows behind and very enthusiastically talks about his plan of trading off the old mare for a younger one. The minister suggests that he secure a mate to the blocky animal by the door. After a discussion of this nature, the
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Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 05
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: THE DIAL 3 there.” With this dictum she picked up a gaudily-covered magazine with its special number of “The Unfaithful Wife, or Love in Gangland”, and was soon absorbing Amer- ica’s culture, oblivious to the rest of the world. A huge moon arose, showering a cascade of silvery light upon the...
Show moreTHE DIAL 3 there.” With this dictum she picked up a gaudily-covered magazine with its special number of “The Unfaithful Wife, or Love in Gangland”, and was soon absorbing Amer- ica’s culture, oblivious to the rest of the world. A huge moon arose, showering a cascade of silvery light upon the plains. The wheels clicked a hurrying, eager tattoo to the roar of the speeding train. And outside, under the moonlight, was the soil, locked in the icy arms of winter. gas»;— Sonnets EINAR R. RYDEN, ’29 IV CZQHAT pain! Excruciating, endless pain! I have forgotten all, all, all but self; I have all virtue in my being slain; I strive but for the power of gold and pelf. How could I through my years of life be blind To usefulness, to fellowship, and love? I’ve been a parasite on humankind, Forgetting fellowman, and God above. And yet I live. Perhaps I can atone To some degree my selﬁsh, mad desire— I turn to Thee upon the heavenly throne And Thou in me a new life will inspire. My sins are great. Thy love is greater still, And I submit myself unto Thy will. V (Zé)HEN I my thoughts review in serious mind And think upon the days that used to be— Then, I was guided by a heart so kind That not the slightest harm could come to me. How often I did grieve that gentle heart And cause deep sorrow where but joy should reign. Yet in my childish cares she took my part, I would repent and be forgiven again. A mother’s level—fresh as each new-born day, Pure as the moonbeams in the darkest night— I would, in all I do, somewhat repay That love which serves in sadness and delight. So now I shall, that I might happy be, Return that love so freely given for me. VI HE constant progress of the modern mind Continues with its search to learn the laws Of all material things, to know the cause Through scientiﬁc skill, and thus to ﬁnd Life’s ﬁnal purpose; then, with life deﬁned In all its aspects, there need be no pause To contemplate—for, knowing, nothing awes. But can the facts be seen with soul stone-blind? We love and hate; we live and die; the chain Of sin still holds us fast as in the day When Faith’s own children tempted were to drain The cup of Love and thus, for self, betray Man unto Death. But Faith will yet sustain The one who can both Faith and Love obey.
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Title: The Dial December 1930, Page 01
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: u. 3, >74 «LC/>313”, “1.!” H, the many hours PUBLISHED BY THE LITERARY ORGANIZATIONS OF AUGSBURG COLLEGE MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA

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