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Title: The Dial 1947, Page 35
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: by the nape of the neck and said, "Sorry, folks, you’ll have to re- sume your quarrel tomorrow night. It’s nearly six o’clock. We’ll have to get back to our places before the girls wake up.” A hush fell upon the little animals. Oofta, the big rabbit, slowly walked towards the door. He was...
Show moreby the nape of the neck and said, "Sorry, folks, you’ll have to re- sume your quarrel tomorrow night. It’s nearly six o’clock. We’ll have to get back to our places before the girls wake up.” A hush fell upon the little animals. Oofta, the big rabbit, slowly walked towards the door. He was followed by the smaller rabbits, the ducks, Kitty, the mouse, Philip the worm, Oscar the psycholo- gical elephant, the baby elephant, Horace the horse, and dogs of every size, color, and description. The monkeys followed, leaping from one piece of furniture to another. Overhead ﬂew the owls and the pretty birds. Stinky, the skunk, brought up the rear in this mournful procession. Our animals sadly waved good—bye to their friends. Finally they climbed up on the bookcase, the desk, or the dresser for another dull day. I did not sleep the rest of that night. I kept thinking about many things. I kept thinking about how uncomfortable the cat and the mouse must feel sitting side by side, for now I knew that it mattered to them. I resolved that I would speak to Thelma in the morning about changing the positions of the little animals. + A Moment of Silent Prayer The minister walked slowly up the steps of the pulpit. In a deep, sonorous voice he said, “Let us all rise for a moment of silent prayer.” - There was the muﬁled swish of people rising, then utter and com- plete silence. I stood by my pew, my head bowed. The room was so quiet that I imagined everyone could hear what I was saying to God. I glanced up. Every head was devoutly lowered. The round, rosy-checked face of a little baby peered out from his mother’s arms. Even the infant seemed to sense the peaceful sol- emnity of the moment. He stared wide—eyed and unbelieving at the hushed congregation. I breathed and the roar of my breath echoed throughout the church. The silence was painful and unnatural. The “moment” was stretching into an hour. I longed to hear a sound, any sound. "The epistle text for this morning. . .” The minister’s voice was strange, unfamiliar. It seemed so long since I had heard it. —PHEBE DALE 33
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Title: The Dial 1947, Page 34
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: your 9’ clock ‘Rendezvous RUTH PEDERSON Last night I awakened with a feeling that I was cold. Soon after closing the window, I became conscious of forms moving about in the room. When my eyes became used to the darkness, I recog- nized some of those forms. Spud, Doris’ yarn dog, was no longer in...
Show moreyour 9’ clock ‘Rendezvous RUTH PEDERSON Last night I awakened with a feeling that I was cold. Soon after closing the window, I became conscious of forms moving about in the room. When my eyes became used to the darkness, I recog- nized some of those forms. Spud, Doris’ yarn dog, was no longer in his customary place on top of the bookcase. Instead, he was sitting on my desk talking to Pete and Repeat, my book-ends. He seemed to be reprimanding Pete and Repeat for naughty behavior. On the floor I noticed John Henry. He was quacking lustily. In answer to his call, two little ducks from the neighboring rooms waddled in. Then Oofta, the biggest rabbit in Sivertsen Hall, made a grand entrance, followed by six rabbits of assorted sizes. It was comforting to see all the animals of one kind together. It had always bothered me a little to see the cat and the mouse sit- ting side by side on Thelma’s bookcase. I knew they must have felt terribly uncomfortable. Suddenly chills ran up and down my spine. Phil, the worm, was crawling along the edge of my blanket. For the ﬁrst time since awakening, I wished the animals back in their daytime inanimate stage. Phil ﬁnally dropped off onto the ﬂoor, however, and I breathed a sigh of relief. There was a ﬂutter of wings. First one bird, then another, ma- jestically sailed through the open door. I shuddered to think that these beautiful creatures had formerly served as ﬂower pots. For a long time, Kitty quietly watched the birds. Her attention would be focused ﬁrst on one bird, then on another. She would carefully plan some strategy by which she might catch her prize, but all was vain. When Kitty was ready to spring, the bird would nonchalantly ﬂy to another corner of the room. In despair, Kitty turned her attention back to her age-old enemy, the mouse, Whom she had neglected all evening. If she could not dine on the delec- table meat of birds, she would settle for the next best—mouse steak. She made a spring and was about to commence her meal. I held my breath; I hated to see our little friend, the mouse, leave us in such a manner. Just then Jake, the dwarf, grabbed Kitty 32
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Title: The Dial 1947, Page 33
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: WW 7% Find them on the back streets of most any Southern town Beating out the rhythms of a diﬂerent color throng. Making sounds of laughter, Singing songs of sin; Plenty more comes after A drink or two of gin. White man bumps a Nigger passing to the bar; Each must voice his anger, adding to the...
Show moreWW 7% Find them on the back streets of most any Southern town Beating out the rhythms of a diﬂerent color throng. Making sounds of laughter, Singing songs of sin; Plenty more comes after A drink or two of gin. White man bumps a Nigger passing to the bar; Each must voice his anger, adding to the roar. Bodies jerk and stumble, Dancing on the floor; Crazed by heat and passion, They always beg for more. Loungers on the sidelines sponging time and drinks, Boastful of their eﬁorts to feel and never think. Arms around each other, Passing out in pairs, Proud of all the envy They read in every stare. Morning fades the shadows that brought such great delight. Honky tanks are settled, waiting for the night. —DON HEGG + YOU If I am of tender heart and loving care today, And everything seems right, It is just because of you. If tomorrow’s cares seem far away And all my days the same, It is not because of what I have done, Or what I’ve learned to say; It is just because of you. —DON HEGG LOVE Love is a feeling, a thought, a look. Love is an action. Love is. —BETTY PLOYHAR 31
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Title: The Dial 1947, Page 32
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: Spring Morning IRENE M. JOHNSON Morning sat on the hill resting a minute before touching the countryside with her warm, soft ﬁngers. As she slid down from her perch, she laughed, scattering the dew pearls which evening had hung around the necks of the grass blades. Her bare toes warmed the cool...
Show moreSpring Morning IRENE M. JOHNSON Morning sat on the hill resting a minute before touching the countryside with her warm, soft ﬁngers. As she slid down from her perch, she laughed, scattering the dew pearls which evening had hung around the necks of the grass blades. Her bare toes warmed the cool earth and aroused a baby rabbit from sleep. She rustled the leaves of a cottonwood tree and kissed a wild rose bud. Birds saw her coming and started to sing. It was a sparkling, fruit salad da 'n earl M . 1“ x Y x y ay «fl/p. 1% ("1 PUSSY-WILLOW Pussy—willow, soft and small, You have heard the south wind call; You know they’re gone—winter, fall— Lore of nature, you know all. Pussy, pussy-willow. Out of your little house you peep, List’ning for the birds to cheep— The earth awakens from its sleep As farther out your house you creep—— Pussy, pussy-willow. The sun is shining—here is spring, Bees are buzzing, robin: sing; Winter’s cover of you ﬂing—— Oh, you lovely furry thing—— Pussy, pussy-willow. —JOAN WICKLAND + DARK Squirming strips of shadow Blending into one, Twisting, turning, Stirring up the whirlpool we call dark. -—-BETTY PLOYHAR 30
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Title: The Dial 1947, Page 31
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: But the bus had passed on and Mrs. Fowler didn’t notice. She was thinking of her shopping and how nice it was to meet a sen- sible girl these days. What a pity such a nice girl had to wear makeup to work. ‘ + LIVING I felt the knife of deep despair And cringed in hollow fear; I heard the hot,...
Show moreBut the bus had passed on and Mrs. Fowler didn’t notice. She was thinking of her shopping and how nice it was to meet a sen- sible girl these days. What a pity such a nice girl had to wear makeup to work. ‘ + LIVING I felt the knife of deep despair And cringed in hollow fear; I heard the hot, hushed voice of death And swallowed back a tear. I took a drink of sweet, cool joy, Embraced a laughing sky; I touched a baby blade of grass And caught a robin’s eye. I saw a candy-coated cloud And heard a tinseled brook, Absorbed intently all of life, For I had read a book. -—-IRENE M. JOHNSON + WHITE GOWNS Like snow that melts on hearthstone, warm, The love of God’s inviting balm Descends from out the gathering storm, To flood each willing heart with calm. As outside winter’s coat is borne, By shivering ground, midst deaf’ning din Of Arctic cold’s impinging morn, The grace of God doth cover sin. But far beyond the azure blue, Yea, farther than the eye can see, Dwells peace that world never knew, An everlasting Spring for me. —PAUL ARNOLD 29
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Title: The Dial 1947, Page 30
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: “I’ll tell you what’s the matter,” she continued. "It’s the movies. All our young people see these painted, wicked women in the movies and they think it’s glamorous.” The girl’s face was blank and bored. She began to speak but Mrs. Fowler went on. "But I can see that you’re not that kind. It is...
Show more“I’ll tell you what’s the matter,” she continued. "It’s the movies. All our young people see these painted, wicked women in the movies and they think it’s glamorous.” The girl’s face was blank and bored. She began to speak but Mrs. Fowler went on. "But I can see that you’re not that kind. It is certainly a relief to see a sensible girl nowadays.” "I can’t wear makeup because it’s hard on my face. I have to wear so much of it where I work,” said the girl defensively. "My, that’s a shame,” said Mrs. Fowler kindly. "It certainly is a pity a person can’t even get a job nowadays without being all painted up.” The girl looked tired and bored. uAnd then we have all this jazz and swing. It’s getting so that young people can’t go anywhere except to one of these night clubs. They drink and then they get into trouble and their parents won- der what’s wrong. My, it’s a shame.” The bus had entered the business district. They were caught in trafﬁc and waited in the middle of a block. On the right side, against an old building, large posters of scantily dressed women were hung. Mrs. Fowler took a look and gasped. “Just look at that,” she said. Right here in the middle of the city. I never saw anything so disgraceful in my life. I’m ashamed to ride on this bus with my friends having to pass that place. Something ought to be done about those places.” The girl’s face became hard. She closed her mouth tightly. Mrs. Fowler con- tinued in a righteous tone. “I just can’t see why people stand for those awful show places. Just imagine, girls walking around on the stage naked. And men looking at them. Such wickedness here in our own city.” She paused for breath. “I just can’t imagine a woman being so low as to do something like that. It‘s disgraceful. They should be put in jail.” The bus stopped at the corner. The girl moved to get up. "It does me good to see somebody who has some sense,” said Mrs. Fowler. "Goodbye, and you’d better wear stockings from now on.” The girl made no acknowledgment. She got oﬂ the bus and went into a side entrance of the old building hung with posters. 28
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Title: The Dial 1947, Page 29
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: Mrs. Fowler ROBERT G. KRAUSS Mrs. Fowler waited until the bus had stopped completely and then stepped studily aboard. She pressed her token ﬁrmly into the till. She teetered for a moment as the bus began to move and grasped a shiny' iron post. Deliberater she surveyed the interior of the bus....
Show moreMrs. Fowler ROBERT G. KRAUSS Mrs. Fowler waited until the bus had stopped completely and then stepped studily aboard. She pressed her token ﬁrmly into the till. She teetered for a moment as the bus began to move and grasped a shiny' iron post. Deliberater she surveyed the interior of the bus. Then she made her way cautiously to the rear and set- tled in the only empty seat. It was a cold day. Mrs. Fowler fumbled in her brown leather purse and wiped her nose. She snapped the purse shut and ar- ranged it neatly in her lap on the green net shopping bag. She pulled her brown felt hat more securely on her head. She folded her brown cloth coat carefully over her knees. Finally her broad face assumed an expression of satisfaction. She turned her at- tention to the grey feather creation in front of her. At the next corner, the bus stopped and a tall, ﬁne featured girl got on. She came back and sat next to Mrs. Fowler. Mrs. Fowler forgot the hat in front of her and studied the girl. She observed the worn fur coat and the girl’s long untidy hair. Mrs. Fowler was pleased to see that the girl wore no makeup. Not many girls were so sensible these days. But the girl wore no stockings and her slender legs were blue with cold. "My, I should think your legs would freeze in weather like this,” said Mrs. Fowler. The girl turned her pale, expressionless face towards Mrs. Fowler. "It isn’t so bad,” she said slowly. “Well, when you get to be my age you will learn to be sensible,” ’said Mrs. Fowler and displayed her own sturdy cotton stockings. The girl merely smiled slightly. “I don’t know why girls are so foolish these days,’ continued Mrs. Fowler, “They just don’t have any sense.” The girl didn’t say anything. “Oh, I’m not talking about you,” said Mrs. Fowler. "You look like a sensible person. But I just can’t stand those silly girls that paint themselves up with lipstick and mascara. Why, they look like savages, most of them.” The girl’s long face broke into a slight smile. Mrs. Fowler took this as a token of agreement. ’ 27
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Title: The Dial 1947, Page 28
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: Jt’a Elma .(i‘ule Ulu'nga KENNETH FAGERLIE Last night as I walked towards the ofﬁce to do a little extra work after the regular working hours I noticed that it was quite cold outside. A dog shouldn’t be out in this weather, I thought. Just as I had walked in the door I noticed a little kitten. If...
Show moreJt’a Elma .(i‘ule Ulu'nga KENNETH FAGERLIE Last night as I walked towards the ofﬁce to do a little extra work after the regular working hours I noticed that it was quite cold outside. A dog shouldn’t be out in this weather, I thought. Just as I had walked in the door I noticed a little kitten. If it was too cold for a dog, it surely was no place for a kitten. I picked the little thing up and took it into my ofﬁce. I put it on my sweater on the desk top and started in on the work. After I had ﬁnished I noticed the little kitten. It sure looked peaceful and happy laying there all curled up so nice and warm like. It made me feel kind of good. When I was ready to go, I didn’t think it would make any dif- ference; so I left the kitten sleeping on the desk. When I woke up the next morning, Helen, my wife, was pre- paring breakfast. I was cleaning up and getting ready when I re— alized that I was still thinking about last night. It’s funny how such a little thing like that can make you feel 50—. Before I could ﬁnish Helen came in. “Did you read the morning paper yet, dear?” “No, I didn’t,” I said, “Why?” "I just hate to read things like that,” she replied. "There is an article here about a little six year old girl who went out looking for her kitten because of the cold, and froze to death. It was right down by your ofﬁce, too.” "It was! Why that must have—.” “What did you say, dear?” uNothing.” It was no use telling Helen or any one else. They would never understand how I felt. + SPRING FANCY Hus/J up, Ob! Little one! She stumbled Spring is coming, Over the back fence And if you’re quiet And dropped You can bear her. A bane/o of dandelions. —HELEN HAUKENESS 26
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Title: The Dial 1947, Page 27
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: Sunday. Yes, it was Sunday. What is Sunday? Dorothy thought. It is the day that people are to set aside for worship. The ﬁrst Sun- day we were in Minneapolis I was on duty. Last Sunday we went to a church that one of the girls said a friend of hers attends. This church made Dorothy think: "Beware...
Show moreSunday. Yes, it was Sunday. What is Sunday? Dorothy thought. It is the day that people are to set aside for worship. The ﬁrst Sun- day we were in Minneapolis I was on duty. Last Sunday we went to a church that one of the girls said a friend of hers attends. This church made Dorothy think: "Beware of false prophesy.” Aren’t there people in Minneapolis who worship God as He teaches them to? Isn’t there some place in this hustling, busy city where a per- son can get away from the noise for awhile and worship God in peace? Suddenly a clear ringing sound reached her ears. A sound not quite like bells; it was chimes. Dorothy pinched herself to see if she were dreaming and found that she was wide awake. The music ﬂoated out on the air with sweetness and beauty: "Beautiful Savior! Lord of the nations! Son of God and Son of Man! Glory and honor, Praise, adoration, Now and for evermore he Thine!” Dorothy’s work had not turned out to be the opportunity for service she had hoped for. So much of nursing was plain drud- gery. Working and working with very little sleep made a person feel like a machine. Being among strange people in a strange world was confusing. Yet, now as she listened to the chimes these things began to fall into their rightful places. The trying times she had had begun to seem like mere trivialities in a big plan, a plan that is world-wide. Her life took on new meaning. Above all the cares and troubles of the world is God, the Maker of the Uni- verse. + A SUMMER NIGHT I flicked avcigarette into the air. The sparks flew everywhere, Bright and hot and glowing. And in a moment— Ashes—dead and grey. So for our lives we pay. For a moment full of heat and growing. Then—ashes? Only heaven knowing. —ROBERT G. KRAUSS 25
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Title: The Dial 1947, Page 26
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: @he Ghimes RUTH PEDERSON Dorothy opened her eyes, yawned, turned over, and snuggled back into sleep for a few minutes. Soon she was awake again, aware of the fact that sunlight was pouring into the room. Obvi- ously it was quite late. She noticed that her roommate, Marie, was still in bed. This...
Show more@he Ghimes RUTH PEDERSON Dorothy opened her eyes, yawned, turned over, and snuggled back into sleep for a few minutes. Soon she was awake again, aware of the fact that sunlight was pouring into the room. Obvi- ously it was quite late. She noticed that her roommate, Marie, was still in bed. This is Sunday morning, Dorothy thought. It doesn’t seem like Sunday morning. None of the days here in Minneapolis are like days anywhere else. They are like days in a nightmare. Dorothy was a student nurse in the Cadet Nurses’ Corps. She had taken a year and a half of her training in South Dakota in a small town close to Sioux Falls. Now she and three of her class- mates were taking their afﬁliation in Minneapolis. All reports had indicated that Minneapolis was a large and beautiful city. It was large, but the beauty? Well, she had seen none of it. Since she and her girl friends had come on the train she had left the grounds of General Hospital twice—once to attend church, and once to walk the six blocks to Donaldson’s and Dayton’s. They had taken their walk during the rush hour. Everybody in Minneapolis seemed to be hurrying to get to the same place at the same time. The girls had become so confused that they did not care to venture out again. If it had been only the city itself they had disliked, life in Gen- eral Hospital might not have become so unbearable. It was the tediousness of the work and classes and the kind of people one came in contact with throughout the day. The girls Dorothy met in the hospital were not the type of girls she was used to associating with; they were “of the world.” She saw her friends from South Dakota only seldom now. Eloise and Jenny were "on nights” while she was "on days.” Betty was usually visiting a cousin when not sleeping. Dorothy got out of bed and looked out the window. Looking out the window was the closest she got to the outdoors for some- times as long as two days. Just to get outside one would either have to take the elevator down twelve ﬂights of stairs or go up on the roof. 24
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Title: The Dial 1947, Page 25
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: ALL EQUAL? WAYNE WICKOREN As his big eyes looked up at me I wondered why it was that God had chosen to make people of diiferent colors. Why should there be as great a distinction as this between men? I thought that the statement, "All men are created equal,” must be false. How could we all be...
Show moreALL EQUAL? WAYNE WICKOREN As his big eyes looked up at me I wondered why it was that God had chosen to make people of diiferent colors. Why should there be as great a distinction as this between men? I thought that the statement, "All men are created equal,” must be false. How could we all be equal and have equal chances in life with his face black and mine white? Suddenly my heart ﬁlled with shame because for a moment I had been thinking how glad I was that it was he whom God had chosen to make black. What right had I to place myself abOVe this little black fellow? He seemed happy and content even though his face was black. Then happily I remembered, “Man looketh on the outward ap- pearance but God looketh at the heart.” I raised my head in thanks to a just God. How easy it is to forget that we all have white souls even if we do have faces of different colors. + . AUTUMN MELANCHOLY Now the trees are no longer ﬁlled with ﬂaming leaves, but they stand in bleak barrenness, their dark branches penciled against the sky. The clear intense blue of October’s sky has become the dull gray of early November. The laWns are brown and covered with dry leaves. A sad, listless wind moans softly in the trees. Na- ture is in mourning because all life is dead. But perhaps tomorrow, the dark mourning clothes will be ex- changed for the pure, white robe of winter. —PHEBE DALE + NOTICE TO SELF-MADE MEN Remember, as you Stuell your chest, For all your wit and sweat and pluck, There are many men who had that too But didn’t have your LUCK. —ROBERT G. Knauss 23
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Title: The Dial 1947, Page 24
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: dwelling, where the buffalo lay all day and soaked, and where the women of the village washed their clothes, and where the ashes of the dead were sometimes thrown. He must be clean and puriﬁed be- fore he started work on his gift to the god Siva. In the darkening twilight, when birds twitter...
Show moredwelling, where the buffalo lay all day and soaked, and where the women of the village washed their clothes, and where the ashes of the dead were sometimes thrown. He must be clean and puriﬁed be- fore he started work on his gift to the god Siva. In the darkening twilight, when birds twitter drowsily and leaves whisper, and the river gurgles over the stones, Narayan be- gan his present. Slowly and steadily rose the clay under the touch of the master’s hand. Once, twice, three times; he began again. And once the vase stood proudly on its platform, tall and beautiful. Narayan spied a tiny stone in the gently curving lips of the vase. He picked it out and patiently began again. His slender brown ﬁngers stroked the submissive clay into fascinating shapes. His thumb made a lit- tle series of spirals about the wide base. His gentle hands eased the clay up and up—another curve, another spiral. His hand hollowed it out till it was tall and delicately thin. A touch of his ﬁnger and the top curved outward into a smooth rounded ellipse. A few more touches and the vase was complete. Narayan sat back and gazed at it. He had never executed such a perfect bit of work before. He knew he could never do it again. He was awed by its beauty. That night he baked it in his hottest brick oven. In a few days it was ready. The outside was painted with artistic loveliness in many rainbow hues. The inside was aﬁre with golden paint. So Narayan made preparations to take his dedicated vase to the temple at the edge of the holy Ganges river. He laid it down carefully to kiss his little son goodbye. The little boy danced about it excitedly. The father beamed upon his two treasures—his son, the gift of the gods, and his exquisite vase, the work of his own hands. The boy’s foot accidentally tipped the sacred vase. It reeled giddily as if to save itself, and tipped over. There before N arayan’s horriﬁed eyes lay his masterpiece. It was shattered into a hundred glistening fragments! -—RUTH AMSTUTZ THE PHILOSOPHER’S DILEMMA I can’t help but think— And thinking doesn’t help. ——ROBERT G. KRAUSS Mam
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Title: The Dial 1947, Page 23
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: The Vase The glorious Indian sunset was fading. A few snow-white clouds, burnished with gold, drifted across the sky. A cool breeze ushered in the evening. Narayan, the potter, wiped his grimy, wet face against his rag- ged sleeve. The breeze whipped the rags across his brown back. He gazed...
Show moreThe Vase The glorious Indian sunset was fading. A few snow-white clouds, burnished with gold, drifted across the sky. A cool breeze ushered in the evening. Narayan, the potter, wiped his grimy, wet face against his rag- ged sleeve. The breeze whipped the rags across his brown back. He gazed proudly at the long row of water-vessels he had made that afternoon. Once you had conquered the art of fashioning these perfectly round urns, it was not difﬁcult. All you needed then was a steady hand and a delicate touch. The potter faced the breeZe. "Ah, the heavenly coolness sent by the immortal Siva. I shall fashion a beautiful vase for his temple. He has sent a cool wind after a burning day to reward me for my labors.” Again Narayan’s black eyes swept along the neat row of water- vessels. He spied his little son playing with a lump of clay. “Come, my pretty one,” he called. “Bring me a handful of my choicest black clay.” The boy straightened his little body, carefully adjusted his silver- spangled pink hat, and ran away toward the clay pit. The potter picked up a long stout stick. He inserted this in a hollow in the wheel that lay on the ground. It turned on a greasy iron pivot. Slowly he began to turn the wheel. Faster and faster it ﬂew. At last the potter dropped the stick and panted to regain his breath. He selected a lump of red clay and seated himself on the ground at the outer rim of the wheel. He reached over and slapped the clay on the raised portion in the middle of the whirl- ing wheel. Skillfully he cupped his hands about the clay. As the wheel spun the clay around, and as the potter moved his hands ever so slightly, a beautiful slender column rose up. When it was tall enough, the potter pushed his little ﬁnger downward in the top. Soon the little lump of clay was transformed into a graceful vase with perfect symmetry and exquisite curves. When his little son returned, Narayan squashed the little vase and carefully wiped off the platform. He rose and drank deeply from the vessel of cool water, nestling under the eaves of his thatched hut. Then he bathed in the dirty little river below his 21
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Title: The Dial 1947, Page 22
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: 61w ﬁtidge BETTY PLOYHAR Her heels made a hollow clacking sound as she walked towards the middle of the bridge. Her hands were clenched tightly, the palms wet. She bit her lip nervously, almost afraid to go on, but she had to go on. After she had come this far there was no back- ing out, no...
Show more61w ﬁtidge BETTY PLOYHAR Her heels made a hollow clacking sound as she walked towards the middle of the bridge. Her hands were clenched tightly, the palms wet. She bit her lip nervously, almost afraid to go on, but she had to go on. After she had come this far there was no back- ing out, no looking at what might have been. She might never have an opportunity like this again. All that mattered was that she end it as soon as possible. It was useless to waste time; it would only mess things up more. She automatically walked faster, for she could see the wide spot in the center of the bridge. She moved closer to the railing and looked out over it. Close to her were bright spots of lights, but farther out it was black. The darkness seemed comforting, though she knew that in reality it was treacherous. It looked safe, yet it could end all her hopes and ambitions easily. She felt alone. If only someone would come by. She knew bet- ter than to expect anyone; the bridge was hers alone tonight. Her lips moved, but she didn’t know if she had actually spoken or not. It would do no good to worry now. This was so well-planned that her subconscious self would carry her through to the ﬁnish. Her arms were no longer tense. The relaxation made them al- most ache. It was hard to lift herself up to the railing. She was breathing heavily when it was at last accomplished. The railing seemed to waver beneath her, but it must be only her imagination. Maybe she was swaying herself. She must be. Her body tensed, for this was the decisive moment. It must be accomplished, and now. She ached inside with the quiet. She couldn’t stand the silence a second longer. Almost without effort her scream sliced out into the air, echoing again and again. Her eardrums, unaccustomed to the sharp piercing sound, throbbed. Then she stood still, poised for the headlong plunge into the darkness. Then she could relax. Now it was over. There was a roar of applause as the curtain came down slowly. 20
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Title: The Dial 1947, Page 21
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: lonely ones for Gudrun, for her husband was sick. When Lars was up and around, she could ﬁnd winter life on the farm bearable. It didn’t seem right to have to see her strong, able-bodied husband lying practically helpless in bed. A pale gloom hovered over the snowdrifts. In the woods the drifts...
Show morelonely ones for Gudrun, for her husband was sick. When Lars was up and around, she could ﬁnd winter life on the farm bearable. It didn’t seem right to have to see her strong, able-bodied husband lying practically helpless in bed. A pale gloom hovered over the snowdrifts. In the woods the drifts were piled even higher. Suddenly a grey form began to materialize out of the semi-darkness. It had obviously come out of the wood. Slowly, slowly it approached. It seemed to be a huge dog. But what a strange dog. It was no dog. It continued to ap- proach slowly. The form loomed larger and larger in front of Gudrun’s eyes. She gripped the window—sill with her ﬁngers. Her heart seemed to jump up into her throat. This animal was none other than a timber-wolf. Its eyes appeared to burn in its head,,and they penetrated her very being. She shivered. “A wolf,” she gasped. An old Scandinavian superstition shot through her brain: "If a wolf comes around the buildings, it means that a death will soon occur in the family.” “A death, a death,” she whispered weakly. She wanted to run and be beside her husband and see if he Were well, but she remained riveted to the spot staring at the horrible creature. The animal was nearly three feet tall, but it seemed much larger. He was so gaunt his ribs showed through his shaggy fur. The eyes glistened and leered at the woman in the house. A gust of wind blew past the corner of the house. Then nothing could be heard but its moaning in the tree-tops. EVENING The rain drops are falling, The night birds are calling; Their sweet melodies ﬁll the air. Daylight’s reposing Dusk is enclosing The land most everywhere. Flowers are sleeping, Moonlight is peeping Through the mist in the air. Stars are winking, Lights are blinking, Peace reigns everywhere. —JOAN WICKLAND 19
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Title: The Dial 1947, Page 20
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: THE WOLI: RUTH PEDERSON Gudrun looked at the calendar. It was now the Thirteenth of February. Lars had been lying in bed for three weeks, but it seemed much longer. The same snow had been on the ground since before Christmas. Gudrun had looked out the window, wishing the weather would change, but...
Show moreTHE WOLI: RUTH PEDERSON Gudrun looked at the calendar. It was now the Thirteenth of February. Lars had been lying in bed for three weeks, but it seemed much longer. The same snow had been on the ground since before Christmas. Gudrun had looked out the window, wishing the weather would change, but knowing that it would not. She had seen "sun-dogs” that morning. Very soon, complete darkness would again fall. She hated the night and the darkness; yet the day was not much better. She looked out over the expanse of snow into the woods. The trees stood like skeletons, black against the overcast sky. Then to the West was what in the summer-time was called a lake. Now it was only a much larger expanse of snow than the rest—cold. Gudrun wondered how she could ever have thought the lake and the woods beautiful. She wondered how she and Lars could have decided to come out in this wilderness in the ﬁrst place. Gudrun’s mind wandered back ﬁve and a half years. She could see a small grey house standing beside a lake. On either side of this house were two elms, their branches spreading. The house snug- ly ﬁt between these trees as though it had always been there. Near— by was a brook that descended in a little waterfall to the lake. Only a few yards from here, one could ﬁnd woods as primitive as those man might ﬁnd anywhere. In the spring, wild columbines blossomed on the hillsides, a glory of color. Red and grey squirrels scampered up and down the tree—trunks, their pouches ﬁlled with golden acorns. A ground-hog might be seen hurrying through the underbrush. Woodpeckers, tanagers, bluejays, and perhaps a blue- bird or two ﬁlled the woods with their songs and peculiar bird- noises. A deer could sometimes be seen gliding across a fence or a bush. Mink and foxes were two kinds of rather unpopular wild- life. They often stole the chickens from an unsuspecting farmer, but coyotes or wolves had not been seen in the territory for years. Yes, that was what they thought they had bought. A woods, a babbling brook, bluebirds, and deer. Nothing but beauty. Gudrun laughed ironically as she came back to stern reality—the isolation and the loneliness. The last three weeks had been particularly 18
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Title: The Dial 1947, Page 19
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: these things she couldn’t comprehend, only blind love—suffering. "I’m almost glad he’s dead. I know I’m glad there can’t be an- other. No one understands.” She seemed to look at me now and her face took on its peace and contentment again. “We are happy. We have each other, our music, our love. We...
Show morethese things she couldn’t comprehend, only blind love—suffering. "I’m almost glad he’s dead. I know I’m glad there can’t be an- other. No one understands.” She seemed to look at me now and her face took on its peace and contentment again. “We are happy. We have each other, our music, our love. We’re even closer than other couples, we’re really one because we have to be so much for each other. Didn’t the Lord say ‘Forsaking all others, cleave to one another’?” We were silent. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t ask her to explain. I knew I had seen a great love. Then the doorbell rang—three short rings, a sort of signal. Her face lost every trace of suffering, it was eager and quietly happy. She went out quickly. I heard their soft voices, and then they were in the room. "This is Greg, my husband.” I looked at the man standing beside her. He was tall, his face was ﬁnely made, his eyes and hands were those of an artist. His face had the same look as his wife’s. It made them look very much alike, even though he was black. + I peer around dark corners To catch a glimpse of eerie goblins, But the door casings taunt me Evening And the blackness leers boldly. , I listen to the wind Wlth And in it try to hear The magic footsteps Myself Of leprechauns and fairies, But I hear only the wind, Gnawing at the eaves, Grappling with the chimney, I see nothing but shadows, Leering, taunting. I hear only the wind, Gnawing, grappling, Leering, taunting, Gnawing, grappling— Are you listening? —HELEN HAUKENESS 17
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Title: The Dial 1947, Page 18
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: the quiet peace of her face. She was struggling with something she couldn’t explain, something she couldn’t even understand. "Oh, it was hard. To us it was so wonderful; we loved each other, it was just us two. We knew vaguely that there were ob- jections, but we were educated, intelligent, even...
Show morethe quiet peace of her face. She was struggling with something she couldn’t explain, something she couldn’t even understand. "Oh, it was hard. To us it was so wonderful; we loved each other, it was just us two. We knew vaguely that there were ob- jections, but we were educated, intelligent, even gifted people. Our friends were intelligent and enlightened. We had not thought of their objections. We were engaged. We didn’t tell anyone until I had the ring. We wanted to surprise them. And they were shocked; they didn’t believe us; they even tried to persuade us not to—” Another break. I couldn’t understand her story; I knew there was something terribly tragic, terribly wrong; but she had for- gotten me; she didn’t think I wouldn’t know all she knew. She was just reliving. She continued, her voice softer, loving. "When Greg heard them talk, he tried to make me forget him. He wanted to spare me. But he loved me, he couldn’t deny that, and as long as he loved me, I loved him. I knew, oh, I knew what our marriage would be like. I was feeling it already; our friends were distant, even my mother. Mother had told me I’d have to make a choice. It wasn’t hard—the choice, I mean. There was only one. I loved Greg more than anything on earth. I couldn’t do anything else. Mother said I was selﬁsh. Maybe I was. What she said about our children especially. Maybe I was selﬁsh; I don’t know. I just know I loved him, I couldn’t do anything else.” There were no tears in her eyes as she ﬁnished, but her voice was full of tears, not tears of sorrow, but desperate, pleading tears that begged to be understood and not condemned. uWe were married. Greg is a ﬁne musician, he will be a great musician, and he and our music were enough for me. We didn’t even miss our friends, not even my mother. We had enough. Then our little boy was born. I didn’t know there could be so much joy and so much sorrow together in one heart at once. He was so beautiful; he had hands like Greg’s. He was a born musician. But he was alone. I was afraid for him; he was so sensitive, so loving, so easily hurt. He never had any friends. The children liked him, but their parents. . . And he was so good. He couldn’t understand —either.” A long pause. Her face was intense with suffering, no hatred for 16
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Title: The Dial 1947, Page 17
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: hair was still a soft, light brown, parted in the center; her face was still a “nice” face. She was just the same, but as I watched her talk I noticed something I hadn’t seen at ﬁrst glance. She was older looking, not because of grey hair or dull eyes but older looking as if she had suffered...
Show morehair was still a soft, light brown, parted in the center; her face was still a “nice” face. She was just the same, but as I watched her talk I noticed something I hadn’t seen at ﬁrst glance. She was older looking, not because of grey hair or dull eyes but older looking as if she had suffered deeply and had become quiet and wise because of it. There was something else too. The quietness was caused by sorrow, but it gave a clear impression of content- ment and happiness. I was sitting there, watching her, studying her face, wondering what it was that had made the difference when her conversation changed from the usual light gossip. “My mother is dead.” It was a sudden remark; it surprised and startled me. I couldn’t make the usual remarks because it seemed as if she hadn’t ﬁnished speaking. "That’s why we’re living here now. I’m married.” The quite ordinary remark seemed so ﬁlled with tenseness that again I couldn’t answer. We sat there without saying anything for a moment. When she continued, her voice was low and sup- pressed. It had the same quality of feeling that I had seen in her face. "So many things have happened.” She stopped. I knew she wanted to say more; so I just waited. “You know I always wanted to sing. After dad died I changed my major and entered the music school at the U. It was what I’d always wanted; I loved it. The practice wasn’t work, it was a joy. The people I met weren’t dry, hard business people; they were warm and eager artists who understood the things I did, and sought after the things I did, and loved the things I did.” She stopped again; she seemed to be remembering. “And Greg was the best, the dearest, the closest to me of them all.” Again a pause and then she continued in a voice I couldn’t un- derstand and with words I couldn’t see any reason for. “I didn’t think of loving him then; we were friends, very dear friends. But it was natural and good and right. There was noth- ing wrong about it, no reason—” And now the lines of suffering showed again and nearly covered 15
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Title: The Dial 1947, Page 16
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: Forsahing Others MARILYNN HALVORSON Her name was Robyn. Funny how that pleased me so very much, almost as if I had thought of it myself. It was a good name for her; it suited her. It went well with the way she wore her brown hair, parted in the center, just slightly curled on the sides, and with...
Show moreForsahing Others MARILYNN HALVORSON Her name was Robyn. Funny how that pleased me so very much, almost as if I had thought of it myself. It was a good name for her; it suited her. It went well with the way she wore her brown hair, parted in the center, just slightly curled on the sides, and with her face, an ordinary face that still was attractive, the kind we call “nice.” Most of all the name went with her voice, clear, high, sweet. It seemed right that she should be named for a bird. Robyn was our church soloist. She was going to the University and majoring in business. She used to bring her books on econ- omics along to choir practice and study. All of us laughed— Robyn a business woman! She saw how foolish the idea was, too, but her father, a well-to-do business man, wanted her to follow in his steps; he didn’t have any sons. Since Robyn was always faithful in coming to choir practice, we were puzzled the night she didn’t come. We found out later that her father had died of a heart attack that afternoon. After that Robyn couldn’t get to choir practice and from then on I saw her very seldom. When I went away to school I lost track of her entirely. I thought of her, though, and wondered if she were majoring in music now that her father was dead. I was quite certain that if Robyn ever got the chance she would be a great singer. Maybe it was the certainty of this and the de— sire to say "I knew her when—” that made me look her up. It had been about ten years since I had heard of her. I went out to her home. It was evening; the house was very large but there was light in only one room. I rang the doorbell and wait- ed; almost immediately the door opened. It was Robyn. Her name still ﬁt—I would have known her anywhere. Her voice was the same, too; I was sure of that when I heard her speak. "Oh, yes, I remember you! Come in! I’m alone for the evening and it’s so nice to have company.” While we were passing through the “how are you and every- one” stage which seems so necessary in all such meetings, I got a chance to look more closely at Robyn. She hadn’t changed; her 14
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