I-Ie obtrusiver displays this offensive wound, and pointing to it, whines— a professional whine, of course, — and mutters about his miseries to arouse sympathy. The unconcerned passers-by take no heed of his ever-present beggar’s wallet, nor bother to consider that a few coins might save him from... Show moreI-Ie obtrusiver displays this offensive wound, and pointing to it, whines— a professional whine, of course, — and mutters about his miseries to arouse sympathy. The unconcerned passers-by take no heed of his ever-present beggar’s wallet, nor bother to consider that a few coins might save him from starvation. He is worthy of nothing but curses and insults. He is merely a miserable wretch to the Chinese public and not to be regarded as a human with body, mind, and soul. EVELYN OLSON, ’41 An Ideal Conversationalist F conversation is the dress of the mind, the manner in which one converses and the essence of what he says will be a fair index to his character traits. One can learn a great deal about a person by marking thoughtfully what he says or does not say about others. A chatter-box quickly reflects his shallowness. If we desire to talk all the time we had better acquire the characteristic depicted by Mark Twain: “he had a good memory and a tongue hung in the middle of it.” A lady once remarked, “If there is nothing else to talk about there is always the weather to fall back upon.” Most people choose to avoid such talking-machines whose subjects of conversation are practically limited to weather re- ports. “The smaller the calibre of the mind, the greater the bore of the perpetually open mouth.” Conversational ability is an art and springs from the storehouse of the mind. When the words fall spontaneously and are spoken charitably and without afiectation or desire for self—elevation, one can appreciate what is said. Open-mindedness, sincerity, unselfish- ness, frankness seasoned with tact, and a good sense of humor are desirable qualities in a conversationalist. He keeps the ball rolling without condescending to gossip however true is the news bit indulged in. Since conversational ability is an art and since art pro- poses to give nothing but the highest quality to your moments, it is worth striving to attain. Surely it is within the reach of all. SYNNOVE STENBERG, ’41 DIAL 26 Show less
I Wish I Could Write I WISH I could write. I wish I could write. Reading what others have written gives me much pleasure and almost as much pain because I can’t do it. All pale blue and yellow over there behind the church steeple. The sky is beautiful this evening. God is everywhere in the quiet-... Show moreI Wish I Could Write I WISH I could write. I wish I could write. Reading what others have written gives me much pleasure and almost as much pain because I can’t do it. All pale blue and yellow over there behind the church steeple. The sky is beautiful this evening. God is everywhere in the quiet- ness about me. Strange, to feel such grandeur and solitude in the city, such majesty, and power and glory. I wish I could make you feel it. I dream and imagine things that are so interesting and real to me that I just live in them. If I try to tell them to you they be- come drab and unreal. They sound silly. There are all sorts of interesting people about me. They have the most interesting faces, and the stories behind them! Some of them I just imagine, some of them I know, but I can never convey them to you so that you can know them. Sometimes my feelings—but if I try to describe them to you, you’d think me strange or sentimental because I’d express them clumsily. There are times when it seems that that which is within me will actually smother me. Will it always be like this? “Words beat against my heart like birds with broken wings.” Sara Teas— dale expressed that for me. I never could. I wished their wings would become whole; so they could roar out from my heart into yours. I wish I could write. MABLE NELSON, ’41 DIAL 32 Show less
Prairies in Winter THE wind is bitterly cold. The elements in wild abandon hurl the snow against my face; each particle stings like the lash of a whip. My hands are almost numb and my feet, practi- cally devoid of feeling, stumble along in the drifts. I shiver in- voluntarily, and draw my coat... Show morePrairies in Winter THE wind is bitterly cold. The elements in wild abandon hurl the snow against my face; each particle stings like the lash of a whip. My hands are almost numb and my feet, practi- cally devoid of feeling, stumble along in the drifts. I shiver in- voluntarily, and draw my coat more closely around me. A few feet ahead, the lights of home shine feebly through the blackness of the night. My sigh of relief is only a gasp carried away on the wings of the storm. The scene changes. Snow is falling in soft flakes. It covers the grey old weatherbeaten buildings, ravaged by prairie wind and rain, and makes a white silhouette of the few brave poplars on our main street. The moon looks down on the prairie world, bathing it in a pale yellow light. From my position by the gate I see the raflroad tracks to the left fornnng tvvo thnn fanniy gleaming lines. The country road running parallel to them is a mere black thread winding among the hills until it fades into the hofizon. Again the scene changes. The air is crisp and cold and clear. I cannot feel the raw, penetrating wind heavy with black smoke that makes my eyes smart and almost suffocates me. The sun is shining from a sky of cloudless blue, and the reflection of its rays seem to make each snowflake sparkle with a dazzling brilliance all its own. I cannot see buildings coated with a sooty grime, rising far above me, and almost shutting out the view of God’s skies. The black snow is gone. There is a crunching sound under— neath my feet as I walk out the “Blue Trail” that leads out of our little prairie town. I do not feel treacherous, icy sidewalks be- neath rne. Why do I feel so gloriously free? Why do my spirits soar un- til they almost reach the blue sky above me? I am a child of the prairies. They call me with a call that I cannot resist. Carl Sand- burg says, “I have loved the prairies as a man with a heart shot full of pain over love.” I love them, too. To my memory will always come the thought of a moonlit night on the prairies when “the only sound’s the sweep of easy wind and downy flake.” I will see the wild winds swirling the snow in fury across the DIAL 28 Show less
On Spaghetti DANTE had his Inferno, I have my spaghetti. As a matter of fact, I think that Dante must have encountered spaghetti at one time or another previous to the writing of his masterpiece because only a person subjected to violent torture and tribula- tions could ever so magnificently... Show moreOn Spaghetti DANTE had his Inferno, I have my spaghetti. As a matter of fact, I think that Dante must have encountered spaghetti at one time or another previous to the writing of his masterpiece because only a person subjected to violent torture and tribula- tions could ever so magnificently describe that Place. Then I think that spaghetti has had something to do with the life of that eminent Italian statesman, Mussolini, he of the dour visage, for only one who has had repeated contacts with the ignominious thing could so perpetually wear such a mask of ferocity. You may wonder why I attribute these to spaghetti. I shall endeavor to show you by citing some of my experiences with the detestable animal, or fruit. After all “Truth is stranger than fiction." As a very young child (and may I add, an exceptionally [fright child) I toddled along beside my mother, happy and carefree in the knowledge that I would some day attend Augsburg and thus be an outstanding success in my chosen field. Gradually I became aware of a great weight pressing down upon my innermost being, an indefinable something that bore more heavily upon my soul as time went on. Suddenly my superior brain began to function. In a flash it dawned on me that I had an arch enemy! I began a methodical search for him, or it, or whatever else my fertile brain chose to call it in the happy past, leaving many a stone unturned ininy‘wake Then I sat down to my first plate of spaghetti. AsI looked at the spaghetti lying so serenely and plaintively on the platter, I thought that here was another dish to placate the gourmet in me. But with my first attempt at bringing the plaguy stuff to my mouth, I knew that I was wrong. The spaghetti suddenly became possessed, squirming and writhing until it finally fell back on the plate. Therein lies the tale. Every time I would take up a forkful, it would fall back in a most tantalizing manner. In some instances if I were lucky, I would manage to catch one or two strands, but these vvere feVV and far betvveen. As I vainly attempted to nourish myself, a load seemed to be lifted off my mind. I knew that I had found my arch enemy! Spaghetti! I was confused, bewildered. Then my mind began clearing and I became cool and collected, I must fight this thing, DIAL 30 Show less
treeless plains “when the icy sleet pounds on the storm windows and the house lifts to a great breath.” I will walk in fancy out the “Blue Trail” and feel myself a part of the vast glittering expanse that is the prairie in winter. IRENE HUGLEN, ’43. Trees in Autumn YESTERDAY we lived. Proudly we... Show moretreeless plains “when the icy sleet pounds on the storm windows and the house lifts to a great breath.” I will walk in fancy out the “Blue Trail” and feel myself a part of the vast glittering expanse that is the prairie in winter. IRENE HUGLEN, ’43. Trees in Autumn YESTERDAY we lived. Proudly we bore our crowns of red and gold while the happy sunbeams danced on our brilliant heads. All the world was alive and full of glory in a riotous splash of color. The air was thick with the intoxicating smoky haze of Indian summer. As if struck by the beauty of the scene below them, groups of fluffy clouds hung low in the sky while the sun rinsed them to snow—whiteness. But that was yesterday. Yester- day we lived and dreamed happily of similar autumns in the past; dreamed as we stood there on a soft carpet of bright yellows, red, and browns; stood there lazily nodding our heads in the sunlight. Today we are dead. We died last night in the deathly silence of swirling snow. Today our crowns are gone. They were torn from our heads by the mad, white rush of the snow. We are cold, for we have been standing in the snow all night. The sun does not shine on us now. The sullen clouds press down heavily upon our heads, and all the world seems to be wrapped in troubled sleep. At night, the lights of the city reflect upon the patches of snow on our stiff, black forms, while our cold, bare branches form weird figures against the sky. When you see us like this, do not think of us as despairing souls with arms appealineg outstretched upward toward the forces of nature that took away the soft rains and life-giving sun- light. We are only waiting for another spring when we shall live again, and bear new buds, new leaves, new blossoms, and new fruits. Finally, when the season is over and our work is done for another year, we shall be glorified all over again in another sym— phony of color. MYRON SANDBERG, ’42. 29 DIAL Show less
This Day l have lived this day. Today. A thousand times before and will A thousand times to come. When days are cold and dark Or things oppress me. Then will this day come again! The breath of spring. a vague elusive thing. Has wrapped itselt about the earth. The blackened snow. the ice. the... Show moreThis Day l have lived this day. Today. A thousand times before and will A thousand times to come. When days are cold and dark Or things oppress me. Then will this day come again! The breath of spring. a vague elusive thing. Has wrapped itselt about the earth. The blackened snow. the ice. the slush. The gaunt black trees have somehow Lost their ugliness and have become Part of the day. And when this day returns again It will bring back a breath of spring. The surety of lite, Of resurrection. I shall live this day again. EDNA QUANBECK, ’43 Life - A Song Life will become a beautiful song when we realize that since God is for us none can be against us, that nothing can separate us from His love, and that all things work together for good to them that love Him. In the deepest shadows or in the most brilliant sunshine of our lives the quality, be it in a major or minor key, may be rich, vibrant, and inspiring to those who hear the whole melody. O God. may music rich and rare Replace the noise in lives grown bare: May truittulness and joy abound And lite a telling message sound. SYNNOVE STENBERG, ’41 DIAL 24 Show less
Hit the Line Hard N one of his famous statements President Theodore Roosevelt once used a phrase as follows: “In life as in a football game, the principle to follow is: ‘Hit the line hard.’ ” You cannot get very far in life unless you are dead in earnest, unless you want a thing sufficiently to... Show moreHit the Line Hard N one of his famous statements President Theodore Roosevelt once used a phrase as follows: “In life as in a football game, the principle to follow is: ‘Hit the line hard.’ ” You cannot get very far in life unless you are dead in earnest, unless you want a thing sufficiently to throw every ounce of energy that you own into its gaining. Pasteur was one of the greatest successes of all time. He hit the line hard for all in which he believed—and thus he brought his ideas for the saving of human life out of the darkness and disbelief of those who laughed at his faith into the light. I i I You cannot be feeble in your attempts to master life and hope to win. I have seen many a football team gain ground steadily down the field only to be held at the last yard needed to give them the victory! With victory or defeat awaiting, the line has to be hit hard by both teams — but the one hitting it hardest, wins. Life isn’t easy. It’s a hard game. But if you do your best, there is no reason why you should be discouraged. Failure under such circumstances isn’t defeat! Defeat is something that happens in— side of one. There are those who never know that they are defeated. They make up the great of this earth—the heroes and heroines— whether recorded in song and story or not. II # *3 Objectives in this life are absolutely essential if your full share of happiness is expected. You have to keep hitting the line hard day after day, never losing sight of the thing you wish most of all. There are plenty of people with brains of a high order, but it takes more than mere brains to achieve. Within those brains must be a living, indomitable will backed by a heart on fire —one that will respond when the will says: “Hit the line hard!” VERNON BLIKSTAD, ’42 DIAL 4 Show less
fight, fight, fight. Firmly intrenched in my high chair, with my faithful fork in my trusty left hand, I thought that I would end this battle at once and prove my superiority. But it was not to be. Try as I might I could not penetrate its Maginot line, the line between the plate and my mouth. I... Show morefight, fight, fight. Firmly intrenched in my high chair, with my faithful fork in my trusty left hand, I thought that I would end this battle at once and prove my superiority. But it was not to be. Try as I might I could not penetrate its Maginot line, the line between the plate and my mouth. I tried deception, by slowly letting my fork sink in and stealtth bringing it up, but to no avail. I used a Blitzkrieg approach, jabbing my fork savagely into the spaghetti and bringing it up swiftly, but it only resulted in spaghetti showering about the room. Then I used my fingers, taking a strand of spaghetti at a time, and sucking it into my mouth with a tremendous “slu—r-r-p.” But it was contrary to all rules of etiquette, and I knew that a person of my position could not afford to take chances. Thus I lost my first encounter with spaghetti. Ever since that time in my struggles with it, it has emerged off the field tri- umphant, the whole plate of it. I am extremely grateful that I was not born an Italian. I see no hope for these hopeless people. They are doomed forever by the ravages of spaghetti. ORLEY ANDERSON, ’43 A Poet “W HAT is a poet? An unhappy man, who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when his cries and his sighs stream over them, they sound like beautiful music. . . . And men crowd about the poet and say to him: Sing for us soon again; which is as much as to say to him: My new sufferings come to torture your soul, and may your lips continue to be formed as before; for the cries would only terrify us, but the music is delicious. And the critics step upon the scene, and say: Quite correct; so it ought to be by the rules of Esthetics. To be sure, a critic resembles a poet to a hair; only he has not the anguish in his heart, nor the music upon his lips. And for this reason I would rather be a swineherd, and be understood by the swine, than be a poet and be misunderstood by men.” S¢REN KIRKEGAARD. 3I DIAL Show less
I’ll admit, I have always had to coil up in a rumble seat and I can’t comfortably stretch out in bed without pulling out the covers at the bottom but I think there are enough advantages to make up for it. I’ll grant that I do make a good target for teachers. I always have had to give reports and... Show moreI’ll admit, I have always had to coil up in a rumble seat and I can’t comfortably stretch out in bed without pulling out the covers at the bottom but I think there are enough advantages to make up for it. I’ll grant that I do make a good target for teachers. I always have had to give reports and such but then I would just think of how noble it was for me to be shielding some poor small person from going through lots of uninteresting, dusty old books and from carrying heavy old encyclopedias. And then I would be able to grin and face the class. Now that I’ve finally finished growing up and people can no longer remark about my height they have reworded their theme song so it now reads, “My, Inez, but you’re getting fat!”—but somehow it doesn’t “phase” me. It slides off my back like this spring slush off my waterproof shoes (25 cents at any of the bet- ter shoe stores). The reason? Ever heard of Psychology? It’s a good practical course. You learn lots. INEZ HINRICHS, ’40 Bathed in Moonlight OLDEN beams from the full Hawaiian moon streamed down on the broad banks of Waikiki Beach. Tall palms cast their broken shadows over lovers reclining on white benches. Carefree strollers roamed about and dreamily gazed at their surrounding beauty. The glistening sand crunched beneath their light tread. Rippling waters dashed themselves in waves against the endless shore. The crest of each sparkling wave mingled and danced with the moonbeams. Innumerable ripples flashed here and there. These waters reflected the beauty of the stately palm trees as clearly as a mirror. In the distance shimmering sights from a home-returning ship could be seen. A solemn hush had fallen. The glory of the evening was enchantingly beautiful. EVELYN OLSON, ’41 7 DIAL ‘ L \‘s Z'j-A.‘ 1:111...“ “a. Show less
walk in the hottest of hells and the holiest of heavens; you have made me to sizzle in huge caldrons in dark, deep pits and to gaze upon the gates of pearl and the crystal sea; and you have brought to my ear the weeping and groaning, the sighing, and the grinding of teeth, and the harmonics of... Show morewalk in the hottest of hells and the holiest of heavens; you have made me to sizzle in huge caldrons in dark, deep pits and to gaze upon the gates of pearl and the crystal sea; and you have brought to my ear the weeping and groaning, the sighing, and the grinding of teeth, and the harmonics of the celestial throng bowing before the Lamb. So you have led me about. Imagination, you’re a liar — and a good one! GILBERT JENSEN, ’40 Lazy Luke H: yells of fire came when I war to bed. Ah would not lay to bed an cover up an sleep. Not me. for ah got some book larneng an am smart. I'd throw da blankets off an let de fire wharm me. Or if a car come right to me. Ah would not run to dat dhere curb. Not me. no sir. ah know da law. I'd stan like some great general an hol ma groun. Or it a tornado come like a wiss. An da storm cell war fixt. Then would ah run just like a rat and tire me out? Not me no how. ah got insurance now. It sum gun man done order me to work. Den would ah work it he said that he'd shoot? No sir. not me. l'se gwin ta Heven when ah dies. 50 wha then should ah work when ah can rest in Hev'n? MERRIL WESTERGRIN, ’42 II DIAL LLrus—w v- ~91 mus-n... an 2—- Show less
We Cannot Lose With Christ I The morning dawned with promise Of joyous worthwhile tasks. \X/hose conscientious doing .71 Would reap the good He asks. But as the day wore onward, Q And weariness began To try my strength and patience Beyond what I could stand. I turned to Him who never Had failed... Show moreWe Cannot Lose With Christ I The morning dawned with promise Of joyous worthwhile tasks. \X/hose conscientious doing .71 Would reap the good He asks. But as the day wore onward, Q And weariness began To try my strength and patience Beyond what I could stand. I turned to Him who never Had failed to help before. And sighed. "Oh Christ. my Helper. Thou wilt my strength restore." Then came the reassurance From His own \X/ord divine. We shall be more than conq'rors Through Him that loved mankind Enough to leave Heaven's glory To take the sinner's place. In fearless sweet abandon My heart received His grace. As night's dark hours are vanquished By morning's glorious light .' Christ's light of life gives victory i ; l i .4 "—41-: r 5).; . And triumph from our night. SYNNOVE STENBERG, ’41 DIAL Show less
From A Student’s Diary Dear Diary, I am awfully tired tonight. My heart seems to sag and my body aches. Before school started I was buoyant and bubbling over with enthusiasm and anticipation as I looked forward to books, new friendships and fellowships, and all that goes with school-life. How... Show moreFrom A Student’s Diary Dear Diary, I am awfully tired tonight. My heart seems to sag and my body aches. Before school started I was buoyant and bubbling over with enthusiasm and anticipation as I looked forward to books, new friendships and fellowships, and all that goes with school-life. How inconsistent I am. Of course I like school just as much as ever, but I’d welcome a breathing spell. The education book yawns up at me and seems endless in its scope. This mood will have taken flight with the coming of dawn because sleep and rest work wonders. However, while under this morbid spell due to weariness I have the consolation: "A hundred years from now. clear heart, We'll neither know nor care What comes of all life's bitterness. Or follows griei's despair." Tomorrow morning I’ll probably be singing with the birds, glad to be alive, well, and happily busy at school. Sometimes I wish I were not such an emotional being, but then I would be less able to feel with others and enjoy the “ups” of life which certainly outweigh the “downs” any day. I was up early, walked the usual fourteen blocks to school, have attended several classes, have put in six hours of work, and have been plugging toward the completion of an almost endless term paper—so it has seemed to me—and now at last, after washing some clothes and getting ready for bed, I am free from the cares of this day and can peacefully “lay me down to sleep.” I should never think of unburdening myself to anyone else in the manner I have done to you. You are the one confidential somebody to whom it makes no difference what is said, and still you are worth a lot as my safety valve. Goodnight! SYNNOVE STENBERG, ’41 27 DIAL i a E 3 'i E 1, mi..- m ._ u—.M_s1r..wu L__ Show less
fi—i for she had delightfully entertained me with her peculiar steps. And I hoped that some strange thread of fate would draw us to- gether. I had always desired a girl, lithe and active, athletically alive. Somehow, in some unexplainable manner, this girl had capti- vated this ideal. I was drawn.... Show morefi—i for she had delightfully entertained me with her peculiar steps. And I hoped that some strange thread of fate would draw us to- gether. I had always desired a girl, lithe and active, athletically alive. Somehow, in some unexplainable manner, this girl had capti- vated this ideal. I was drawn. Having glided down to the end of the path she tripped lightly back, and I ran up to her determined to introduce myself. Now, with one graceful leap, she stood face to face with me. I looked into her face -face —-did I say face? There was no face, only a hanger which held a coat on the clothesline. The figure tripped on after I left her, dancing a step that was unique and exceedingly graceful. I know I shall not soon forget this figure — a figure that approached my ideal. ALFRED WALCK, ’42 O O 0 Washington Avenue at H P. M. NEW semaphores flashing, a taxi waiting on the corner, and an occasional street car passing by. Men on the streets— haggard and downcast— reprobates, inebriates, unemployables, and slovenly dressed men—wrecked, destitute, dissipated, un— wanted men are massed on this street. In the middle of the sidewalk a man, reeling to and fro, is heard singing. A ten year old chap is tugging at his father’s coat sleeve apparently begging him to refrain from entering another tavern. A drunken couple embrace one another as they stumble aimlessly down the street. An old bearded man, having taken to drink to escape the realities of life hangs on to a lamppost to maintain an erect posture. A woman enters a building to emerge a few minutes later half-dragging and half—carrying her husband. A man dressed in overalls walks past mumbling and muttering. Another glared at me in such a way that I shall not soon forget his hard personality. But from the midst of these a young couple emerge, walking arm in arm. A look of joy and peace lightens their countenances, and the young man is carrying a Bible. They are the voice of God to those about them, calling to this man-forsaken class. Another taxi is waiting on the corner. The semaphore stops the North-South traffic, and the trolley takes on another passenger as the moon and stars also declare the excellence of the Mighty God. ALFRED WALCK, ’42 23 DIAL Show less
der of the age, that time and labor saving boon to all amateur farmers,—the milking machine. The cows are once more con- tented, and milk for thousands of thirsty throats is definitely as- sured. ROBERT O. LINDBERG, ’43 Release lntent upon my thoughts. one day I walked Alone. unseeing. unaware... Show moreder of the age, that time and labor saving boon to all amateur farmers,—the milking machine. The cows are once more con- tented, and milk for thousands of thirsty throats is definitely as- sured. ROBERT O. LINDBERG, ’43 Release lntent upon my thoughts. one day I walked Alone. unseeing. unaware That near my side a battle was at stake For someone laden down with care. Then suddenly. as if my spirit sensed His strife, I lifted up my head: And thus upon his countenance beheld A look of worry. shame. and dread. _ 'Twas then I saw the stranger turn aside. As though by sudden thought inspired To seek within a nearby church the peace And rest his troubled soul desired. The minutes passed: in wonder I remained Without the friendly churchyard gate. Aroused from selfish revery to note Another sinner's woeful state. Yet while i stood in quiet thoughtfulness. The door unclosed. and there appeared Upon the threshold one whose joyous face Betrayed a conscience newly cleared. It seemed my spirit too was lifted up With his. who had obtained release: And. moving on. I silently thanked God That two lost souls had found their peace. MILDRED OUDAL, ’40 I7 DIAL ._'_- -‘ - am: _ .69.; unreal; fiféfi'fifinfiflfij" .uw. .Iafi‘? Show less
Beside Still Waters YESTERDAY I sat by the sea shore and watched the waves. Little waves they were, rhythmically rising and falling as the summer breezes hovered near, urging them on, until they tumbled boisterously over the rocky shore, bubbling merrily as they were forced to recede into the... Show moreBeside Still Waters YESTERDAY I sat by the sea shore and watched the waves. Little waves they were, rhythmically rising and falling as the summer breezes hovered near, urging them on, until they tumbled boisterously over the rocky shore, bubbling merrily as they were forced to recede into the emerald sea. Little waves, only little waves frolicking in the sunshine —. 1I! it is But I am not the only one who loves the sea. Long years ago a company of men were standing on the shores of a sea. They also watched the little waves come rolling coyly toward them, only to be tossed back with many a merry bubble as they hit the sandy shore. They were only little waves, little waves frolicking in the sunshine —. The men put out to sea. It was only a little sea and the waves were only little waves. They sailed on into the golden sunset, until the little waves, the merry bubbling waves that frolicked in the sunshine, were gone. The night breezes blew across the waters, and the sea heaved her tired bosom in response. Higher the waves rose and higher until the angry waters foamed and frothed as they dashed up over the sides of the boat. The men were very frightened. Only One, who having closed His weary eyes in sleep, now being wakened by the calling of His mates, was calm and unafraid. He raised His Hand out o’er the stormy sea and suddenly a strange peace and quiet prevailed. is it it Tonight the sea is angry as I sit upon its shore. Its white-capped waves dash furiously against the rocks. The little waves, the friendly little waves, are gone. I am so weary, weary of its never-ceasing turbulence, its ruth- less fury. I beat my breast and cry aloud in agony of soul! The storm continues still to rage. I hide my face —I am afraid! “0, Master, still the storm!” I cry. And as I lift my tired, ach- ing head, I look upon a miracle — the sea is calm! MILDRED RYAN, ’40 3 DIAL Show less
Revelation AWN on the earth! There is the sun yonder peeping over the green of the trees and the lilac bushes. How brilliant the dew as it dances with the splendor of diamonds in the sun. Look, there’s not a cloud in the sky, only a deep, bright blue overhead. But towards noon a cloud arises on... Show moreRevelation AWN on the earth! There is the sun yonder peeping over the green of the trees and the lilac bushes. How brilliant the dew as it dances with the splendor of diamonds in the sun. Look, there’s not a cloud in the sky, only a deep, bright blue overhead. But towards noon a cloud arises on the horizon! It’s not very large; surely it will disappear in the sun’s rays! But no, it gathers density and size as it approaches the sun. Now the cloud has hidden the sun. Not even a glimmer of light escapes from the sun’s original brightness. All earth becomes dark- ened and questioning. Soon lightning flashes and thunders roar! Rain falls in torrents and beats upon the earth. Where is the sun? Has it in fear and cowardice slipped away? Not a murmur does the earth make but receives the storm with patience. Only an occasional sigh of helplessness is heard among the trees as they yield themselves into the care of their Creator. Very soon the sun comes out. Its former radiance seems dim in comparison to this splendor. It shines smilingly on the refreshed earth. Despair not, oh soul; there is for you too a more brilliant Sun! Soon? — — Soon! JONETTE TINSETH, ’41 lncarnation Incarnate God. what wonders can compare To truths about Thyself? \X/hat heated dare? \X/hat heavenly provocations drive men To believe Thee as Thou art? \X/ond'rous ken! That He who torm'd the universe and holds. By words. the planets in their course. unfolds The heart of God in but a speck of dust— A man! GILBERT A. JENSEN, ’40 9 DIAL Show less
He Was Mean WILLIE was mean. Everyone thought 50. Willie did, too. Why should he care? All his life he’d been pushed around, scolded, belittled, and scorned. Why should he care what hap- pened to him? Why should he care what he did? He always got the same treatment—in spite of any effort of his... Show moreHe Was Mean WILLIE was mean. Everyone thought 50. Willie did, too. Why should he care? All his life he’d been pushed around, scolded, belittled, and scorned. Why should he care what hap- pened to him? Why should he care what he did? He always got the same treatment—in spite of any effort of his own to do better. No one thought that Willie would ever contemplate doing something kind and good. He had once — just once, that he could remember. He had picked up the streetcar token for old Mrs. Adams, when she dropped it while she was waiting for her car. Willie had intended all along to give it back to her, but Mrs. Adams knew a different Willie. She was certain that Willie meant to keep it as soon as he had laid his hands on it. Poor Willie,— such a talking to as he got! He gave up in despair. What was the use? He could just as well have scuttled away with the token. He’d have gotten out of hearing that lecture of Mrs. Adams and, well —, she didn’t believe he had planned to give it back anyway. Willie was a lad of ten years. He had never enjoyed the hum- blest blessings of a home. Willie’s parents were dead. He lived with his Aunt Min—a crabby, selfish, fidgety, self—centered old woman. True it was that she gave him a place to sleep, something to eat, and a few ill-kept clothes to wear, but that was all. The sooner she could get him out of the house every day, the better she liked it. . . . And Willie was probably glad to go. So thus it was that Willie had spent those early years of life that always stamp a life-long impression on any character. He was tough. He never cried now. He did once, but that was long ago. It was the time that he was all set to go fishing, and the Dugan kid had stolen his angle worms. It wasn’t that they were such big worms, but Willie had walked a long way for them and they were hard to find. Willie had cried then, but he surely wouldn’t do it now. He wished that he had gone after the Dugan kid and given him a good thrashing. Yes, Willie had grown to be a bully. There was no doubt about it. But wasn’t there a cause for it? Few ever think of that when they see Willie, and so to the masses Willie remains to be just ' l plam mean. EBBA JOHNSON, ’42 DIAL 20 Show less