out once and that pronunciation is acceptable. I always thought it should be corn as in tassel, and only that. I cant think of a Weber faculty member in those days who influenced me more than Leland Monson, one of the most eloquent, polished lecturers I ever had. I took classes from him only in my second year since, as I just indicated, he was in Chicago the first. Mr. Monson was a teachers teacher. Every class was superbly organized. He was the first really moving teacher of literature I had had up to that time. Indeed, it was his influence that was mainly responsible for my later majoring in English and still later joining the Weber faculty in the Fall of 1946. I was an intellectual desert in those days, a desert, like thousands of others, that he irrigated with the inspiriting waters of great literature. He opened a whole new world to me where thought and feeling were fused in a way I had never dreamed possible. I first learned about and later cherished permanently so many of the great names through his power as a teacher. Mr. Monson was also an impromptu artist without peer. Once returning home one Sunday from a debate trip to Tucson, Arizona, I was driving Lelands VW with Leland in the front and two young fellows in the back. They mentioned they hadnt missed an L.D.S. church sacrament meeting all year and wondered if we could conduct one in the car. We did with Leland delivering an impromptu sermon with gusto and flair. We sang a couple of songs, everything but the sacrament itself. Leland suggested the meeting substitute for the priesthood session. They were agreeable. Organizing his material as he went along, he turned what could have been pure dishwater into spar-kling champagne. I was much impressed; the students were flabbergasted. When I first joined the faculty at Lelands invitation, I was officed with two or three others on the top floor of the Moench. In a few years I had my own five by eight cubicle in one of the classrooms of a World War II barracks building brought in to help handle a growing student population. It was just east of the Weber Gymnasium. In those days the entire faculty would meet in the old music room of the Central building, where I had attended junior high. It had fifty chairs. Some of the dominant voices, besides President Dixons, were Lelands, Whits, Ralph Grays, Clarisse Halls, Guy Hursts, Marian Reads, John Bensons, Wallace Baddleys, Reed Swensons, Merlin Stevensons, Charles Osmonds, Thatcher Allreds, Lydia Tanners, Eva Brownings, Cluster Nilssons. They were not all dominant at the same time, thankfully, but they were the ones we underlings looked upon as the ones who carried the clout. One of them I didnt list above was J. Clair Anderson, who played the reedy, old Moench organ at all the assemblies. He also played the Paramount theater organ in those days, and taught music. There was a quiet dash about J. Clair I always envied, probably because he never seemed to drive anything but a brand new convertible, and I mean one that in modern cant would sticker well above middle range. As a matter of fact, I think a couple were Cadillacs. How he did it on the salary he got was never clear. He must have made a killing at the Paramount. At faculty meetings we were always being alerted to the baby boom not too many years away, the World War II baby boom. It would hit around the early to middle Sixties. Our only worries were about how the College would be able to make room for all those new students. Well, our redoubtable President Aldous Dixon had a vision in those days of a campus on the hills east of Ogden. Nobody who really knew the president doubted he could pull it off. When he marched down Twenty-fifth Street hill after downtown money and other support it was like Byrons description of the destruction of Sennacherib when the Assyrian descended like a wolf on the fold with his cohorts gleaming in purple and gold. There was probably resistance. The new and bold inevitably attracts it, but the four chicken coops, as some of us came to call the first buildings, were ready in the Fall of 1953 or 1954. For a few years after that we operated a split campus, part on the hill east of Harrison and part on the old lower campus. I remember once Leland coming up to me on the new campus and saying, Larry, sometimes I can hardly wait to get up in the morning and start teaching. He also said, Larry, the world steps aside for the man who knows where hes going. Each year would begin with a general faculty-staff meeting, the Weber family, at which the President would urge us to a full measure of academic devotion for the coming year. When President Miller came on in the Fall of 1953, he became inordinately interested in the physical plant of the upper campus. Accordingly, those opening meetings would invariably contain a review of new physical additions and improvements during the past year. It was a time of growth and bright promise. When Pres. Miller described the tunnels for heating and power honeycombing the campus, I thought that if the Russians ever came we could hide in them for years without discovery like the ancient Christians in the Roman catacombs. At our opening departmental meetings, Leland would give us moral and academic exhortation. The very first class was to be held the full time. We were to teach by example as well as by precept. We were to teach students the skills of reading and writing, listening and speaking as well as the critical importance of probity and temperance. Dean Hurst and Laurence Burton were students when I first began teaching. They were a dashing, insouciant pair after my own heart, but as a fledgling faculty member I was afraid to admit it openly. One particular assembly was memorable indeed. We had them weekly in those days. At the appointed time both live and stuffed chickens cascaded out of a trap door in the ceiling onto the stage, not at all like the dew from heaven distilling. It was actually an unholy mess. President Dixon bore it with a magnificent, stoic indifference. Certainly that day I could discern the seeds of greatness both in, and on, that man. Later on the same program O. M. Clark whistled Yankee Doodle in two keys. At the end the President, having brushed off most of the feathers, admonished us all to walk uprightly before one another and to conduct our lives in ways befitting an institution of higher learning that would one day be a light on a hill. Nobody was more convinced of that than he. That ruddy face, the smile that never quit, the proud, Welsh bearing, the twinkling eye, those were golden days indeed even though most of us were poor as church mice. You know, he would say fiercely about his own Welsh heritage, they (the Angles, Saxons and Jutes) drove us (the Welsh) to