WEBER'S "STUFFED SHIRTS" Anne Rasmussen Mammalogy Museum May 2, 1951 Have you ever tried to figure out just what makes up that obnoxious odor which penetrates the Moench hall? It needs to be fumigated, you say? Sorry, you're too late, that's already being done. In fact, fumigation is helping to intensify that particular stench. Moench 211 has to be fumigated every two or three months. This is due to the numerous and varied specimens which frequent Howard Knight's zoology classes. Some of them sit at the lab tables, but about 200 of them are kept in flat sliding drawers carefully laid out complete with tag, skull and skin. These specimens like the majority of those at Weber, are mostly natives of Utah. They, however, plan to remain at college for more than the average two years, for Weber's mammalogy museum is their home. Birds and animals in this museum, however, are not confined to an uneventful existence. They are allowed to travel widely. At present 50 of them are visiting graduate students at the University of Utah. They make available to all students in any locality, specimens which might aid them in studies they may be making. Of course, the museum's present value is limited because of its incompleteness, but the ultimate aim is several specimens each of all vertebra species in the state. Ardent Weberites of the Zoology 35 class, under the instruction of Mr. Knight, have been busy trapping and mounting these various birds and mammals. Last Spring over 50 new specimens were added to the museum. So far it's just a beginning but who knows? Perhaps in a few years we'll have a collection worthy of our new campus. The University of California has a similar museum which they value at over $75,000. If they can do it, why can't Weber? Fanfare by Ann Crary Trumpets Pealed forth golden Tones and flung them through the Serene silence of a sphere at Sunrise by Ann Crary Tiny Hawaiian hut a faries Have been visiting box-elder trees And left their wee grass hula skirts To air in the April breeze. These tiny wisps of pink and green Have been so thoroughly taught They sway to the whispering of the wind Without a second thought. In Retrospect By Darlene Powell After I had spent the weekend at Springdale, I wrote to the doctor's wife and told her that when I was old and confined to a rocker my fondest memories would be those of hiking and riding over the hills that made the old farm. That first visit became the first of many, and each time I saw the big house, the wide pastures and wooded hill I loved it more. The place was bought by the doctor as a sort of retreat for him and his family, but seldom did the family car drive in the front gate without shortly having the gate swing open and admit friends who loved the Rogers and were thirsty for the peace that the farm seemed to offer. Most of the people who came loved Springdale, but they didn't really know the place. Their strolls were confined to the surrounding pastures and the clear icy spring that rose mysteriously near the site on which the big house was built. Years before, careful hands had taken advantage of the mirror-like qualities of the spring and had laid rocks to make walls and dams which resulted in two rather large but shallow ponds into which fresh water constantly flowed. The large trees that sheltered it and the little stone ice-house at one side gave the spring the appearance of something one might come upon in the forest of Oberon and Titania, but never in a world of thoughtless humans. I was lucky because I think I knew Springdale. At each visit another exciting secret was revealed and Caroline and I would go off on foot or horseback to find the treasures Springdale selfishly possessed. A hike through thickly wooded hills brought us to the edge of the "Cliff", the first secret I learned. The Cliff had been created by a tiny stream which conscientiously through the years had cut its way through once valuable farm land a deep gully. But to think of such things was mundane and so we would lie looking over the Cliff and listen to the song of the stream below, letting our poetic natures take full advantage of being sixteen and sentimental. Farther up the stream bed the sound of water grew louder and around a bend the water tumbled crazily over rocks, falling several feet below, and going nonchalantly along its course unaware of the sensation it caused when it took a hurdle. This was the "Big Waterfall," with all its noise its rainbows and its bubbling happiness. Near it was another in miniature and this was the "Little Waterfall." When the hike had been long and the sun hot, we took off our shoes and stockings and dangled our feet in the cold, rushing water or waded across feeling the soft cold mud ooze between our toes. Sometimes we would shed our shirts and lie on the bank in the blistering sun, listening to the duet of the two Waterfalls and getting terrific sunburns. If we were in the mood for human companionship we would ride the horses up to the Stanford place which was a few miles above Springdale. The big clean Dutch Colonial house with the orchards behind it was a good place to visit and we found young Mrs. Stanford and her older, slightly eccentric husband interesting company. At the time, Mr. Stanford's newest business venture was a manufacturing plant in the timely little "sleepy" town below the hill. When we visited the plant one day we found a sizeable crew busily creating tops for tractors. Riding from such a trip we often took the long way back to the farm and found ourselves on new trails or at the edge of the quarry where we were forbidden to go because of the copperheads. One afternoon we saw something that thrilled us and caused us to sit in silent awe. In a large open pasture away from the road we saw the mare and her new colt. Somehow the sight struck us unexpectedly and we knew we had intruded. There was no need for exclamation; we both saw the beauty of the colt and the greater beauty of the situation; we both understood and dropped in silence, watching the movements of the two wonderful creatures. Once the leggy little ginger colt turned toward us inquisitively, knobby knees trembling. Between its dark wide set eyes was a white star. What a beauty this fellow was going to become. His strength became exhausted and he tumbled to the cool grass, a bundle of loosely connected legs falling over each other like brooms in a closet. The mare eyed us cautiously then nuzzled the precious thing at her feet. I have no idea how long we sat there, motionless and quiet, but the sun was low in the west when we remounted the horses we had left at the road and started back to Spring-dale. We raced along the last half-mile back to the farm, left our horses at the gate and ran to the spring dunking our faces into its icy water. With our eyes open beneath the water, we saw the moss, varying in hues of green, the brownish stones and magical reflections cast by the rays of a late afternoon sun. At this time of day the best place to be was on the roof of the icehouse. So we climbed the narrow steps cut in stone and sat on the squeakly old swing on the flat cement roof. Now the sun was very near the horizon and in its wake had splashed a trail of blazing colors that was the sunset. A day at Springdale taught many things. It's hard to explain, but deep inside, one has an emotion of relief and joy, much like the feeling that comes after he has found something he thought had been lost; something very dear. A clue to the mystery of life is found in its very beauty; the color, the love, the feeling of sun and water, the music of the stream, carry a message. The same message that sends a man away from Springdale a better man, now aware of beauty and what it means in life.