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Previous: Introduction
I
MEETING THE MORMONS
1.
Smooth enchanting rhythms of a famous dance band throbbed in the cool air of the August evening. Happy dancers thronged the floor of starlit gardens on Hotel Utah's rooftop, high above Salt Lake City.
A party of four entered, following the headwaiter to a reserved table. The two men were Air Corps officers, one being a middle-aged major who was beginning to gray, the other a lithe young pilot. One of the ladies, in her middle thirties, was the suave, self-possessed widow of a flyer who had fallen in combat. Despite the dignity, romantic appeal and sophistication of the three, it was the party's other member that drew the most attention. She was youthful, but mature, evidently about twenty-one. Her hair was an unforgettable fiery red. She wore a pale blue gown that gave her the appearance of a goddess. Her personality was so vivid that every movement she made commanded the undivided interest that seemed her birthright.
The headwaiter placed upon their table the bottle of liquor that he had casually taken from the major at the door. In Utah, drinks are not sold at retail, but only in sealed packages at state-owned stores.
A waiter approached for their order, and there was a brief consultation as to preference for mixers for their before-dinner drinks.
"What will it be for you?" the flying lieutenant asked the redhead.
"Just rootbeer, please," she said, smiling so sweetly that the lieutenant's heart jumped into his Adam's apple.
His jaw dropped. He was about to express his surprise at her being a teetotaler. He had been in Salt Lake City only two days. However, he felt the older officer kicking his shins beneath the table, as he, too, smiled and remained quiet.
The redhead took her rootbeer straight, but was so thoroughly a part of the party, matching the best in witticisms, joining so fully in the conversation, irradiating such magnetism, that the others felt no embarrassment as they steadily drained the three whiskeys-and-soda each that they used for appetizers.
The dinner was slow and leisurely, taking up most of the evening. They danced between courses.
The three of them finished off with coffee while the redhead kept up such a brilliant conversation the others took no notice of the fact that she didn't drink coffee, either.
The pilot moved out onto the dance floor with the redhead as the band swung into a sultry foxtrot. He was dancing on air. Such a gorgeous woman! How smooth! How superbly she got away with not drinking, even when in a drinking crowd! What self-possession! Why, anywhere else he would have felt like a heel if he were with a girl who didn't drink. But, despite the fact that she wouldn't touch liquor, her attitude wasn't prudish, nor reproving.
Violins leaped into the gay strains of the Blue Danube.
"Come," said the redhead, as she led the pilot off the floor.
"Don't you waltz?" he asked.
"Certainly," she replied. "But the Blue Danube is too beautiful a piece of music for even such a grand thing as dancing. Come on, I'll show you."
They stood close together on the rooftop terrace.
"Look," she commanded, sweeping her hand out to the left.
A fairyland lay before them. Broad spacious Main street stretched away toward mountains in the distance, southward. Such mundane things as the red, yellow, green and blue neon signs flashed out an unbelievable fantasy in the clear mountain air. No other city was ever like this!
She guided him to another side of the terrace. Again her hand swept out to the left. Towering purple outlines of the Wasatch mountains, defined clearly in the moonlight and the starlight, came down to the city's edge on the north and east. A flashing airplane beacon, set in a dangerous pass, highlighted the range.
Such grandeur!
The redhead had only begun her demonstration. The band began Tales from Vienna Woods, last of a three-tune waltz set, as she steered him to the terrace's west side.
"Now look!" There was a note of exultation in her voice.
Accustomed as he was to superb vistas, the pilot had never dreamed the existence of such splendor as this.
They looked down on Temple Square, the Mecca of Mormondom.
Concealed lighting defined the graceful but startling architectural lines of the Mormon Temple against the deep velvet-violet night sky. Glistening atop its tallest spire, trumpet in hand, was the gilded statue of Moroni, guardian angel of the Golden Plates. Nearby was the Mormon Tabernacle, its huge egg-shaped dome forming a never-to-be-forgotten pattern in the mind. Lighted, also, were the golden monument to the Seagull, and the exquisite chapel before which it stood.
An upcurent wafted across the terrace a strong odor of blossoming roses from the temple gardens. This delectable scent was the one thing necessary to climax a perfect moment of enchantment.
"How wonderful!" he exclaimed.
"Just a part of the reason why I'm saving my pennies to go on a mission and tell part of the world about it," she said quietly.
Part of the reason, indeed! It seemed to the young officer that this scene in itself was enough to shout from the rooftops of all the world. It was to be several years more before he was to experience the calm ecstatic religious fervor that is the other part of the animus that sends young Mormons around the globe to preach their faith if eloquence is their gift, but to live it and demonstrate it by example, in any event.
When the major and the lieutenant were returning to their base that night, a score of questions plagued the younger officer's mind.
"I don't understand these Mormons, major."
"Few people do, lieutenant."
A party of four entered, following the headwaiter to a reserved table. The two men were Air Corps officers, one being a middle-aged major who was beginning to gray, the other a lithe young pilot. One of the ladies, in her middle thirties, was the suave, self-possessed widow of a flyer who had fallen in combat. Despite the dignity, romantic appeal and sophistication of the three, it was the party's other member that drew the most attention. She was youthful, but mature, evidently about twenty-one. Her hair was an unforgettable fiery red. She wore a pale blue gown that gave her the appearance of a goddess. Her personality was so vivid that every movement she made commanded the undivided interest that seemed her birthright.
The headwaiter placed upon their table the bottle of liquor that he had casually taken from the major at the door. In Utah, drinks are not sold at retail, but only in sealed packages at state-owned stores.
A waiter approached for their order, and there was a brief consultation as to preference for mixers for their before-dinner drinks.
"What will it be for you?" the flying lieutenant asked the redhead.
"Just rootbeer, please," she said, smiling so sweetly that the lieutenant's heart jumped into his Adam's apple.
His jaw dropped. He was about to express his surprise at her being a teetotaler. He had been in Salt Lake City only two days. However, he felt the older officer kicking his shins beneath the table, as he, too, smiled and remained quiet.
The redhead took her rootbeer straight, but was so thoroughly a part of the party, matching the best in witticisms, joining so fully in the conversation, irradiating such magnetism, that the others felt no embarrassment as they steadily drained the three whiskeys-and-soda each that they used for appetizers.
The dinner was slow and leisurely, taking up most of the evening. They danced between courses.
The three of them finished off with coffee while the redhead kept up such a brilliant conversation the others took no notice of the fact that she didn't drink coffee, either.
The pilot moved out onto the dance floor with the redhead as the band swung into a sultry foxtrot. He was dancing on air. Such a gorgeous woman! How smooth! How superbly she got away with not drinking, even when in a drinking crowd! What self-possession! Why, anywhere else he would have felt like a heel if he were with a girl who didn't drink. But, despite the fact that she wouldn't touch liquor, her attitude wasn't prudish, nor reproving.
Violins leaped into the gay strains of the Blue Danube.
"Come," said the redhead, as she led the pilot off the floor.
"Don't you waltz?" he asked.
"Certainly," she replied. "But the Blue Danube is too beautiful a piece of music for even such a grand thing as dancing. Come on, I'll show you."
They stood close together on the rooftop terrace.
"Look," she commanded, sweeping her hand out to the left.
A fairyland lay before them. Broad spacious Main street stretched away toward mountains in the distance, southward. Such mundane things as the red, yellow, green and blue neon signs flashed out an unbelievable fantasy in the clear mountain air. No other city was ever like this!
She guided him to another side of the terrace. Again her hand swept out to the left. Towering purple outlines of the Wasatch mountains, defined clearly in the moonlight and the starlight, came down to the city's edge on the north and east. A flashing airplane beacon, set in a dangerous pass, highlighted the range.
Such grandeur!
The redhead had only begun her demonstration. The band began Tales from Vienna Woods, last of a three-tune waltz set, as she steered him to the terrace's west side.
"Now look!" There was a note of exultation in her voice.
Accustomed as he was to superb vistas, the pilot had never dreamed the existence of such splendor as this.
They looked down on Temple Square, the Mecca of Mormondom.
Concealed lighting defined the graceful but startling architectural lines of the Mormon Temple against the deep velvet-violet night sky. Glistening atop its tallest spire, trumpet in hand, was the gilded statue of Moroni, guardian angel of the Golden Plates. Nearby was the Mormon Tabernacle, its huge egg-shaped dome forming a never-to-be-forgotten pattern in the mind. Lighted, also, were the golden monument to the Seagull, and the exquisite chapel before which it stood.
An upcurent wafted across the terrace a strong odor of blossoming roses from the temple gardens. This delectable scent was the one thing necessary to climax a perfect moment of enchantment.
"How wonderful!" he exclaimed.
"Just a part of the reason why I'm saving my pennies to go on a mission and tell part of the world about it," she said quietly.
Part of the reason, indeed! It seemed to the young officer that this scene in itself was enough to shout from the rooftops of all the world. It was to be several years more before he was to experience the calm ecstatic religious fervor that is the other part of the animus that sends young Mormons around the globe to preach their faith if eloquence is their gift, but to live it and demonstrate it by example, in any event.
When the major and the lieutenant were returning to their base that night, a score of questions plagued the younger officer's mind.
"I don't understand these Mormons, major."
"Few people do, lieutenant."
2.
In midsummer, 1940, a company of youths in the Civilian Conservation Corps who had been recruited from the hills and bayous of Arkansas moved into far western Montana and occupied a forestry camp beside the Thompson river, about six miles from the town of Thompson Falls.
They spent their first twenty-four hours settling into camp life and then immediately began their work of extending a road along the Thompson, into Cabinet national forest. After the men had put in a week of hard work, their company officers were gratified to learn that one of the CCC district chaplains was due to conduct an evening worship service. It would be good recreation. It would provide a moral stimulus to offset troubles that already had begun to brew when two hundred husky young men began to seek recreation in a tiny town where the people thought and acted differently from folks these Arkansas lads knew at home.
The chaplain arrived in time for supper, and was introduced to the men in the mess hall. Afterward, the camp commander, who had an appointment in town, excused himself. The camp adjutant, a junior officer, expressed his regrets that he was unable to attend the service because the vast amount of paper work incidental to becoming established in their new location was piling up on his desk and demanding many hours of his days and nights.
The chaplain took this perfectly natural situation cheerfully and set about preparations for his worship service. The senior leader sounded church call.
However, some disturbing influence had been at work among the men and their attitude was sullen. Few of them actually entered the hall. The chaplain and his chauffeur, who doubled as his pianist, patiently waited for a sufficient number to assemble to begin worship.
The senior leader circulated through the barracks, urging the men to come out and hear the chaplain. Still the men hung back.
"What's the matter?" the senior leader asked.
"Waal," drawled one of the recalcitrants. "We'uns hain't intendin' to have you, er th' capt'n, er th' lootinint, er th' gov'ment, er nobody orderin' us to go hear no Mormon preacher."
"I ain't never heered a Mormon preacher, neither," replied the senior leader. "But this man is a officer, same as th' lootinint. He's th' chaplain. Hit's all th' same as if he was Baptist, er Methodist, an' hit's up to us to go to church."
"Nothin' doin'. My great gran'pappy helped chase th' stinkin' Mormons out of Missouri, an' long's I kin remember, I heered tell around th' fireplace at home about these furriners. I don't want no truck with 'em. I haint a religious man, but jest th' same, I haint agoin' around bowin' an' scrapin' with th' devil," the objector said with finality.
A murmur of approval went up from the knot of men that had gathered around them.
"Well, come tell that to th' lootinint with me," said the senior leader. The group of huskies crowded into the little office at camp headquarters where the adjutant had begun to burn the night oil in order to catch up with indorsements, reports, camp exchange invoices and mess supply lists. The "lootinint" patiently listened to their complaint.
"You fellows know that I'm an Arkansawyer, just like you are, don't you?" he asked.
"Yessir," agreed their spokesman.
"Maybe you don't know that I was educated for the ministry, down south, in one of our good old churches. Here's a proposition I'll make with you. I'll go in and listen to the chaplain, straight through, if you fellows will go with me. How about it?"
Naturally, they all filed into the assembly hall. Services began. The chaplain sensed that he had an antagonistic audience, and sought to overcome this handicap with the calming influence of hymn singing. The songs that he chose were unknown to the men. It was his first contact with the peculiar psychology of hill people from the south. Each song fell flat. The audience became restless. A few left. Murmurs began to circulate among those who remained, and the adjutant's ear caught the mutter, "Let's tar an' feather th' Mormon an' see if he really has a tail."
At this juncture, the adjutant rose from the group, and stepping to the platform beside the chaplain, made a short talk.
"Fellows," he said, "This officer is one of our district chaplains. It so happens that he is a member of the Latter-day Saints church, which is a very good one, although it isn't like our churches down south. Tonight, in other parts of the country, members of his church are listening to chaplains who are Baptists, and Episcopalians, and Lutherans. I'm sure that he can say a lot of things that will help us. Now let's sing one of our old campmeeting songs from home and hear what he has to say. What do you want to sing?"
The men volunteered several numbers and sang lustily. The chaplain made a short man-to-man talk. The meeting ended successfully.
The man who had spoken for the recalcitrants, one of the biggest in camp, a raw-boned, freckled, sandy-haired lad of Scots ancestry, pushed his way to the front of the room and stuck out his big wood-chopper's hand to shake that of the chaplain.
"Chaplain," he said, "Ye're th' first Mormon preacher I ever heerd, but I like th' way you talk."
"Thank you," said the chaplain simply.
None of those present could have foretold it at the time, but this meeting of two leaders from radically differing environments was a significant thing.
The war that was approaching was to see the chaplain become one of the most decorated men in our military history, to be cited many times for ministering to dying men of all faiths while facing the deadly hail of Japanese rifle bullets, without thought of his own life. The Arkansas lad was later to demonstrate an almost unbelievable ability to carry out difficult jobs under conditions that would have caused a faint-hearted man to turn tail and run.
They spent their first twenty-four hours settling into camp life and then immediately began their work of extending a road along the Thompson, into Cabinet national forest. After the men had put in a week of hard work, their company officers were gratified to learn that one of the CCC district chaplains was due to conduct an evening worship service. It would be good recreation. It would provide a moral stimulus to offset troubles that already had begun to brew when two hundred husky young men began to seek recreation in a tiny town where the people thought and acted differently from folks these Arkansas lads knew at home.
The chaplain arrived in time for supper, and was introduced to the men in the mess hall. Afterward, the camp commander, who had an appointment in town, excused himself. The camp adjutant, a junior officer, expressed his regrets that he was unable to attend the service because the vast amount of paper work incidental to becoming established in their new location was piling up on his desk and demanding many hours of his days and nights.
The chaplain took this perfectly natural situation cheerfully and set about preparations for his worship service. The senior leader sounded church call.
However, some disturbing influence had been at work among the men and their attitude was sullen. Few of them actually entered the hall. The chaplain and his chauffeur, who doubled as his pianist, patiently waited for a sufficient number to assemble to begin worship.
The senior leader circulated through the barracks, urging the men to come out and hear the chaplain. Still the men hung back.
"What's the matter?" the senior leader asked.
"Waal," drawled one of the recalcitrants. "We'uns hain't intendin' to have you, er th' capt'n, er th' lootinint, er th' gov'ment, er nobody orderin' us to go hear no Mormon preacher."
"I ain't never heered a Mormon preacher, neither," replied the senior leader. "But this man is a officer, same as th' lootinint. He's th' chaplain. Hit's all th' same as if he was Baptist, er Methodist, an' hit's up to us to go to church."
"Nothin' doin'. My great gran'pappy helped chase th' stinkin' Mormons out of Missouri, an' long's I kin remember, I heered tell around th' fireplace at home about these furriners. I don't want no truck with 'em. I haint a religious man, but jest th' same, I haint agoin' around bowin' an' scrapin' with th' devil," the objector said with finality.
A murmur of approval went up from the knot of men that had gathered around them.
"Well, come tell that to th' lootinint with me," said the senior leader. The group of huskies crowded into the little office at camp headquarters where the adjutant had begun to burn the night oil in order to catch up with indorsements, reports, camp exchange invoices and mess supply lists. The "lootinint" patiently listened to their complaint.
"You fellows know that I'm an Arkansawyer, just like you are, don't you?" he asked.
"Yessir," agreed their spokesman.
"Maybe you don't know that I was educated for the ministry, down south, in one of our good old churches. Here's a proposition I'll make with you. I'll go in and listen to the chaplain, straight through, if you fellows will go with me. How about it?"
Naturally, they all filed into the assembly hall. Services began. The chaplain sensed that he had an antagonistic audience, and sought to overcome this handicap with the calming influence of hymn singing. The songs that he chose were unknown to the men. It was his first contact with the peculiar psychology of hill people from the south. Each song fell flat. The audience became restless. A few left. Murmurs began to circulate among those who remained, and the adjutant's ear caught the mutter, "Let's tar an' feather th' Mormon an' see if he really has a tail."
At this juncture, the adjutant rose from the group, and stepping to the platform beside the chaplain, made a short talk.
"Fellows," he said, "This officer is one of our district chaplains. It so happens that he is a member of the Latter-day Saints church, which is a very good one, although it isn't like our churches down south. Tonight, in other parts of the country, members of his church are listening to chaplains who are Baptists, and Episcopalians, and Lutherans. I'm sure that he can say a lot of things that will help us. Now let's sing one of our old campmeeting songs from home and hear what he has to say. What do you want to sing?"
The men volunteered several numbers and sang lustily. The chaplain made a short man-to-man talk. The meeting ended successfully.
The man who had spoken for the recalcitrants, one of the biggest in camp, a raw-boned, freckled, sandy-haired lad of Scots ancestry, pushed his way to the front of the room and stuck out his big wood-chopper's hand to shake that of the chaplain.
"Chaplain," he said, "Ye're th' first Mormon preacher I ever heerd, but I like th' way you talk."
"Thank you," said the chaplain simply.
None of those present could have foretold it at the time, but this meeting of two leaders from radically differing environments was a significant thing.
The war that was approaching was to see the chaplain become one of the most decorated men in our military history, to be cited many times for ministering to dying men of all faiths while facing the deadly hail of Japanese rifle bullets, without thought of his own life. The Arkansas lad was later to demonstrate an almost unbelievable ability to carry out difficult jobs under conditions that would have caused a faint-hearted man to turn tail and run.
3.
A train of Pullman cars was traveling westward through Ohio. Passengers were beginning to move into washrooms after their first night out of New York.
Knowing that he'd have a better chance with his newly-fitted artificial leg if he were early, a crippled veteran on his way to his home in the west arose early, and hobbling with the aid of his crutches, was first to greet the sleepy-eyed porter in the men's smoker. He shaved and then settled into a seat beside the window to wait until the car was ready for occupancy. The kindly old porter bustled about, trying to make the veteran comfortable, and after a few cheery words with him, departed on an errand as the train came to a stop in a station.
A few minutes later the porter dropped a newspaper onto the lap of the youthful veteran.
"Ah thought you'd like to see the news," he said.
"Thanks," replied the veteran. He saw that the headlines sensationally featured polygamy trials that then were in progress in Utah.
A portly traveling salesman of about forty years of age came into the room and began shaving. He was closely followed by a lean elderly southern preacher. The headline caught the salesman's eye.
"So they've caught up with a bunch of those Mormons again," he observed. This drew the preacher's attention to the paper.
"I understand that the Mormons never really have given up polygamy, in spite of laws the rest of the country passed to get rid of their foolishness," the preacher said. "They just stick together and keep each others' secrets. I'm glad they've been caught up with."
"Those Utah boys are not bothered much with the war manpower shortage," laughed the salesman. "They just take in the other fellow's wife, or sister, and double up for duration."
"It's an awful excuse for a religion," remarked the preacher. "I couldn't understand how their women could put up with such a thing until I learned that they teach their children that a virgin can't enter heaven. No wonder their women are willing to marry, or throw themselves away under any sort of condition!"
The salesman chuckled. "That reminds me of a story," he said, as he launched into a smutty anecdote that was a perfect gem of pornography.
The lean minister winced visibly and sniffed. His sensibilities were greatly offended by the story, and ordinarily he'd have stalked out of the room to register his displeasure. His interest in the subject under discussion held him, however.
"Have you ever known a Mormon?" the veteran asked the minister.
"No! Thank God my part of the country is free from their sinful presence!" The preacher spoke with considerable vehemance. "And I wish we could put a stop to their false doctrine before it affects our people!"
The salesman, now realizing that there was a minister present, was a little sorry he'd told the dirty story, but he didn't let it bother his conscience very much.
"Have you ever read any of their doctrines or literature, the Book of Mormon, for instance?" asked the veteran.
"Read it!" the preacher exploded. "I should say not! Contaminate my mind with the word of the devil! Their books ought to be burned. I wouldn't dare have any of their literature around for fear it would fall into the hands of my grandchildren and warp their tender hearts!"
"If your own faith is the right one, then you have nothing to fear from reading anything," said the veteran.
An uneasy suspicion began to bother the salesman. He turned to the crippled soldier.
"Are you a Mormon?" he blurted.
"Yes," replied the young man.
Both salesman and preacher hurriedly left for breakfast to cover their embarrassment. On their way out, they passed the porter, who was coming in.
"What's wrong wif dem fellahs?"" asked the porter. "Dey dashed out'n heah like dey had bees in dey pants!"
"Oh, they just found out that I'm a Mormon," chuckled the veteran.
"Sho nuff! Well, don't let dat bother you. It takes a man wif brains to be a Mohmon!"
Knowing that he'd have a better chance with his newly-fitted artificial leg if he were early, a crippled veteran on his way to his home in the west arose early, and hobbling with the aid of his crutches, was first to greet the sleepy-eyed porter in the men's smoker. He shaved and then settled into a seat beside the window to wait until the car was ready for occupancy. The kindly old porter bustled about, trying to make the veteran comfortable, and after a few cheery words with him, departed on an errand as the train came to a stop in a station.
A few minutes later the porter dropped a newspaper onto the lap of the youthful veteran.
"Ah thought you'd like to see the news," he said.
"Thanks," replied the veteran. He saw that the headlines sensationally featured polygamy trials that then were in progress in Utah.
A portly traveling salesman of about forty years of age came into the room and began shaving. He was closely followed by a lean elderly southern preacher. The headline caught the salesman's eye.
"So they've caught up with a bunch of those Mormons again," he observed. This drew the preacher's attention to the paper.
"I understand that the Mormons never really have given up polygamy, in spite of laws the rest of the country passed to get rid of their foolishness," the preacher said. "They just stick together and keep each others' secrets. I'm glad they've been caught up with."
"Those Utah boys are not bothered much with the war manpower shortage," laughed the salesman. "They just take in the other fellow's wife, or sister, and double up for duration."
"It's an awful excuse for a religion," remarked the preacher. "I couldn't understand how their women could put up with such a thing until I learned that they teach their children that a virgin can't enter heaven. No wonder their women are willing to marry, or throw themselves away under any sort of condition!"
The salesman chuckled. "That reminds me of a story," he said, as he launched into a smutty anecdote that was a perfect gem of pornography.
The lean minister winced visibly and sniffed. His sensibilities were greatly offended by the story, and ordinarily he'd have stalked out of the room to register his displeasure. His interest in the subject under discussion held him, however.
"Have you ever known a Mormon?" the veteran asked the minister.
"No! Thank God my part of the country is free from their sinful presence!" The preacher spoke with considerable vehemance. "And I wish we could put a stop to their false doctrine before it affects our people!"
The salesman, now realizing that there was a minister present, was a little sorry he'd told the dirty story, but he didn't let it bother his conscience very much.
"Have you ever read any of their doctrines or literature, the Book of Mormon, for instance?" asked the veteran.
"Read it!" the preacher exploded. "I should say not! Contaminate my mind with the word of the devil! Their books ought to be burned. I wouldn't dare have any of their literature around for fear it would fall into the hands of my grandchildren and warp their tender hearts!"
"If your own faith is the right one, then you have nothing to fear from reading anything," said the veteran.
An uneasy suspicion began to bother the salesman. He turned to the crippled soldier.
"Are you a Mormon?" he blurted.
"Yes," replied the young man.
Both salesman and preacher hurriedly left for breakfast to cover their embarrassment. On their way out, they passed the porter, who was coming in.
"What's wrong wif dem fellahs?"" asked the porter. "Dey dashed out'n heah like dey had bees in dey pants!"
"Oh, they just found out that I'm a Mormon," chuckled the veteran.
"Sho nuff! Well, don't let dat bother you. It takes a man wif brains to be a Mohmon!"
4.
Recently a young man from Utah called on a professor of social sciences at a renowned university in the eastern part of the United States.
This was the chance for which he'd been waiting, studying, working a lifetime. He had put the two years of his mission behind him. Then he'd learned all that colleges in the mountain states could offer him in the field of scholarship he'd chosen - public recreation. On top of that, the war had come along to demand an additional four years of his life. Now, nearing his thirtieth birthday, with a returned missionary status, a master's degree, and an unimpeachable record as an officer in the war, he joyously contemplated the door that soon would open on a wider scope of knowledge for which his eager mind thirsted.
Preliminaries of clearing through secretaries and waiting were past, and the student found himself in the presence of the great man whose scholarship had been an inspiration and a guide.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Jones?" asked the professor.
"I'd like your advice in regard to my enrolling at your university to further my study of public recreation, especially in regard to its effects in reducing juvenile delinquency," the younger man answered, somewhat awed by being so near the great man.
"You've studied all that is offered at Utah State College at Logan, I presume?" queried the savant.
"Yes, sir," replied the westerner.
"Then I'm sorry to disillusion you. The truth of the matter is that we can teach you nothing."
The westerner was astounded. "You mean my own college, out there in the mountains, is actually ahead of this great university?" he asked, incredulous.
"Not only that, Mr. Jones, but ahead of the rest of the world," the educator said. "You are the master, not we."
"That's a hard blow, professor. Why, we felt that we were just beginning to explore the subject's possibilities!"
"I can readily understand that. However, you have reached the point where your scholarship in this subject is pushing back the barriers for the rest of us. We must look to your work for guidance. Your people have the longest consecutive history in the modern application of healthful organized recreational activities for community benefit. You have the students to discover new principles, the leaders to add constructive details, and the organization that can reach out and put them into immediate effect."
"It had never occurred to me that we excelled by doing that, which seemed the only obvious course for us to follow," said the younger man, humbly.
"Every one of your wards is the proving ground for the best in community activity of any sort. We educators in the rest of the world can only teach, hoping for the ultimate benefit of the truths we discover and promulgate. You, on the other hand, can put them into practice. The low rates of juvenile delinquency in Mormon communities are no accident, but the result of applied scholarship. I repeat - sorrowfully, I assure you, but in admiration - there is utterly nothing we can teach you. We can only adobt [sic], and follow, as best we can without a social structure to adequately utilize what we teach."
Next: Holy Books
This was the chance for which he'd been waiting, studying, working a lifetime. He had put the two years of his mission behind him. Then he'd learned all that colleges in the mountain states could offer him in the field of scholarship he'd chosen - public recreation. On top of that, the war had come along to demand an additional four years of his life. Now, nearing his thirtieth birthday, with a returned missionary status, a master's degree, and an unimpeachable record as an officer in the war, he joyously contemplated the door that soon would open on a wider scope of knowledge for which his eager mind thirsted.
Preliminaries of clearing through secretaries and waiting were past, and the student found himself in the presence of the great man whose scholarship had been an inspiration and a guide.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Jones?" asked the professor.
"I'd like your advice in regard to my enrolling at your university to further my study of public recreation, especially in regard to its effects in reducing juvenile delinquency," the younger man answered, somewhat awed by being so near the great man.
"You've studied all that is offered at Utah State College at Logan, I presume?" queried the savant.
"Yes, sir," replied the westerner.
"Then I'm sorry to disillusion you. The truth of the matter is that we can teach you nothing."
The westerner was astounded. "You mean my own college, out there in the mountains, is actually ahead of this great university?" he asked, incredulous.
"Not only that, Mr. Jones, but ahead of the rest of the world," the educator said. "You are the master, not we."
"That's a hard blow, professor. Why, we felt that we were just beginning to explore the subject's possibilities!"
"I can readily understand that. However, you have reached the point where your scholarship in this subject is pushing back the barriers for the rest of us. We must look to your work for guidance. Your people have the longest consecutive history in the modern application of healthful organized recreational activities for community benefit. You have the students to discover new principles, the leaders to add constructive details, and the organization that can reach out and put them into immediate effect."
"It had never occurred to me that we excelled by doing that, which seemed the only obvious course for us to follow," said the younger man, humbly.
"Every one of your wards is the proving ground for the best in community activity of any sort. We educators in the rest of the world can only teach, hoping for the ultimate benefit of the truths we discover and promulgate. You, on the other hand, can put them into practice. The low rates of juvenile delinquency in Mormon communities are no accident, but the result of applied scholarship. I repeat - sorrowfully, I assure you, but in admiration - there is utterly nothing we can teach you. We can only adobt [sic], and follow, as best we can without a social structure to adequately utilize what we teach."
Next: Holy Books
