Barbara La Fontaine

All week long in Texas the people had said the Hogs ain't nuthin' but groceries and that on Saturday, in the thundering zoo of Fayetteville, the No. I Longhorns would eat—to quote the most horrendous pun ever thought of by some Lone Star wit—"Hog meat with Worster-Speyrer sauce." This is not exactly what Darrell Royal's team dined on up there in those maddening Ozark hills, of course.

The campus is imposing enough just lying there, all leafy and self-haunting. The dome pokes into the Indiana sunlight like a giant golden skullcap, the black robes move quietly through the rust and amber of the trees, and the whole scene hits you with a great, intolerant splat of tradition, mystery and nostalgia.

The tallest building for 15 miles around, Ashland College's Clayton Hall interrupts the smooth undulations of the northern Ohio countryside with its sharp-edged abruptness. A modern nine-story men's dormitory, it stands wide but very thin, almost a mere facade. Late on a Wednesday afternoon last January, Clayton's bland exterior of red brick and gray concrete was suddenly masked by a brilliant cascade of gold and purple, the school's colors.