off-hand. But for the life of me I could find no fit reply. For a time
that is--and then it struck me.

"Everyone is proud of everything out West," said I. "Local patriotism is
a religion--if you know what I mean."

You who have lived on the Pacific Slope will understand. You who have
visited the Pacific Slope will half-understand. Did you ever hear of a
New Jersey man fighting because his town was maligned? You never did!
Have you yet encountered a York State small-town dweller who would
devote hours to proving that his community was destined to outdistance
all its neighbors because God had been especially good to it--and ready
to back his boast to the limit? No indeed! Yet most of us have seen
Westerners actually come to blows protecting the fair name of their
chosen town, and I know scores of them who can, and will, on the
slightest provocation, demonstrate that their particular Prosperity
Center is the coming city of destiny.

In short every Westerner is inordinately proud of his town and his
country. On trains you hear it, in hotel lobbies, on street corners. The
stranger seated at your side in the smoking compartment regales you with
descriptions of his particular "God's Country." If ever there was an
overworked phrase west of the Missouri, it is that, and the inventor of
a fitting synonym should reap royal rewards, in travelers' gratitude if
nothing else. The man from Boise describes "God's Country" in terms of
sagebrush and brown plains; the Palouse dweller pictures wheat fields,
mentioning not wind storms and feverish summer mercury; the
Californian sees his poppy-golden hills; the eyes of the Puget Sound
dweller are bright with memories of majestic timber and broad waterways,
unclouded by any mention of gray rain; the man from Bend talks of
rushing rivers and copper-hued pines, his enthusiasm for the homeland
unalloyed by reference to summer dusts; the orchard owner of Hood River
or Wen-atchee has his heaven lined with ruddy apples, and discourses
amazing figures concerning ever-increasing world market for the product
of his acres; he who hails from the Coast cities, whose all-pervading
passion is optimism, weaves convincing prophecies of the golden future.
And so it goes. Each for his own, each an enthusiast, a loyal patriot, a
rabid disciple. Eastern travel acquaintances produce the latest
photograph of their youngest offspring, but the Westerner brings forth
views and plats of his home town; no children