s the greatest menace to the
peace of mind of a woman travelling alone in California, I should answer
instantly--the Native Son. I wish I could draw a picture of him.
Perhaps he's too good looking. Myself, I think the enfranchised women
of California should bring injunctions--or whatever is the proper legal
weapon--against so dangerous a degree of male pulchritude. Of course
the Native Son could reply that, in this respect, he has nothing on the
Native Daughter, she being without doubt the most beautiful woman in the
world. To, this, however, she could retort that that is as it should be,
but it's no fair for mere men to be stealing her stuff.

This is misleading!

That agglomeration of the Anglo-Saxon, the Celt and the Latin, has
endowed the Native Son with the pulchritude of all three races. In
eugenic combination with Ireland, California is peculiarly happy. The
climate has made him tall and big. His athletic habits has made him
shapely and strong. Both have given him clear eyes, a smooth skin, swift
grace of motion. Those clear eyes invest him with a look of innocence
and unsophistication. He is as rich in dimples as though they had
been shaken onto him from a salt-cellar. One in each cheek, one in his
chin--count them--three! The Native Daughter would have a license to
complain of this if she herself didn't look as thou she'd been sprinkled
with dimples from a pepper-caster. In addition--oh, but what's the use?
Who ever managed to paint the lily with complimentary words or gild
refined gold with fancy phrases? The region bounded by Post, Bush,
Mason and Taylor Streets contains San Francisco's most famous clubs. Any
Congress of Eugenists wishing to establish a standard of male beauty
for the human race has only to place a moving-picture machine at the
entrance of any one of these--let us say the Athletic Club. The results
will at the same time enrapture and discourage a dazzled world. I will
prophesy that some time those same enfranchised women of California are
going to realize the danger of such a sight bursting unexpectedly on the
unprepared woman tenderfoot. Then they'll rope off that dangerous area,
establish guards at the corners and put up "Stop! Look! Listen!" signs
where they'll do the most good. And as proof of all these statements,
I refer you to that array of young gods, filing endlessly over the
sporting pages of the California newspapers.

And I'll pay for the privilege. What the Chamber of Commerce