to the West and with much of its sly, dry humor. But there is a joyous
quality to the San Francisco blague which sets it apart, even in the
West. You find its counterpart only in Paris. Perhaps it is that, being
reenforced by wit, it explodes more quickly than the humor of the rest
of the country. The Californian with his bulk, his beauty, his boast and
his blague descending on New York is very like the native of the Midi
who with similar qualities, is always taking Paris by storm. Marseilles,
the chief metropolis of the Midi, has a famous promenade--less than half
a dozen blocks, packed tight with the peoples and colors and odors of
two continents--called the Cannebiere. The Marseillais, returning from
his first visit to Paris, remarks with condescending scorn that Paris
has no Cannebiere. Of course Paris has her network of Grand Boulevards
but--So the Californiac patronizingly discovers that New York has no
Market Street, no Golden Gate Park, no Twin Peaks, no Mt. Tamalpais, no
seals. Above all--and this is the final thrust--New York is flat.

Somebody ought to invent a serum that renders the victim immune.

Some day medical journals will give the same space to the victims
of California hospitality that they now allot to victims of Oriental
famines. For with Californians, hospitality is first an instinct, then
an art, then a religion and finally a mania. It is utterly impossible to
resist it, but it takes a strong constitution to survive. Californians
will go to any length or trouble in this matter; their hospitality is
all mixed up with their art instinct and their sense of humor. For no
matter what graceful tribute they pay to famous visiting aliens, its
formality is always leavened by their delicious wit. And no matter
how much fun they poke at departing or returning friends, it is always
accompanied by some social tribute of great charm and originality.

A loyal Adopted Son of California, a novelist and muckraker, returned a
few years ago to the beloved land of his adoption. His arrival was made
the occasion of a dinner by his Club. He had come back specifically on a
muckraking tour. But it happened that during his absence he had written
a series of fiction stories, all revolving about the figure of a
middle-aged woman medium. In the midst of the dinner, a fellow clubman
disguised as a middle-aged woman medium began to read the future of
the guests. She discoursed long and accurately on the personal New York
af