the average New Yorker is well acquainted with the symptoms of
California. The Californiac is unable to talk about anything but
California, except when he interrupts himself to knock every other place
on the face of the earth. He looks with pity on anybody born outside of
California and he believes that no one who has ever seen California
willingly lives elsewhere. He himself often lives elsewhere, but he
never admits that it is from choice. He refers to California always as
"God's country", and if you permit him to start his God's country line
of talk, it is all up with intelligent conversation for the rest of the
day. He will discourse on California scenery, climate, crops, athletes,
women, art-sense, etc., ad libitum, ad infinitum and ad nauseum. He is a
walking compendium of those Who's Whosers who were born in California.
He can reel off statistics which flatter California, not by the yard,
but by the mile. And although he is proud enough of the ease and
abundance with which things grow in California, he is even more proud of
the size to which they attain. Gibes do not stop the Californiac, nor
jeers give him pause. He believes that he was appointed to talk about
California. And Heaven knows, he does. He has plenty of sense of humor
otherwise, but mention California and it is as though he were conducting
a revival meeting.

Once a party which included a Californiac were taking an evening stroll.
Presently a huge full moon cut loose from the horizon and began a tour
of the sky. Admiring comments were made. "I suppose you have them bigger
in California," a young woman observed slyly to the Californiac. He did
not smile; he only looked serious. Again, a Californiac mentioned to me
that he had married an eastern woman. "Any eastern woman who marries a
Californian," I observed in the spirit of badinage, "really takes a very
great risk. Her husband must always be comparing her with the beautiful
women of his native state." "Yes," he answered, "I've often said to my