wife, 'Lucy, you're a very pretty woman, but you ought to see some of
our San Francisco girls.'" "I hope," I replied, "that she boxed your
ears." He did not smile; he only looked pained. Once only have I seen
the Californiac silenced. A dinner party which included a globe-trotter,
were listening to a victim of an advanced stage of Californoia. He had
just disposed of the East, South and Middle West with a few caustic
phrases and had started on his favorite subject. "You are certainly a
wonderful people," the globe-trotter said, when he had finished. "Every
large city in Europe has a colony of Californians, all rooting for
California as hard as they can, and all living as far away as they can
possibly get."

Myself, Californoia did not bother me for a long time after I first went
to California. I am not only accustomed to an offensive insular
patriotism on the part of my countrymen, but, in addition, all my life I
have had to apologize to them for being a New Englander. The statement
that I was brought up in Boston always produces a sad silence in my
listeners, and a long look of pity. Soft-hearted strangers do their best
to conceal their tears, but they rarely succeed. I have reached the
point now, however, where I no longer apologize for being a Bostonian; I
proffer no explanations. I make the damaging admission the instant I
meet people and leave the matter of further recognition to them. If they
choose to consider that Boston bringing-up a social bar sinister, so be
it. I have discovered recently that the fact that I happened to be born
in Rio Janeiro offers some amelioration. But nothing can entirely remove
the handicap. So, I reiterate, indurated as I am to pity, the
contemptuous attitude of the average Californiac did not at first annoy
me. But after a while even I, calloused New Englander that I am, began
to resent it.