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 alook 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