is so regular that
it suggests the Greek. He has eyes like mountain lakes and a smile like
a break of sun. He generally flashes a dimple or two or three or more
(Californians are speckled with dimples). He manufactures his own slang.
And he joshes and jollies all day long. In fact, he's--

Oh, well, go West, young woman!

Beyond its high average of male beauty California has, in its labor-man,
produced a new physical type. It is different from the standardized
American type, of which Abraham Lincoln of a past and the Wright
brothers of a present generation are perfect specimens--the
ugly-beautiful face, long and lean, with its harshly contoured strength
of feature and its subtly softening melancholy of expression. The
look of labor in California is not so much of strength as of force, an
indomitable, unconquerable force. Melancholy is not there, but spirit;
that fire and light which means hope. It is as though they were molded
of iron--those faces--but illuminated from within. And with that
strength goes the California comeliness.

Pulchritude begins in childhood with the Californian, grows and
strengthens through youth to middle age. Even the old--but there are no
old people in California. Nobody ever gets a chance to grow old there.
The climate won't let you. The scenery won't let you. The life won't let
you.

All this picturesqueness, beauty and charm form the raw materials of the
most entertaining city life in the country. For whatever San Francisco
is or is not, it is never dull. Life there is in a perpetual ferment.
It is as though the city kettle had been set on the stove to boil half
a century ago and had never been taken off. The steam is pouring out of
the nose. The cover is dancing up and down. The very kettle is rocking
and jumping. But by some miracle the destructive explosion never
happens. The Californian is easy-going in a sense and yet he works hard
and plays hard. Athletics are feverish there, suffrage rampant, politics
frenzied, labor militant. Would that I had space here to dilate on the
athletic game as it is played in California--played with the charm and
spirit and humor with which Californians play every game. Would that I
had space to narrate, as Maud Younger tells it--the moving story of how
the women won the vote in California. Would that I had space to
describe the whirlwind political campaigns when there are at least four
candidates in the field for every office, and when you are besough