The Men of the West 27 



that what they don't know is not worth knowing. 

 I can hear the voice of the old colonel, a rasping 

 voice mellowed somewhat by sherry, as he pro- 

 nounces all subjects without the magic circle of 

 his own intelligence — hosli. Not so the Western 

 man. He is catholic in his sympathies. Every- 

 thing interests him — and everybody. He devours 

 an essay upon liquid air and its possibilities, and 

 turns from that with gusto to a vol au vent of 

 political gossip, or a cliaudfroid of economics. And 

 this being so, it is a thousand pities that the cooks 

 who cater to this appetite should not supply whole- 

 somer diet. Western people suffer from dyspepsia, 

 but what they eat is as Mellin's food compared to 

 what they read. 



Some months ago I was returning from a fishing 

 tour in British Columbia. In the smoking-room of 

 the Pullman car, I encountered a youth of about 

 seventeen, who, taking me for a tenderfoot, pro- 

 ceeded to set forth at great length the resources of 

 California, its sociology, topography, and climate. 

 I listened patiently for a couple of hours. Pres- 

 ently he asked me if this were my first visit to his 

 State. I replied in the negative, saying that I lived 

 in California, that I owned land, that I was engaged 

 in a large business. He looked uncomfortable ; then 

 in quite a different tone he said : " Say — when did 

 you first come to California ? " 



It was my turn. 



" You are a Native Son ? " 



" I am," he answered proudly and promptly. 



" About seventeen years old ? " 



" That 's right ; seventeen last fall." 



