PROCEEDINGS OF THIRTY-THIRD FRUIT-GROWERS ' CONVENTION. 43 



Let me give you a bit of personal history. I am a native son, born 

 and reared in heroic San Francisco. In the nature of things it must 

 seem strange to you that I ever consented to allow my father to plant 

 me in Fresno and keep me there until I became, as you see me now, a 

 full-fledged son of the soil. My father, a banker and merchant, like 

 many another man, had a wholesome horror of his own particular voca- 

 tion, and often remarked, as I can well remember in my younger days, 

 that being a bank clerk was all very nice; the salary was not to be 

 sneezed at; the hours were short, and the young men had leisure time 

 to watch and admire the pretty girls (for which you know San Fran- 

 cisco is famous) as they tripped down Kearny street. His sons should 

 engage in other lines, and he has successfully carried his views into 

 effect, for I, as well as my brothers, in spite of our desire to have 

 genteel positions which would give us an opportunity to see more of 

 the gentler sex, were compelled to work with our hands for a living, 

 and our inclination to become members of his staff in the bank was 

 sadly shattered. This briefly narrates my introduction into the realm 

 of horticulture, and to-day I am pointed out, in these annual meetings^ 

 as the "Fig Man." 



Publicity is not always pleasant to a sensitive nature. Recently I 

 was in a suburb of Los Angeles making a purchase of seeds from a 

 man who did not happen to know me personally. When I gave him my 

 name, he looked at me in surprise and said, "You are not the Calimyrna 

 fig man, are you ? ' ' Evidently my appearance when traveling belied 

 my occupation. As my friend, Professor Wickson, remarked in one 

 of his graceful notices a short time ago, I may look like a bon vivant, 

 but, to the contrary, I am a painstaking, energetic young man, who 

 really works for a living. Before taking my departure from Los 

 Angeles, I was approached by a reporter who desired an interview about 

 my experiences in Smyrna. I objected, saying I had already written 

 so much about my trip that any remarks would only be a repetition of 

 what had already appeared in print many times. He insisted, however, 

 and I finally consented. The result of that interview was anything 

 but edifying. The artist who accompanied the reporter drew my pic- 

 ture, and, sad to relate, I looked very much as if I had had a set-to with 

 one of the Southern California bug inspectors. So much so was this 

 the case that my friend, Frank Wiggins, Secretary of the Los Angeles 

 Chamber of Commerce, cut out the clipping and mailed it to me with 

 the anxious inquiry, ' ' George, were you all K when this was taken ? ' * 

 And what the reporter said was even worse. Among other things, I 

 was put down as a United States Commissioner— of what it did not 

 say, but presumably of figs and fig bugs. An amusing experience 

 occurred with a reporter in Fresno several years ago, a new man on 

 one of our leading dailies, who was instructed to interview me on 



