Now what has Willie Britt to say?
Yes, my idea of a pleasant occupation would be listing, cataloguing,
inventorying, describing and - oh joy! - visiting the wonders of
California. But that would be impossible for any one enthusiast to
accomplish in the mere three-score-and-ten of Scriptural allotment.
Methusalah might have attempted it. But in these short-lived days,
ridiculous to make a start. And so, perforce, I must share this joyous
task with other and more able chroniclers. I am willing to leave the
beauty of the scenery to Mary Austin, the wonder of the weather to Jesse
Williams, the frenzy of its politics to Sam Blythe, the beauty of its
women to Julian Street, the glory of the old San Francisco to Will
Irwin, the splendor of the new San Francisco to Rufas Steele, its
care-free atmosphere to Allan Dunn, if I may place my laurel wreath at
the foot of the Native Son. Indeed, when it comes to the Native Son, I
yield the privilege of praise to no one.
For the Native Son is an unique product, as distinctively and
characteristically Californian as the gigantic redwood, the flower
festival, the ferocious flea, the moving-picture film, the annual boxing
and tennis champion, the golden poppy or the purple prune.
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