Happy California! The cross here preceded the sword. No blood stains the Easter lilies of the sacrifice. The Dons and Donnas greet each other in stately fashion, as the gathering disperses. Governor Alvarado gives a feast to the notables. The old families are all represented at the board. Picos, Peraltas, Sanchez, Pachecos, Guerreros, Estudillos, Vallejos, Alvarados, De la Guerras, Castros, Micheltorrenas, the descendants of "Conquistadores," drink to Mexico. High rises the jovial chatter. Good aguadiente and mission wine warm the hearts of the fiery Californian orators. A proud day for Monterey, the capital of a future Empire of Gold. The stranger is cast out. Gay caballeros are wending to the bear-baiting, the bull-fights, the "baile," and the rural feasts. Splendid riders prance along, artfully forcing their wild steeds into bounds and curvets with the rowels of their huge silver-mounted spurs. Dark lissome girls raise their velvety eyes and applaud this daring horsemanship. Se¤ioritas Luisa, Isabel, and Panchita lose no point of the display. In a land without carriages or roads, the appearance of the cavalier, his mount, his trappings, most do make the man shine before these fair slips of Mexican blue blood. Down on the beach, the boys race their half-broken broncos. These lads are as lithe and lean as the ponies they bestride. Across the bay, the Sierras of Santa Cruz lift their virgin crests (plumed with giant redwoods) to the brightest skies on earth. Flashing brooks wander to the sea unvexed by mill, unbridged in Nature's unviolated freedom. Far to north and south the foot-hills stand shining with their golden coats of wild oats, a memorial of the seeds cast over these fruitful mesas by Governor Caspar de Portala. He left San Diego Mission in July, 1769, with sixty-five retainers, and first reached the Golden Gate. Beyond the Coast Range lies a "terra incognita." A few soldiers only have traversed the Sacramento and San Joaquin. They wandered into the vales of Napa and Sonoma, fancying them a fairyland. The sparkling waters of the American, the Sacramento, the Yuba, Feather, and Bear rivers are dancing silently over rift and ripple. There precious nuggets await the frenzied seekers for wealth. There are no gold-hunters yet in the gorges of these crystal streams. Down in Nature's laboratory, radiated golden veins creep along between feathery rifts of virgin quartz. They are the treasures of the careless gnomes. Not till years later will Marshall pick up the first nugget of gleaming gold in Sutter's mill-race at Coloma. The "auri sacra fames" will bring thousands from the four quarters of the earth to sweep away "the last of the Dons." A lovely land to-day. No axe rings in its forests. No steamboat threads the rivers. Not an engine is harnessed to man's use in this silent, lazy realm. The heart of the Sierras is inviolate. The word "Gold" must be whispered to break the charm.