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.

The sun climbs to noon, then slowly sinks to the west. It dips into
the silent sea, mirroring sparkling evening stars.

Stretching to Japan, the Pacific is the mysterious World's End.

Along the brown coast, the sea otter, clad in kingly robes, sports
shyly in the kelp fields. The fur seals stream by unchased to their
misty home in the Pribyloffs. Barking sea-lions clamber around the
jutting rocks. Lazy whales roll on the quiet waters of the bay,
their track an oily wake.

It is the land of siesta, of undreamed dreams, of brooding slumber.

The barbaric diversions of the day are done. The firing squad
leave the guns. The twang of guitar and screech of violin open the
fandango.

The young cavaliers desert the streets. Bibulous dignitaries sit
in council around Governor Alvarado's table. Mexican cigars, wine