that proud Mexican ensign. He will hoist for the first time, on
October, 19, 1842, the stars and stripes over the town. Even though
he apologizes, the foreigners will troop back there like wolves
around the dying bison of the west. The pines on Santa Cruz whisper
of a coming day of change. The daybreak of the age of gold draws
near.

Steadily through the live-oaks and fragrant cypress the bridegroom
rides to the wedding. A few days' social rejoicings, then away to
the beautiful forests of his new ranch. It lies far in the hills
of Mariposa. There, fair as a garden of the Lord, the grassy knolls
of the foothills melt into the golden wild-oat fields of the San
Joaquin.

Behind him, to the east, the virgin forest rises to the serrated
peaks of the Nevada. He drops his bridle on his horse's neck. He
dreams of a day when he can visit the unknown canons beyond his
new home.

Several Ute chiefs have described giant forests of big trees.
They tell of a great gorge of awful majesty; that far toward the
headwaters of the American are sparkling lakes fed by winter snows.

His escort of young bloods rides behind him. They have had their
morning gymnastics, "a cheval," to edify the laughing beauties
of the baile of last night. The imprisoned rooster, buried to the
neck in soft earth, has been charged on and captured gaily. Races
whiled away their waiting moments.

Then, "adios, senoritas," with heart-pangs in chorus. After a