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. Senioritas 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.
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