The Little Lady of Lagunitas | Page 9

arts of the vaquero. Past hills where startled buck and doe gaze until
they gracefully bound into the covert, the riders pursue the lonely trail.
Devoid of talk, they follow the shore, sweeping for six hours over the
hills, toward the Mission Dolores. Another hour brings them to the
Presidio.
This fort is the only safeguard of the State; a battery of ship guns is a
mere symbol of power.
In the quadrangle two companies of native soldiers and a detachment of
artillery constitute the feeble garrison. Don Miguel Peralta canters up to
the Commandante's residence.
Evening parade is over. Listless sentinels drag over their posts with the
true military laziness.
Peralta is intent upon affairs both of head and heart. His comrade, the
Commandante, sits late with him in sage counsel. A train follows from
Monterey, with stores for the settlement. Sundry cargoes of gifts for the
fair Juanita, which the one Pacific emporium of Monterey alone could
furnish, are moving. Miguel bears an order for a detail of a sergeant and
ten men, a nucleus of a force in the San Joaquin. Barges and a shallop
are needed to transport supplies up the river. By couriers, invitations
are to be sent to all the clans not represented at the Monterey gathering.
The priests of the mission must also be visited and prepared for the
wedding. Miguel's heart softens. He thinks of his bright-eyed
Californian bride waiting in her home, soon to be Seftora Peralta.
In twenty days Don Miguel arranges his inland voyage. While his
assistants speed abroad, he pays visits of ceremony to the clergy and
his lovely bride.
The great day of his life arrives. Clad in rich uniform, he crosses to the
eastern shore. A breeze of morning moves. The planet of love is on

high. It is only the sun tinting the bay with golden gleams. Never a,
steamer yet has ploughed these silent waters.
Morning's purple folds Tamalpais in a magic mantle. Rolling surges
break on the bar outside the Golden Gate. Don Miguel, attended by
friends, receives his bride, the Rose of Alameda. Shallops wait. The
merry party sails for the western shore. Fluttering flags decorate this
little navy of San Francisco.
Merry laughter floats from boat to boat. The tinkle of the guitar sounds
gaily. Two hours end this first voyage of a new life.
At the embarcadero of Yerba Buena the party descends. They are met
by a procession of all the notables of the mission and Presidio. Hardy
riders and ladies, staid matrons and blooming senoritas, have gathered
also from Santa Clara, Napa, and Sonoma. The one government brig is
crowded with a merry party from Monterey.
The broad "camino real" sweeps three miles over sand dunes to the
mission. Past willow-shaded lakes, through stunted live-oak groves, the
wedding cavalcade advances. The poverty of the "mozo" admits of a
horse. Even the humblest admirer of Don Miguel to-day is in the saddle.
No one in California walks.
With courtly grace the warrior rides by his bride. Juanita Castro is a
true Spanish senorita. Blest with the beauty of youth and the modesty
of the Castilian, the Rose of Alameda has the blush of her garden
blossoms on her virgin cheek. She walks a queen. She rides as only the
maids of Alta California can.
The shining white walls of the mission are near. Eager eyes watch in
the belfry whence the chimes proclaim the great event. To the west the
Coast Range hides the blue Pacific. Rolling sand hills mask the
Presidio. East and south the panorama of shore and mountain frames
the jewel of the West, fair San Francisco bay.
Soldiers, traders, dull-eyed Indians, and joyous retainers crowd the
approaches.

The cortege halts at the official residence. Soon the dark-eyed bride is
arrayed in her simple white robes. Attended by her friends, Juanita
enters the house of the Lord. Don Luis Castro supports the bride, who
meets at the altar her spouse. Priests and their trains file in. The fateful
words are said.
Then the girl-wife on her liege lord's arm enters the residence of the
Padres; a sumptuous California breakfast awaits the "gente de razon."
Clangor of bells, firing of guns, vivas and popular clamor follow the
party.
The humbler people are all regaled at neighboring "casas."
In the home of the Padres, the nuptial feast makes glad the gathered
notables. The clergy are the life of this occasion. They know when to
lay by the austerity of official robes. From old to young, all hearts are
merry.
Alcaldes, officials, and baronial rancheros--all have gathered for this
popular wedding.
Carrillos, Del Valles, Sepulvedas, Arguellos, Avilas, Ortegas, Estradas,
Martinez, Aguirres and Dominguez are represented by chiefs and
ladies.
Beakers of mission vintages are drained in honor of the brave and