one farm to another.  Eventually so many Japs settled in the valley that that white farmers, unable to secure white labor, unable to trust Japanese labor, unable to endure Japanese neighbors or to enter into Japanese social life weary of paying taxes to support schools for the education of Japanese children, weary of daily contact with irritable, unreliable and unassimilable aliens, sold or leased their farms in order to escape into a white neighborhood.  I presume, Mr. Parker, that nobody can realize the impossibility of withstanding this yellow flood except those who have been overwhelmed by it.  We humanitarians of a later day gaze with gentle sympathy upon the spectacle of a noble and primeval race like the Iroquois tribe of Indians dying before the advance of our Anglo-Saxon civilization, but with characteristic Anglo-Saxon inconsistency and stupidity we are quite loth to feel sorry for ourselves, doomed to death before the advance of a Mongolian civilization unless we put a stop to it—­forcibly and immediately!”

“Let us go down and see for ourselves,” Mrs. Parker suggested.

Having reached the floor of the valley, at Farrel’s suggestion they drove up one side of it and down the other.  Motor-truck after motor-truck, laden with crated vegetables, passed them on the road, each truck driven by a Japanese, some of them wearing the peculiar bamboo hats of the Japanese coolie class.

The valley was given over to vegetable farming and the fields were dotted with men, women and children, squatting on their heels between the rows or bending over them in an attitude which they seemed able to maintain indefinitely, but which would have broken the back of a white man.

“I know a white apologist for the Japanese who in a million pamphlets and from a thousand rostrums has cried that it is false that Japanese women labor in the fields,” Farrel told his guests.  “You have seen a thousand of them laboring in this valley.  Hundreds of them carry babies on their backs or set them to sleep on a gunnysack between the rows of vegetables.  There is a sixteen-year-old girl struggling with a one-horse cultivator, while her sisters and her mother hold up their end with five male Japs in the gentle art of hoeing potatoes.”

“They live in wretched little houses,” Kay ventured to remark.

“Anything that will shelter a horse or a chicken is a palace to a Jap, Kay.  The furnishings of their houses are few and crude.  They rise in the morning, eat, labor, eat, and retire to sleep against another day of toil.  They are all growing rich in this valley, but have you seen one of these aliens building a decent home, or laying out a flower garden?  Do you see anything inspiring or elevating to our nation due to the influence of such a race?”

“Yonder is a schoolhouse,” Mrs. Parker suggested.  “Let us visit it.”

“The American flag floats over that little red school-house, at any rate,” Parker defended.