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THE ATLANTA GEORGIAN
Published Every Afternoon Except Sunday
By THE GEORGIAN COMPANY
At 20 East Alabama St., Atlanta, Ga.
Entered as second-class matter at postoffice at Atlanta, under act of March 8. 1878.
Subscription Price—Delivered by carrier, 10 cents a week. By mall. 85.00 a year.
Payable in advance.
Do You Really Want To Be
Thankful?
» •> *
Stop Something Foolish Today—Don’t Wait Any Longer,
“What have L to be thankful for?” ask ten million men—with
a heavy emphasis on the I.
You may be thankful for many things. You have more than a
month left in which to hurry up and attend to those good resolu
tions made last New Year’s day.
You are still ALlVE—and have still OPPORTUNITY ahead
of you.
When we are thankful in this world, it is because of something
we have DONE. Other people do not bother trying to make us
thankful.
Do you want to be really thankful today? Stop some foolish
thing that you do every day. YOU know what it is—and your
wife probably knows, or your mother or friend —but no one tells
you.
YOU KNOW.
Stop it. Get rid of some one particular foolishness, some weak
ness, some self-deception, some waster of time, money, health or
nerve force.
Wake up tomorrow morning with just ONE less bad and fool
ish habit, and you will be thankful then as you should be today.
Only YOU can give cause for thankfulness to YOU.
What Can the President Do?
» * *
It Depends on WHAT THE PRESIDENT IS. His Opportunities
Are Great.
Mr. Wilson, when he becomes president of the United Stales
on the fourth of next March, will have powers greater—if he is able
to utilize them—than any other human being —king, emperor or pri
vate citizen—living.
His power will exceed that of the emperor of Russia, first. be
cause he will be the head of a nation much greater and more power
ful than Russia: second, because the Russian emperor. dull natu
rally, living in a state of panic, is controlled hy the physically de
bauched grand dukes and the mentally debauched heads of the Rus
sian church, and is really no emperor at. all.
The greatest power possessed by our president is THE POWER
TO TALK TO ALL OF THE PEOPLE EVERY DAY if he chooses
to do so.
His utterances are recorded conspicuously. He has the oppor
tunity to put the thoughts that are in bis mind into millions of other
minds—provided he can make his thoughts interesting.
That power to reach the minds of others is the greatest power i
that any man can possess.
Mr. Wilson will have practically the power to make war or ■
peace as president of the United States. Controlling the army and
navy, able to take many important steps without consulting con
gress, he could easily precipitate a war, if that seemed to him desir
able, or by wisdom and discretion he could make war impossible.
The president has the power to make treaties. The senate must
give its approval and advice. But the real power is with the presi
dent —a very great, power. The president, in his messages to con
gress, recommends and initiates legislation. This gives him prac
tically the power to MAKE laws. For the members of congress de
pend upon him for favors; he has the power to veto the laws and
appropriations that they desire, and they are not apt to ignore his
wishes.
It is possible for Air. Wilson to do a great deal for the people of
the United States between 1913 and 1917. lie can do a great deal
of initiating and carrying through good ideas. And he can do a
great deal by refraining from harmful, premature experimenting
and very disturbing acts.
Let us hope that all promises made by him or on his behalf will
be more than fulfilled, and that he will shine in history not onlv as
one who knew what to DO, but as’one of the very few and very wise
that know WHAT NOT TO 1)0.
Baldheaded Women
Alas! now comes a Washington physician with the awful an
nouncement that we may expect a race of bald-headed women. He
thinks the children of bald-headed fathers are developing a new
species of the human family. lie even makes the flattering asser
tion that loss of hair is indicative of mental elevation ami a step in
the evolution of man from the hairy beast to the highest type of
culture.
Let us hope the day of the bald-headed woman is far distant.
It paralyzes the imagination to picture a bevy of beautiful women
with bald heads. Would they be beautiful?
Says Pope:
"Fair tresses man s imperial race ensnare
And beauty draws us with a single hair.”
If the physician is right in declaring that increased mental
effort means the loss of hair, our women are facing a serious situa
tion in these days of suffrage and feminine activity.
Os course, even at the cost of becoming bald-headed, that work
must go on, but there will always remain wigs, and as our ancestors
wore wigs when there was real hair a-plenty, they ma\ solve the
question when real hair is scarce
The Atlanta Georgian
Three Thanksgiving Dinners
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Responsibility For Many Killings
recent instance of a young
| woman shooting her mother in
a sleeping ear because she
thought her a robber is full of mis
fortune for the young lady, and full
of suggestion for the rest of the
population.
Whenever there Is a revolver
handy, the chances are many to
one that some one will get hurt, if
not killed. And some one else,
without evil intent, will become the
murderer of a fellow being.
Why Do We Need Them?
The sale of liquor as a national
menace has so impressed the Amer
ican .people that many of them are
neither Republicans nor Democrats
—they are not even Bull Moosers.
They are Prohibitionists.
Fairly satisfactory laws govern
the sale of poison. But it seems
absolutely easy for men, women
and children in most communities
to buy firearms, and to maim or
kill through ignorance, misunder
standing or intent.
Why do we need firearms?
We do not need them—at all
events, in domestic life.
The army and the police make
bad enough use of them at times.
The hunter often shoots his friend's
head off, thinking he. Is bagging a
moose. It is all a strange commen
tary on the Sunday preachment on
"Thou shalt not kill.”
11.
v) ERHAPS the international peace
* congress has discussed this
question of the amateur and the
gun. Rut if it has the reverbera
tion of its oratory on the subject
has not sounded very far.
"He didn't know it was loaded”
has become well-nigh a joke in the
recording of accidental shooting.
Might Prove Wholesome.
AU historians have deplored the
shooting of Lincoln, Garfield and
McKinley, hut none of them has
commented even briefly on the
state of civilisation that makes It
easy tor the criminal and the In
sane to procure the means of kill
ing presidents.
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 28, 3912
The home life; the gay life, and the life it leads to.
By THOMAS TAPPER.
Two recent pistol shootings in
New York have become notorious
because of the matters involved,
but little or no attention was paid
to the fact that it is as easy to get
a revolver as it is to buy a sewing
machine.
It would be thoroughly whole
some to imprison the dealer who
sold the revolver that was aimed at
Mr. Roosevelt. New York city has
considered the question with, some
degree of earnestness, but the bag
ging of Rosenthal was easy.
It would be a thoroughly whole
some step to class firearms with
dynamite, cocaine, opium, cyanide
of potassium, and all the rest of the
quick ways to death.
The daily record of murders
throughout the United States in a
single week is appalling, and most
of them are primarily made possi-
:: The Turk ::
By JAMES J. MONTAGUE.
WHO is it that crie.s to the smoke cobwebbed skies
That war’s horrid horrors must cease?
Who is it that yells through the dark Dardanelles
That he is a person of peace?
Who rises to beg that the Court of The Hague
But an end to this awful rough work?
Why, the always unbearable,
Formerly terrible,
Recently scareable
Turk.
WHO was it that spread his dominion of dread
Over neighboring terror filled lands?
It ho was It the while wore a hideous smile
As he stretched forth his blood dripping hands '
Who, all unconcerned, slew, and pillaged, and burned,
Putting all who opposed to the dirk?
The seldom courageous.
The often rampageous,
The always outrageous
Old Tnrk.
AND who, now he knows that the wrath of his foes
At last into fury has flared.
Pleads, wftli fear shaken breath, as he looks upon Death.
That the life that is in him be spared?
Who begs to retain the blood-builded domain
Where he once like a beast loved to lurk?
That prince of bravado,
That black desperado.
That gory tornado.
The Turk.
■ ble not because the murderer has a
gun, but because it is easy to get
one.
If every state in the Union would
pass a uniform law on the sale and
possession of all varieties of fire
arms, we would conserve a consid
erable number of citizens.
Let Him Get a License.
If a man is afraid to go to sleep
at night without having a revolver
handy, let him be permitted to take
out a license to supply all his doors
and windows with a twelve-inch
gun, to be worked from the bed.
This would, at least, insure him
against killing his wife if she
chanced to get up without giving
him due notice. And if, by mistake,
he should turn on the battery to
the menace of his neighbors, they
might, by license, do the same
> thing.
THE HOME PAPER
WINIFRED BLACK
Writes on
The Real and the False
Bohemia
The Imitation Is Sordid and Vul
gar, Not to- Say Worse, But
the Original Is a Place Where
One Need Only Be Natural.
THERE’S a man of sense in
America. He lives in Kansas
City.
The other night he heard that his
seventeen-year-old daughter had
gone down town to a Bohemian
dinner. The man of sense hopped
Into his motor car and began look
ing for that dinner and that daugh
ter.
It took him some little time to
find them, but he did. He arrived
at the “smart case” just as the
wine came on the table —the cock
tails had already gone.
"Daughter,” said the man of
sense, “daughter, come home with
me." >
Daughter stood up, then she sat
down. She flushed and bit her fool
ish little lip. “I’m dining here, fa
ther,” said the girl, "and I can't
break up the party.”
“Daughter, Come Home.”
“Daughter,” said the man of
sense, “daughter, come home.”
The man who took the girl to the
Bohemian dinner stood up. He did
his best to look like the hero in
the last society play. "Sir,” said
the young man, huskily—he really
wasn't a bad fellow, but the two
cocktails had already gone to his
not overly strong head. "Sir, I
brought your daughter here. We are
having a little Bohemian dinner—
my friends and I and”
“Young man," said the man of
sense, "what you and your friends
are having does not interest me in
the least. I want my daughter to
come home, and she’s coming.” And
daughter came.
Bohemian dinner! If I had a
j’oung daughter at the dinner age,
and any man, woman or child dared
to utter the word Bohemian to her.
I'd forbid my daughter ever to look
at, speak to or think of the per
son who said that obnoxious word
in her presence ever again as long
as she lived—or at least as long
as she depended on me for board
and lodging and clothes.
Bohemian! No real Bohemian
ever mentions the thing, or even
knows what you mean when you
mention it —if you are that sort of
person.
Bohemian! That’s the name and
the right name, too, for a lot of
cheap little dives with red curtains
all over the place, bad cooking, im
itation wine and cheap vulgarity
that is not imitation at all.
1 remember the first "Bohemian”
place I ever saw. I was eighteen,
wide-eyed and romantic.
Some friends took me to dine
over somewhere, with a saloon on
both sides of the door, a cheap
dance hall opposite, and a blond
with black eyes at the cashier’s
desk.
“A regular grlsette,” whispered
one of my friends, as we passed
the blond cashier at her desk in
the cage.
“A regular what?” I gasped,
"S-sh!” said my friend, "she’ll hear
you.” So I knew that a grlsette
was something mysterious and not
exactly—er—a
Some of the “Notables.”
The dinner was bad, distinctly
bad Thin soup, flsh that you really
couldn’t think of, something they
called "roti,” two leaves of wilted
lettuce for salad, and a dab of vil
lainous pink stuff they said was ice
cream. But, oh, the atmosphere!
Oh, the art for art’s sake! Ob,
the wild adventurous air of the
whole place!
I looked at an elderly person
with two pink spots on her cheeks
and a mouth so red it really wasn’t
<juite nice to look at.
“Blank, the famous dancer.” said
my friend. “Dying of consumption.
See that young fellow with her?
He has devoted his life to her. Gave
up everything on earth to stay with
her until she dies —beautiful story.”
The elderly person took a little
too much wine and made eyes at
the waiter. Somehow I could not
feel quite so romantic when I saw
that.
“Bunny Buristone, the great wit,”
said my friend again, when a roly-
By WINIFRED BLACK.
poly man with a pig’s face and a
pair of twinkling, selfish, cold,
greedy pig’s eyes, came by. Bunny
looked as if he had never been
quite sober in his life.
“So and So, the vlolinst.” Very
seedy the violinist, and very sullen
he looked, and the woman with
him looked half scared to death
every time he looked at her.
Old, young, pretty, ugly, seedy
and flashy—-every one of the Bo
hemians. and posing and false and
self-conscious, too, every mother’s
daughter and every mother’s son of
them.
They talked too loud, they laugh
ed too loud, they looked at the
waiters for approval, they ogled
each other too odiously when they
began dinner, and before they were
through—dear me! I wished so
hard that I was at home.
Bohemian! Drunk and disorder
ly, that’s what they were in plain
pollcei court language, and I'd rath
er see any girl of mine a pr! ra
Puritan to the day of her death
than to have her get accustomed to
seeing that sort of thing and taking
it as a matter of course.
What right has a man to take a
girl to a place like that and tell her
who this faded notoriety Is, and
who it Is that sits guzzling at the
disreputable table with her disrep
utable friends?
What right has a middle-aged
woman to chaperon a decent girl
to any such place?
Bohemia! The real Bohemia—ah,
that’s a different thing. You don't
have to drink more than is good for
you to live there. You don’t have
to eat messy food and tell risky
stories. You don’t have to pre
tend to admire elderly berouged
persons because they once ran
away with somebody’s husband, or
completely ruined somebody’s son.
A Bad Half Hour.
You just have to be natural, and
real, and honest and perhaps a
little clever. You may dress in
gingham or In silk, or walk In
purple and rustle In lace; no one
will care and many will not even
know. It Is you they will like, not
some posing, self-scheming crea
ture that pretends. But you—just
you as your mother bore you—ant:
if you are kind and generous and
simple as well as wise and clever,
or even just kind and simple and
nothing more, they will love you—
in the real Bohemia, even if you
like things to be clean and prefer
ham and eggs to “rotis” and wilted
salad.
So you took her home, did you,
father—home to mother, home to
little brother?
Bohemia! For her, for the little
girl whose first tooth you have
somewhere set in some absurd ring'
or other?
And she cried all the way home,
did she, and tried to be dignified
and indignant? Her soft cheek
was Hushed with the cocktail she
drank before you arrived, and she
kept saying that she would nev
step out of the house again as long
as she lived. You had humiliated
and shamed her so.
Well, well, it was a bad half hour
but it is past now, all past, and
some day the little girl will tell her
daughter how you came and made
her go home with you.
It may be Bohemian to have the
curtains yellow instead of red, and
the cocktails will doubtless have a
new name, but they have the same
old-fashioned effect, Just the same,
and if you are a wise mother you
will keep daughter away from Bo
hemia and keep her far away at
that.
Stop any one out of a dozen poo:
things who slip by in the dark
these chill evenings—painted, be
dizened, ogling, poor things, poo.
things, and if she tells you the
truth, you’ll hear something about
the first Bohemian dinner that wi
make you glad daughter has sonn
one to protect her from them ami
all their ilk and kind.
Here’s to you, Mr. Kansas • i
man. Some day little daughter «
thank you for taking her home in
time
