Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

EDITORIAL PAGE 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 Drawn by HAL COFFMAN WW® * if* /w 189% ' ' W w 'W wML. 4^- / / ~ whwlj jviwlv /lb ' 1 Ml V, CS' / WMife-'--1 4 . • 3 /vpi • box ' xrf - ’ LUNCH / 111 ’'' —fc— . w 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