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EDITORIAL RAGE Fhe Atlanta ■ Georgian 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 post of flee at Atlanta, under act of March 8,1873 Subscription Price—Delivered by carrier, 10 cents a week. By mall, $5.00 a year Payable in Advance The Baby That Cried and the Baby That Didn’t The Mother of the First Baby Had Real Cause for f hanksgiving Copyright. 1»13. It was on a suburban train running out of Atlanta. A mother with her family, two half-grown children and a baby, was on the way, apparently, to spend a day with friends and relatives in the country. The baby was cross and fretful. The motion of the car irri tated him, the conductor frightened him, the other passengers, jingling keys foolishly to distract his attention, annoyed him. He was perhaps ten months old, and a baby of ten months has a magnificently developed voice. This baby knew what his voice was for, and he used it. From one end of the car to the other he oould be heard, howling an indignant protest against taking a journey he did not want to take, and undergoing privations without being consulted. The mother, terribly worried by the indignant frowns of the other passengers, fussed and worried. She offered the baby his bottle, but he hatted it away with a tiny pink hand and yelled louder than ever. Being a careful mother, she examined his clothing for pos sible loose pins, but she didn't find any. The woman in the seat ahead of her turned and rudely stared, first at her and then at the purple faced baby. A crusty old man in the seat behind said to his companion: “Why in the thunder do people travel with babies? If they cannot afford nurses they ought to stay at home. " More sympathetic people strolled past and offered the mother advice and made faces for the baby to admire. But the baby did not admire them. He merely expressed eloquently, though without artioulate words, his contempt and disgust. Presently the mother, driven nearly frantic, turned to a woman across the aisle and said: “I wish to goodness he wouldn't cry. I’d give anything in the world if he’d only keep quiet for a week, absolutely quiet.’’ Now, this was a healthy baby, dressed in frills and ribbons, his little feet in brand-new, soft, red shoes, and his distorted face framed in a circle of fluffy white fur. And because he was healthy and well fed, and protected against disease, his voioe was of the lustiest kind. Perhaps it is not surprising that his mother wished she might not hear his voice for another week, but Recently a party of men went among the tenement houses in New York to distribute some small gifts for the tenants. They were poor, squalid tenement houses. On every floor were dozens of babies, but there was no crying. In one little room a mother sat beside a little, dirty bed—a i mattress placed on two up-ended oracker boxes. On the bed was a baby—also ten months old, but with no shoes whatever, and clothed in a few (Jingy garments that had served several other babies before him. The baby was very white and very still. On each cheek was a red spot, showing that a fever was pumping his blood to an abnormal pressure. His eyes were large and blue and wide open. • The mother turned to the visitors and tried to smile. Then she looked back at the patient, quiet baby. “If he would only just cry,' she said. “It seems to me I would give my life to hear him cry just a little.” There is something to re?»ember, you mothers who lose your patience when your babies cry. Think *of those other ba hies in the tenements who do not cry, either because they ha ye* not the strength or because they have learned that not even a baby’s needs can be satisfied because of his crying for thorn when there is nothing in the house to satisfy them. Healthy babies MUST cry. Crying not only develops their lungs, but it is their only means of telling their mothers that there is something the matter or that they are dissatisfied and unhappy. And no baby is dissatisfied or unhappy who is well fed and well cared for. When he cries you may be sure that he is sick or tired or that he feels that he is being trifled with. Feed him well, keep him clean, clothe him warmly, and he will be content to play and ooo as long as he keeps awake. But when his stomach is empty or overfull, when pins are sticking in him, or his feet are cold, you may expect to hear his voice raised in loud and emphatic protest. Be glad that ypu can hear it, you mothers whose nerves are “all frayed out” because tlje crying disturbs you—and you fathers who spend the night away from home because ' you can not bear to hear that baby howling all night.” Let the baby tell you by his crying that something is the matter, and, rather than scold and storm, find out what it is and make him easier and more comfortable. Remember that there are many mothers, whose babies are now silent forever, who would give all that they have in the world could they hear those wailing baby voices come back to them across the years, and, taking the little creatures in their arms, try with all their mother instinct to help them and make them happy again PERTINENT PARAGRAPHS Foolishness has many forrr\g, hut the forms adopted by the other fellow always seem the most foolish. It takes a lot of courage to tel! h big man his faults. The critic is always most posi tive when discussing something that lie does not know much abouLT Some men never care for peace until they are In the pose of the under dog. The habit of blowing one’s own horn generally grows on a fellow. Desperation generally stifles caution. Staggering phraseology is not always a sign of good seu£e. May-Time When the Buds Come By WINSOR M’CAY. W inifred Black Writes About “Doors That Slam” her she periled cold. What could the matter be? Last week she gave a party and didn’t ask me—I didn’t care for the party—I couldn't have man aged to go anyhow—but—I sat down and wrote and asked her what was th§ matter. What’s the Matter? "I love you,” I said. *T>on't you care for me any more? How have I offended?” She came that afternoon and told me of a care- lef^s remark, spitefully repeated, and we are good friends again— and i am glad. What's the matter with life? The bills are high—every one la grasping—no one seems to care—• oh. it’s a terrible world! Ten to one it’s only some door slamming sonv wh re that’s doing It all—one foolish, no-account door that should be locked. Get up, you sleepy thing! Get up at once and lock It! Against the midnight’s purple robe Brocaded with the beams Of constellations far and near, How brilliantly it gleams! And look! as from the world below Its polished disk we scan. We see within its shining rim The picture of a man. I he Celestial Locket By MINNA IRVING. T HE bis round moon is at the full, And riding bright and high, With little flecks of lacy cioud Around it in the sky. It’s like a silver locket hung Upon a chain of diamond stars, That pale before its light. By WINIFRED BLACK B ANG! said the door I turned over in my sleep— Rattle-bang! there it was again. If I could only think of some way to stop it. It really was too bad there T was so tired, up all night the night before and busy all day that day, so tired, so weary anti no one cared, no one seemed to no tice how drawn my poor face was no one even said they were sor ry- that’s always the way a woman could work herself to death and that's all the thanks that she would get. Biff! there’s that door again! The rising wind took a delight in that door and the wooden slam of It. Sometimes the door didn't bang; it simply rattled R-R-R- R-R-rattle, rattle, rattle, like a train of cars going over a shaky bridge—rrrrrrattle, rattle, rattle, there—there is water under that bridge; you can tell by the sort of rustle in the rattle—shake, shake, shake- someone must l>e there; no, it is only the wind again— shake, shake, shake—well, come in if you want to so badly. Door Banged No More. Not a soul In the house will get up and shut that door tight, and let me sleep. Along about daylight 1 rose, walked over to the door just a few steps, turned the key. and it was done—the door banged no more My train ceased to run over bridges, and 1 fell asleep at last peacefully, calmly, sweetly asleep, and yet outside the wind blew 1 could hear him sinking m m# bare boughs of the great oak like some entranced musician loath to leave his music—and 1 was neither younger nor more WINIFRED BLACK. blessed In any way than before. Yet I slept as if I were sweet six teen. with all the world watting to lay garlands of roses at my feet when 1 deigned, to awaken a xud wwtfet presence. It didn’t take a minute to work the miracle nor any genius or inspiration. Just plain sense and some little resolution for the in stant, and the troublous night and the uneasy dreams turned to re freshing slumber—and the door was the same door, only it wasn't locked when it banged. 1 wonder How often have 1 turned upon an easy pillow and let the door bang—rather than to get up and shut It? A hundred times, I fear, and more than that. Are Sensitive Souls. The cook leaves the gas burn ing in the range when she doesn’t need it. What an extravagance! —it irritates me every time I see it. I turn it out. but the next time I go to the kitchen there it is, blazing away at so much a blaze—I hated to speak of it— cooks are such sensitive souls, j and this one makes such delicious waffles. I>ast week I took my courage in my hands and called the cook into the pantry. “Mary,” I said, -there is some thing I want to speak to you about—the gas you are so care less about; please turn it out the minute you are through with* it, will you?’ “Yes,” said Mary, and she did it: and now I like to go into the kitchen, and Mary seems to like to see me come. The secret irri tation that must have disturbed her as much as it did me is gone— all by a few calm words spoken at the right time. 1 didn't hear from my old i friend for a while. When I met THE HOME RARER John Temple Graves Says Our Navy Needs a Charles Beresford The Great Englishman, he says, Keeps Britain’s Navy Up-to Date and In Repair by Ex posing Its Glaring Weakness from Time to Time. By JOHN TEMPLE GRAVES G eorgians and other Americans who read of the great banquet last Oc tober given by the city of New York to the President and his Cabinet and the officers of the assembled fleet, will recall the confident assurance of Presi dent Taft at that banquet that these magnificent vessels, then anchored off New York, In the North River were the chief de fense of the country, and that each one of them was ready at a moment’s notice to weigh an chor and sail out to k meet and conquer an invading foe. President Taft doubtless made this statement upon Information furnished him by some one in authority in the Navy Depart ment. It was a shame for any of ficial of the American Govern ment to have imposed up6n the President of the United States such a gross misstatement of the facts. Disquieting Whispers. It was a greater shame to have permitted the President of the United States to give out such an untruthful statement to the American people. For the navy was then, as the navy Is now, inadequate In the number of officers and of men and shamefully Inadequate In Its equipment of fuel and coal. Such a statement going out at that time was calculated to lull the activity of the heads of the Navy Department, who ought to have known the facts and who certainly must know them now. It was whispered on the day af ter the banquet that the Presi dent’s assuring words were not founded upon facts and that the navy was lacking in many ele ments that rendered It effective for battle and defense. It would have been the part of a brave man then, who knew these facts, to have told them, in order that the condition might have been corrected at the time. It would be a cowardly Ameri can now who would keep these facts from the public at this time and permit our navy to go out to sen in its present condition. A Fearless Patriot. And it would appear to any thoughtful American who loves his country that the prompt and fearless dealing with these con ditions, as they have been stated, is th& highest possible duty which appeals now to the Secre tary of the Navy and to the President of the United States England has a great and fear less patriot in Lord Charles Beresford. and no part of Lord Beresford’s great service has been more marked than the incessant challenge by which he has kept England posted as to the deficien cies of her navy and the neces sity for repairing. Time after time, when England has been boasting herself before her people of the greatness and irresistible power of her navy, Lord Beree- ford, himself one of England** mightiest sailors, has broken into the eulogy with a public exposure of some glaring weakness and In efficiency in the English navy, and this sharp challenge of the fearless sailor-publicist has done perhaps as much or more than anything else to keep the Eng lish battleships up to the mark of efficiency. We ought to have in America some great publicist who will not fear to tell our Government the truth about its navy in time of peace and not wait for the sharp necessity of war to prod the de partment into action. Either in Congress or In the departments, or In the press, there should be found a monitor who would warn and direct the carelessness or the apathy of the American navy. The present Secretary of the Navy is a young man, who has just assumed that office. He has had no experience with naval af fairs and is frank and honest enough to confess it. He appears to be very earnest and devoted to his work. Work for the Secretary. If Secretary Daniels would do his country some service he will address himself here and now to finding out from inside sources the real facts about the American navy, the condition of its ships, the equipment of its crews, the preparation for its fuel and its colliers, and he would make h1s administration of that department liberal by holding the navy rigidly up to the standard of efficiency for instant service. He would see to it. If official persuasion could be effective, that additional Inducements were given to men to enlist tn the navy He would remember that most young men enlist in the nary not for a career, but to see the world, and he would devote himself to plans to securing the full complement for every one of the unfilled bat tleships that carries our flag to day. • There Is a great opportunity for a Secretary of the Navy at the present time, and that opportuni ty lies not along the line of trivial improvements, but of vital pre paredness for that which battle ships were built to do—-to ftgbt when necessary with every force of men and machinery and fuel In Its place. 1 fhe 1 impress o; Ind ia By REV. THOMAS B. GREGORY. T HAN the proclamation of Queen Victoria as Empress of India, made in the city of London thirty-seven years ago, there is perhaps nothing stranger or, from the standpoint ot the psychologist, tqore interesting, in al! history. Think of it for a moment. The Queen of a little island in the At lantic, with an area of some eighty-five thousand square miles and a population under thirty millions, is solemnly proclaimed sovereign of an empire thousands of miles away, covering one mil lion six hundred thousand square miles and containing a population of two hundred and eighty-seven millions of souls. The audacity of It! The cool, colossal impudence of the thing! It was sublime. That vote of the Parliament commanding the aver memorable proclamation reminds us of the rulings of Providence, of the ways of the omnipotent God. The little handful of British ers, speaking through their rep resentatives gathered in the coun cil house by the Thames, declare their good little Queen to be ab solute ruler of the ancient and august Empire by the Ganges and the Brahmaputra, and, lo! it is done. Six months later, at«!Dtrr- bar of unequaled magnlfioence held on the historic rtdge over looking the mogul capital of Del hi. the princes and leading men of India bow down before the representatives of the little wo man in England, and, in the name of the two hundred and eighty- seven millions of the Indian peo ple, swear eternal fealty to her rule. Was there ever such romance as this cold-blooded history? What kind of people are the two hundred and eighty-seven million to be falling down before the thirty millions thousands of miles away? And what kind of peo ple are the thirty millions that they should be even dreaming of declaring themselves the lords and masters of the two hundred and eighty-seven millions? The explanation is to be found in the difference between the Saxon man and the Hindoo man. We think we know what that difference Is—but in spite of it ail there remains that mystery of mysteries—British ruie in India. Nor is the mystery much lighten ed by the fact that, upon the whole, that rule has ben a blessing to the Indian people.