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EDITORIAL RAGE The Atlanta Georgian the: hom
PAPER
THE ATLANTA GEORGIAN
Published Every Afternoon Except Sunday
By THE GEORGIAN COMPANY
At 20 East Alabama St , Atlanta, Ga.
Entered as second-Haas matter at postofflce at Atlanta, under art of March •L1M.3
Subscription Price -Delivered by carrier. 10 cents a week By mail. $0 00 a yeat
Payable in Advance.
The “National Honor" of the
Japanese
Japan Should Understand That It Is a Primary Principle 1 hat
Every Sovereign Nation Must Be Sole Judge of the Quali
fications of Its Own Citizenship.
It is now definitely reported from Washington that the
Japanese Ambassador, in hi* hustling negotiations with Mr.
Bryan, is not really concerned with any threatened infraction of
treaty rights, but is resting his case upon grounds of '' national
honor."
It is said that the "national honor" of JAPAN CANNOT
BROOK ANY SPECIAL LIMITATIONS UPON THE ELIGI
BILITY OF ITS PEOPLE TO CITIZENSHIP IN THE UNITED
STATES
This is a new and extraordinary claim. In the light of all
the customs and precedents of international intercourse, such a
claim amounts to nothing less than a pretext for a quarrel.
It is, of course, a primary principle that every sovereign na
tion must be the sole judge of the qualifications of its own citi
zenship. . ,
IF THE JAPANESE INSIST UPON DICTATING THE
CONDUCT OF THE UNITED STATES IN THIS REGARD, IT
IS NOT THE NATIONAL HONOR OF JAPAN, BUT THE NA
TIONAL HONOR AND EVEN THE SOVEREIGN EXIST
ENCE OF THE UNITED STATES THAT IS CALLED IN
QUESTION.
It should bo unnecessary to say—the fact is too obvious—
that under existing economic and social conditions in this coun
try, it is quite out of the question to open our doors to an unre
stricted Oriental invasion.
We cannot possibly permit a horde of Japanese immigrants
to become part and parcel of the American people.
On this subject Americans are sure to be practically unani
mous. The shifting of the California discussion to such grounds
is, therefore, the surest and shortest way to stop debate.
That such are THE REAL GROUNDS OF THE JAPANESE
CONTENTION has become evident from the fact that no other
grounds of complaint are even statable.
JAPANESE DIPLOMACY HAS T^KEN ROPE ENOUGH
TO HANG ITSELF.
V t *
A Movement for
Humanity at Large
Letters From The Georgian's Readers
UNITED STATES IS RIGHT.
Editor The Georgian:
I have read several editorials
which you have written on the
alien land law as passed by both
houses of the California legisla
ture. and 1 think you are emi
nently correct in the stand you
take in regard to the matter.
The I/nited States certainly has a
right to say whether or not for
eigners shall own land in this
country Japan has a law some-
w - it similar, 1 understand, and
nobody has ever questioned It.
Your arguments are sound.
W. E. P
Miami. Fla.
COST OF SCHOOL BOOKS.
Editor The Georgian:
Allow me to thank you for your
r emendation of the proposed
plan to have the school books
of Georgia edited and published
by competitive bids and fur
led to the children at actual
We ha\e more children in
Georgia than they have In On
tario. Canada, and yet the cost
for each school book in Georgia is
over three times as much as in
Ontario. 1 note that the esti
mate Is $1,000,000 per year for
school books in Georgia. What
w’ould be the saving to the chil
dren of Georgia per year for
school books if sold as cheap as
'r. Ontario? it would be over
$600,000 a year.
C. R M’CRORY.
Ellaville. Ga.
THINKS ADVICE GOOD.
Editor The Georgian
I am a widow with three chil
dren—girls—and I find much to
commend In the advice which
some of the writers in The Geor
gian offer to young girls,
the writings of Ella
Wilcox. Dorothy Dix.
Fairfax and others. My
read the paper every evening
1 feel sure they get many excel
lent suggestions from its pages
MRS E
Atlanta. _
I like
Wheeler
Beatrice
girls
. and
His Mother: The Failure Comes Home
What makes woman’s suf
frage demonstrations in Amer
ica so specially impressive—in
contrast with other demon
strations of a political char
acter—is the fact that the women and their supporters ARE
ABSOLUTELY FREE FROM CLASS OR PARTY BIAS.
It is possible, of course, to say that the women have a par
ticular axe to grind, but it is an axe that they mean to lay to
the root of the tree of special interests. In striving for the abol
ishment of the privilege of sex they attack the last stronghold
of monopoly and proclaim an emancipation that takes in the
least and the lowest. /
The whole atmosphere of the woman's movement is per
meated with an intense social purpose. More and more as the
years go on the ballot becomes in the minds of suffragists only
a symbol of social responsibility and opportunity. The women
are not merely striving to vote. THEY ARE STRIVING FOR
POWER TO SET THINGS RIGHT.
Of course, it may turn out in the fullness of time and events
that the women are not able to set things right, not able to make
any important contribution to social well-being.
It may turn out so. But the omens seem to indicate the con
trary. The signs all point to social changes for the better
through this immense uprising of the souls of womankind.
It cannot be for nothing that a vast fresh tide of emotion
is being poured out upon the arid plains of politics. The truth is
that THE OLD POLITICS IS PLAYED OUT, AND THAT
SOMETHING IMMEASURABLY FINER AND MORE HU
MAN IS COMING TO TAKE ITS PLACE
Youth smiles as it steps from the homestead
To plunge in the battle of life,
For Youth has not seen the wounded
Who slink from the bitter strife.
Life se<;ms a chivalrous combat,
Where all who strive must succeed,
For Youth has no thought of baseness,
Of treachery, craft nor greed.
But out in a world that’s a battle
Success cannot come to all;
Where so many millions are struggling.
Some of tin 1 millions must fall.
And no place has the world for a failure;
He’s alone in the crowded town;
And thousands of feet will trample
Over the man who’s down.
No place in the world for a failure ^
No heart that will bleed for his fall?
Thantk heavens, the failure’s mother
Seems to love him the best of all.
What if he has been a failure,
The love and the faith in her heart
Will send him anew to the battle
Equipped for a conqueror's part.
® DAYS FOR “MISSING BOYS
44’y 1
By WINIFRED BLACK
iHE season for missing
boys has begun Every
day worried parents are
asking the police to help hunt up
youngsters who have developed
the wander lust/* So says a lit
tle paragraph In the newspaper.
I’m not a little boy, or a little
girl either, but l do wish some
body would cut a few of the sweet
strings that bind me to home and
duty for a few days and let me
go a-wandering. We know
where we’d go. don’t we. Little
Boy with the sea-gray eyes?
First, we’d follow the dog. Just
let him loose from his long chain
that holds him there in the lit
tle garden a terror to belated
milkmen and to early delivery
boys, and follow wherever he
would lead. Trust him, he
wouldn't go far wrong. Would
you old fuzzy-top? Look how
his amber eyes sparkle when we
speak of running away. Poor
fellow. 1 wish you could. Where
would you go first ? Lot s try it
and see.
Oh clear, to the bone mine.
Your own particular mine, where
all your buried treasures He—and
then to the shade of the peach
tree to lie and gnaw—why you
are a disappointment. Raffles—a
distinct disappointment — you
don’t want to rove at all. You
are like my friend,* the banker,
aren’t you? He never gets time
to leave his bone mine—1 mean
his bank—even to go fishing for
a couple of days, for fear some
one will find the mine—I mean
the bank—and run away with
some of his lovely bones. 1 mean
bis check books and thing?.
Poor fellow! And yet some
times he tugs at his chains just
as you do. Raffles. I’ve seen him
do it; and he frets and wishes he
were poor, just for a while, and
could afford to be idle.
Why doesn’t he do it? For the
same reawn that you lie there
in the shade this minute. Raffles,
guzzling your old moldy bones.
He’s built that way and no man
can change his form wherein he
is cast. No, no more than a dog
can. Bones for my friend, the
banker; checks and stocks and
bonds and worries, and plans and
schemes.
Get a stick, Little Boy. A wAl
and smooth it looks from here,
the haw tree* and white as new-
fallen snow. Whiff! what a
pure sweet breath of Eden.
Hark! Yes, that was a lark.
Did you know they could talk,
Little Boy? No. T don’t mean in
their own language. 1 mean in
ours? I’ve heard them do it.
They can all talk, the meadow'
larks, for they aren’t larks at all,
but startlings, only they are very
wild and they would almost al
ways die if you caged them and
tried to teach them.
Hark! There’s a whole scatter
ed family of them up there by
the hawthorn on the round green
hill. “Sweet, sweet; oh life is
sweet,” that's what they sing this
time of year, the meadow larks.
Hello, here’s some velvet plant.
They call it “mullein” in the bo
tanies. Rub your cheeks w r ith it,
Little Boy, and they will glow
like the rose in bloom—and if
you take a whole leaf of the vel
vet plant to bed with you, and
whisper very softly what it is
you love best, in the human heart.
Professional Advice
WINIFRED BLACK.
low one if you can. Just the
thing; how lithe and switchy it
is. Where’s your hat ? Stick It
on the back of your head. Hur
rah! we re off to the wide, wide
world, just you and I. and the
wind and the sun and the flower
ing trees.
How green it is out here in {he
world! How softly green the
grass is What’s that on the round
hill yonder, a haw tree in full
bloom 0 Why, I thought by this
time the only place you ever saw
a thing like that was in a pict
ure in an art store or on a cur
tain at movies. See how round
SAT in a suburban train—
There was no seat to spare-
Hermetically sealed each pane,
And rank the foggy air.
A dear old man with a kindly face.
With gentle voice and meek,
Leaned forward from his corner place,
And thus began to speak;
Rev. John E. White
Writes on
The Poor Little
Rich Boy
Not What Will He Do With
His Money, But What Will
His Money Do With Him,
Is the Question and Quandary
of William Vincent Astor.
WRITTEN FOR THE GEORGIAN
By REV. DR. JOHN E. WHITE
Pastor Second Baptist Church
UT^HE Story of
I Man” was
you will get that very thing
whether it is courage or gaiety
or lo.Yal devotion, or whatever.
But you must not crush the soft
leaf, otherwise you will wake up
a coward or a hypocrite or a
“down in the mouth” that nobody
loves, or whatever is just the op
posite of what you wished for.
We’ve cut and run. haven’t we,
Little Boy? And we’re ouf—out
in the green, green world with
the wind a-singing and the flow
ers a-blowing. A flg for the
banker and his bank. Who cares
for lessons?
Ding, dong, dell! What a
melancholy sound. Look, it calls
from the little red house at the
foot of the round green hill. Here
they come, the children, for a few
joyous minutes.
Ding, dong, dell again! Why,
they didn’t have fairly time to
shout once, when back they must
go. A B—ab. See The Man—
(’an He Shoot the Gun?
“Missing boys!” The wonder
is that the whole world of boys
isn’t missing this afternoon.
The need for purer air, he moved,
Was no eccentric whim;
Wide open windows he approved,
They meant so much to him.
“Soifnd health.’’ he said, “will be your
crown,
Your babes be strong ahd bright,
If you will let your windows down,
Especially at night!”
"My friends. 1 trust that none." he Till, each alighting, said they meant
said.
“My hardihood will chide.
If I, to save an aching head,
This window open wide.”
His gentle manner seemed to please,
All granted what he asked;
And soon in the refreshing breeze
That dear old person basked.
Fresh air. he said, was life to man,
The heritage of each.
And this conviction he began
With friendliness to preach.
To follow his advice,
And turned to thank him as they
went.
He seemed so kind and nice.
I was the last w ho rose to go.
And. wishing him good day.
Remarked. “One thing I’d like
know—
Are you a doctor, pray?”
At that he shook the frosty rime
That crowned his honored head.
And bow T ing courteously. “I’m
A burglaur* sir." he said.
to
HE Story of a Poor Young
the classic of
the college classes in
French twenty years ago. Its
hero solved his* problem of pover
ty. love and ambition gloriously.
The story of “The Poor Little
Rich Girl” has been running on
the boards of the New York the
aters for the instruction of thou
sands during the past year. The
little girl’s life was mystified and
saddened by being thrown back
and forth by the fate of a fortune
which was hers, but she could not
possess.
The latest literature on this
subject is the “human document”
in the case of William Vincent
Astor, who found himself after
the tragedy of the Titanic re
sponsible for an estate of $150,-
000.000, yielding an assured in
come of more than $10,000 a day.
Upon this young man the world’s
questioning is directed. With the
lapse of a year he has passed
from its sympathy of his sorrow
to quite another sort of sympathy
—sympathy with his embarrass
ment of a vast fortune. The
proverbial habit of telling other
people w'hat to do with their
money does not explain the pub
lic interest in William Vincent
Astor. In a very hearty fashion
there are thousand? of us who
want somebody to tell him what
to do with himself. The problem
he confronts is profoundly a per
sonal one. It is a human life sub
jected’to an inhuman strain that
furnishes the dramatic interest
that invests his personality, for
the real question about him is—
not what will he do with his
money, but what will his money
do with him.
What He Stands to Lose.
Confronted by the fact that life
is limited for him and that many
of its avenues are closed by his
fortune, he is properly portrayed
as “The Poor Little Rich Boy.”
What he lost by his father’s death
is possibly measured by what he
gained. He lost, first, the values
of the college career upon which
he had just started at Harvard.
His education was cut short—not
hopelessly, of course, but in ment
al enlargement and the training
of powers his handicap is dis
tressing. The fellowship of equals
in a democracy, the friction of
minds, the give and take of life,
the moral deposits which come at
the points of free contact be
tween souls, are. alas! impossible
values to him. There are a thou
sand things he can not do—the
spontaneous things, the privilege
of independent thinking, the exer
cise of perfectly free speech, the
opportunity of individual prow
ess in achievement, the ecstacy
of drawing the short sword with
Napoleon and saying. “This will
carry me far;” the glory of en
thusiasm for humanity, like that
which animated Henry George,
the supreme satisfaction of the
country boy who learns how to
climb the ladder by climbing it—
and all the thousandfold incite
ments and enjoyments of heroic
will-power. These are the price
William. Vincent Astor may have
to pay for the boast of an income
of ten thousand dollars a day.
What can the young man do to
make his*mark in the world? He
can become the greatest profli
gate of his time. He can take up
the problem of “Brewster’s Mil
lions” and solve it. He can daz
zle the world with immense dis
sipations. He can be known in
history as the modern god of
Bacchanalia, the Columbus of new
continents of Surfeit. Or, lack
ing. a9 it is said, in physical
temptations and inclined to se
clusion. he can mark time with
his money and watch in a sort of
dead way the living dollars wrig
gling like a man of worms to in
crease after their kind with a
child’s interest in his toys. The
Astor fortune must be passed on
to the next oldest son, and there
fore this career would shunt for
him all but this one responsibili
ty. But, according to the science
of genetics, the mother of the
next Astor would have to be a
paragon to offset the heredity of
idleness and weakness from the
father.
The Best Astor Yet.
The real, hope of William Vin
cent Astor is to get acquainted
with his great-grandfather and
be something more than a cog in
the Astor machine. If he thinks
enough of himself he will swear
a great oath and pray a great
prayer for his soul’s sake. Ten
thousand dollars a day is a sword
too heavy for small hands. It is
dangerous for a little man or a
selfish man to- be abroad in this
country with so much power at
his disposal. There is hut one
direction in which the Astor mil
lions may safely direct them
selves if a hundred years from
now there are to be any Astors
left on this side of the Atlantic to
hold them in estate. That direc
tion is toward humanity. There
are great causes calling to this
young man to save him from his
money. If he will go out some
day and look upon the hard
pressed, struggling field of humar
beings a good angel will whisper
to him, “There’s beautiful fight
ing there for you.” Ten thousand
dollars a day would thrust his life
like a torch Into the problem of
American politics. Ten thousand
dollars a day would throw* that
one life of his luminously into
ten thousand glooms of illiteracy.
Ten thousand dollars a day would
project him into infinite multiples
of uplifting power beneath the
drag of immorality upon civiliza
tion. Ten thousand dollars a day
intelligently comprehended and
morally used would recover all
his losses, lengthen all his limi
tations and break all his prison
bars.
Who knows but it may be so?
Fifty years from now someone
may be saying that William Vin
cent Astor was the best Astor.
Suns in Space
By EDGAR LUCIEN LARKIN.
G O get pencil and paper.
Draw a straight line. Get- a
drawing compass, set one
point in center of line, draw a
circle Including both ends of the
line, which will then be a diame
ter of the circle.
Take scissors, cut out the cir
cular sheet from the paper, hold
it in both hands; turn the upper
half of the circle toward you, and
the lower half will move in the
opposite direction. But the cir
cle generates or cuts a sphere
or globe from space.
Imagine the straight line, the
diameter of the sphere-space, to
be four hundred trillion miles
long, ar.d that our sun is in the
center; then there is Just room
for three hundred suns equal in
size or larger.
Now cut out a sphere having
our sun as a center eight hundred
trillion miles in diameter; then it
would include eight times the
space and contain 2.400 suns. This
on the theory that suns are dis
tributed in all space as they are
near home, or jr the little sphere
only four hundred trillion miles
in diameter. But the fact is
that suns are strewn in the en
tire Galaxy, or Milky Way, in 10,
20 and even 100 times greater
profusion than they are out here
where we live, apparently some
where near the center of that gi
gantic ring of stars surrounding
the stellar structure.
Our minute star, the sun, 1,-
310,000 times larger than our lit
tle space-electron, the earth,
from all appearances is in the re
gion of the center of that starry
circle, the Milky Way. No spe
cial importance is attached to
this, however; our earth is mere
ly one of many billions, possibly
trillions, and we have no trace of
occasion to be all puffed up with
egotism. But then our sun is
moving through space, dragging
the earth along with it, with a
specific speed of 12 miles per
second. In one million years as
tronomers will easily notice that
they are moving away from our
now cozy home in S{>ace, in the
vicinity of the center of the Gal
actic hand of millions of suns.