Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

EDITORIAL RAGE The Atlanta Georgian the home paper THE ATLANTA GEORGIAN Published Every Afternoon Except Sunday By THE GEORGIAN COMPANY At iO Eaxt Alabama St.. Atlanta. Oa. Entered as second-cla»w matter at post office at Atlanta, under act of March .1,1873 Subscript ion Price- Delivered by carrier, 10 cent* a w eek Uy mall. $5.00 a year. Payable In Advance. His Mother: The Failure Comes Home 'i.v £*■ * • The “National Honor” of the Japanese Japan Should Understand That It Is a Primary Principle I hat Every Sovereign Nation Must Be Sole Judge of the Quali fications of Its Own Citizenship. A Movement for Humanity at Large Letters From The Georgian's Readers JNITED STATES IS RIGHT. iitor The Georgian 1 have read several editorials tH'h you have written on the len land law as pnseed by both mses of the California Legisla te and 1 think you are eml- , orreot in the stand you k(. ill regard to the matter, t'nitert States certainly has a • shv whether or not for ce ‘.-'all own land in this i u- m has a law some- -r, 1 understand, and = ever questioned It. loir , -enlr are sound. W. E. P. M'ami. Kla. COST OF SCHOOL BOOKS. ' or The G. gian: ank you for your f the proposed * 10 Uavp the school books ’•orgifc published bla ’ and fur ‘ •. 1,0 at actual -,r*ia " m ° re chnrirpn in ' nan have in Oa- endat G< tarto. Canada, and yet the cost for each school book in Georgia is over three times as much as In Ontario. I note that the esti mate Is $1,000,000 per year for school books In Georgia. What would be the saving to the chil dren of Georgia per year for school books If sold as cheap as In Ontario? It would be over $000,000 a year. C. R M’CRORT. ElUville. Ga. THINKS ADVICE GOOD Editor The Georgian. I am a widow with three chil dren— girla—and I find much to commend in the advice which some of the writers in The Geor gian offer to young girls. 1 like the writings of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. Dorothy Dix. Beatrice Fairfax and others My girls read the paper every evening and t feel sure they get many excel lent suggestions from its pages. MRS E. B Atlanta. It is now definitely reported from Washington that the Japanese Ambassador, in his hustling negotiations with Mr. Bryan, is not really concerned with any threatened infraction of treaty rights, but is resting hi* 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 be 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 TAKEN ROPE ENOUGH TO HANG ITSELF. A 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 seems a ehivalrous combat, Whe*e all who strive must succeed, For Youth lias 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 the 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. tiy’ By WINIFRED BLACK. iHE spfteon for missing hoys 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 I do wish some body would cut a few* of the sweet strings that hind 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 e>es? 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 lie 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” Let's try it and see. Oh dear, to the bone mine. Your own particular mine, where all your buried treasures lie—and then to the -hade 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 hanker, aren't you? He never gets time to leave his bone mine—I mean his bank even to go fishing for a eoupie of days, for fear some one will find the mine—I mean the hank and run away with some of his lovely bones. I mean his check books and things. 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 11" 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 wil- v 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. I don't mean in their own language. I 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 Ifcey 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 with 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. you will get that very thing whether it is courage or gaiety or loyal 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 out—out in the green, green world with the wind a-singing and the flow ers a-blowing. A fig 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- Can Ho Shoot the Gun? “Missing boys!" The wonder is that the whole world of boys isn't missing this afternoon. Professional Advice I WINIFRED BLACK. low one if you can. Just the thing, how lithe and swltchy it is. Whore'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 tiower- Ing trees. How green it is out here in the world! How softly green the grass is What’s that on the round hill yonder, a haw tree in full bloom? 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. The need for purer air. he moved. Was no eccentric whim. Wide open w-jndows he approved. They meant so much to him. Rev. John E. White Writes on The Poor Little Rich Boy Vi V 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 ( jrpHK Story o' I Man” *as ® DAYS 1 fo: R “MISSING ] BOYS” ® A dear old man with a kindly face. With gentle voice and meek. Leaned forward from his corner place, And thus began to speak; My friends. 1 trust that none.' said. “My hardihood will ('hide. If 1. to save an aching head. This window open wide." ' Sound health." he said, "will be your crown, Your babes be strong and bright. If you will lot your window's down, Especially at night!” he Till, each alighting, said they meant To follow his advice. And turned to thank him as they went. He seemed so kind and nice. 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 in man. The heritage of each. And this conviction he began With friendliness to preach- I was the last who rose to go. And. wishing him good day. Remarked. "One thing I’d like to know— Are you a doctor, pray?" At that he shook the frosty rime That crowned his honored head, And bowipg courteously. "I’m A- sir." ul said* HE Story of a Poor Young the classic of the college classes in French twenty years ago. Its hero solved hiH 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 what to do with their money does not explain the pub lic interest in William Vincent Astor. In a very hearty fashion there are thousands* 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 hi9 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 frpe 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 ;n 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 <*an become the greatest profli gate of his time. He can take up the problem of “Rrewster’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, as 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 mass of worms to in crease after their kind with a child's interest in his toys. The Astor fortune must be pass»ed 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 off.«et 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 pword 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 but 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 an{l look upon the hard pressed, struggling field of human 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 ffiom space. Imagine the straight line, the diameter of the sphere-space, to be four hundred trillion miles long, and 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 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 manv billions, possibly trillions, and we have no trace of occasion to be all puffed up with egotism. But then our sun i* 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 space. In the vicinity of the center of the Gal actic band of millions of suns. ■nr