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I 4 EDITORIAL RAGE The Atlanta Georgian THE HOME RARER THE ATLANTA GEORGIAN Published Kvery Afternoon Except Sunday By THE GEORGIAN COMPANY ' At. 20 East Alabama St., Atlanta, Ga. Entered *s second-class matter at poatofflce at Atlanta, under act of March 3.1*7J Subscription Price-Delivered by carrier, 10 c ents a week. By mail, $5.00 a year. Payable In Advance. The “Why” of the South’s Greatest Sunday Paper i S IX days we labor and do all our work. And Sunday we rest—and catch step with the world. That is, most of us. Most of us work six days in the week. Most of us work pretty hard. Most of us are tired when night comes. That is a good, healthy state of affairs, and it keeps us out of mischief. But it doesn’t give us much chance to keep pace with things outside our own little march. And sometimes that is in lock step. And that answers the query, “Why is a Sunday paper?” j The Sunday paper tells us that there is something stirring outside of Atlanta; that there are other States than the Empire State of the South; other nations than the Union; other conti- j nents than America; other worlds than the earth. The Sunday paper tells us about other people than the kind | we know so well; other professions, other aims, other thoughts and creeds. The Sunday paper marks the time by which we catch step with all the world. Depending, of course, largely on the kind and scope of the ! Sunday paper. Which brings us to The Sunday American in general, and the next Sunday American in particular. Starting with Atlanta—for that’s where a lot of us live— the next Sunday American will have the freshest and fullest pos sible news of America’s great murder case—the Frank trial. There will be pictures. Special features will be covered by spe-, cial writers. The new? will be handled frankly and honestly— and fully. But there are other things than the Frank trial. Polly Peachtree and her inimitable comment and gossip of society—you don’t know Polly Peachtree, do you? No—but you read her sprightly gossip and you wonder—and so do people over all the South. Polly Peachtree is an institution. Well, and that brings on the fashions, and the frills, and all the dainty arabesques (or is that architectural?) of feminine ap parel. With pictures. Don’t forget the pictures. Then the drama. Reviews and criticisms of the new plays which, probably owing to the season, haven’t been produced yet, or possibly even written; gossip of stageland and its people, the wonderful peo ple that to most of us live and move and have their being in the golden country back of the footlights. We always like to hear of something that connects them with our own little work-a-day world. And we are treated to such anecdotes quite frequently in the Sunday paper. Sports—pennant chases In our own league; in the Big Show; boxing and gossip of the padded square; racing, golf, tennis— all handled by experts, trained to keep ever an eye on the Main j Chance; to play up a world event for what it is worth; to value truly the importance of local news. There’s 0. B. Keeler, Charles Dryden, W. J. McBeth, “Tick” Tichenor, J. W. Heis- man, Innis Brown, Damon Runyon, W. S. Farnsworth, Ed W. Smith, W. W. Naughton and George E. Phair, who are known from coast to coast in the respective lines. In the lighter vein the comics contribute the bit of nonsense now and then, traditionally relished by the “best of men”— who, after all, probably are just plain folks like us, who have a soft spot in our hearts (art critics say in our heads) for the quaint conoeits of Powers and Fisher and the rest. When you’re tired, you know, a series of pictures is mighty easy to read, and the point isn’t easy to miss. But if you’re serious, you can find what other people think In the editorials; you can match your ideas against theirs—and you’re the judge. Clashing opinions sharpen wits. It’s fine ex ercise for the mind. Or turn to a serial novel. You’ll find the latest and best in ■ The Sunday American. Just now it’s “Adam’s Clay,” by Cos mo Hamilton. Pretty soon it will be “The Plot for a Pennant,” and you baseball fans might guess the author—Hugh Fullerton. You know what that means. But they all are the freshest and the best that can be had. And the cable service and the news of all the world. That might be the headliner of all. No other service has the far-reaching tentacles—the “feelers” that touch this old mud- ball at every point, and gather that which is new and strange and worthy, to tell it with spirit and truth in the Sunday paper. For next Sunday features—“ Art or the Woman?” A bril liant consideration of Ida Rubenstein, the strange, fiery Russian dancer who has cast her spell on the flower of the artists, the com posers and the dramatists of our time. And then the strange case of Alfred Vanderbilt, frozen out of American society, find ing on his return with his new wife to Newport that his first wife is the leader in a social ostracism the most rigid in history. Then there will be another proof that truth can be stranger than fiction in the narrative of the cruel lover who tried to frighten into his arms a belle of our Southland—and by a horror in the guise of a monster frog. And what else? Well, King George of England has a quaint idea of destroying “American frivolity” by imposing old-fash ioned and outrageous duties on the members of his court—the good King desiring to “sober it down.” And Madame Cavalieri explains beauty hints—she really ought to know, you know— and a scientist tells how a child becomes a man, and a psycholo gist details his discovery of why lovers can’t help quarreling. By way of contrast, Sophie Lyons, queen of the burglars, tells why crime doesn’t pay, and Lady Duff Gordon produces an essay on mannish tendencies in women’s dress, notably waist coats, a Parisian fancy. It's all in The Sunday American. And with it the news of all the earth. And that’s how we catch step with the world, on Sunday. The Pictures in the Ice The man— to whom the cost of ice doesn’t matter—sees in it merely an added fillip to a long drink. The woman—to whom the cost of ice is a heart-breaking matter—sees in it relief, perhaps life itself, for her child, sweltering in the poor cottage which they call home. A Glimpse of the Cowed Women of Japan Selected by EDWIN MARKHAM M ARIAN COX has recently written her reminiscences of Japan, and Mitchell Kennerley has published them under the title of “The Man- Made Woman of Japan.” The picturesque pen of Mrs. Cox gives us a striking chronicle, and I take from It the following: “The easiest way to arrive at a conception of the Japanese woman Is to think of every qual ity directly contrary to the qual ities of the typical American woman, and to see her as the embodiment of these. She is as docile as the American woman Is aggressive; as demure as the American Is flamboyant; as mod est as the American is Impudent; as humble as the American is snobbish; as conservative us the American is faddish; as reticent us the American Is effusive. “There is no romance be tween the sexes In Japan. The relation is either crude and busi nesslike in marriage, or unmen tionable and bestial out of mar riage. No wonder there is no word In the Japanese language which can be translated as ‘love’ in our language. The only love that can be spoken or written of In Japan is the filial. There are no words of endearment for lov ers, nor for husband and wife. Marriage is without courtship; courtship without kisses, caresses or pet names. Loveless Women. “No Japanese knight has ever performed a deed of valor for the love of a woman. No Japa nese poet has ever written a poem of ‘love* that could be read to a pure woman. These people have put all their refinement into their etiquette of life, and so have had none left for the elmental facts of life; they have put all their imagination in a hair-splitting epicureanism, and so have had none left with which they might dignify humanity’s greatest pas sion. When the Japanese nation evolves the kiss of man and woman she may cease to be a mimicker and become a molder of civilisation. “In reading of the loveless, ktssless, woman-denouncing Jap anese, one might believe him austerely chaste, puritanical, the true ascetic; and to those un versed In the duality of human nature it comes with a shock of surprise to learn that, on the con trary, his ruthless immorality and licentiousness are notorious and the scandal of Japan. “There is one feature of this so unique and so Illustrative of the vicious outgrowths of man’s lopsided civilizations that It has a claim upon the Interest of every student of Jaj?an or of human na ture; the institution of the Yoshi- wara. “Classified with our ‘white slave traffic’ and the sordid evils that nightly stalk Broad way, Pic cadilly and the Parisian boule vard, It yet differs from them all in certain elements which make It the most sickening and tragic exhibition the world affords of the human Injustice and shame accorded women in civilizations made strictly of the men, for the men, by the men. “At a temple In Nikko there is a famous picture of three mon keys,'one with his hands covering his eyes, which means see no evil; another with hands covering ears, which means hear no evil; the other with hands covering mouth, which means speak no evil. This is evidently the Buddhistic for mula for peace on earth, good will to men; but, thanks to the men who have not observed it, humanity has evolved from some of its barbarities, and mast of the barbarities that exist to-day en dure because women have been too long and thoroughly trained by men—to see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. With Official Sanction. “No one can understand the Japanese people until he has seen the menagerielike spectacle of that portion of Its womankind whom they place outside of hu man rights in a hideous traves ty of human dignity. In the dusk of every evening. Just as the tem ple bells are pealing forth their summons to the strange gods of Nippon, this spectacle begins: women, girls—the majority mere children in appearance—file into cages which open onto the streets, exactly like the cages In a zoo, and sit for hours behind those wooden bars like merchandise for sale, with an aureole of tortoise shell combs around their heads and bedecked in garish splendor of attire. The spectacle arouses disgust and scorn until one learns the hidden springs behind this system of woman-sale, and then there comes only pity. “The Government has placed its sanction upon this institution; ‘thus sayeth the law'’ is more powerful in Japan than in any other civilized country. So the idea has been perpetuated among the people that parents have a moral (because legal) right to dispose of their daughters to their own advantage, and the inmates of the Yoshiwara are sold by their parents or adopted parents when too young and ignorant to under stand the nature of the transac tion or the ghastly future it will bring. But even if she knew, the Japanese daughter is as powerless to resist the parental will as her brother, the soldier, would be to resist the will of his Emperor. Ae we know, she is taught filial de votion as her religion. Agitation Going On. “It Is not true, as has been so frequently stated, that unchastity does not dishonor a woman In Japan. Even these slaves of the Yoshiwara, involuntary victims, are treated as helowr human kind. Until a few years ago they had no chance of escape from what even the Japanese call ‘the bitter sea of misery.’ When there were run aways, the law authorized their capture, punishment and return to their keepers. That there were many runaways we can believe wrhen we learn that the average number of suicides among these girls throughout the land was 40 and 50 a month. “During the past four years there has been a lively agitation in Japan for a complete change in its social and moral system. The leaders of public opinion proclaim that something is radically wrong, but do not seem to know what it is that must be changed, nor just what new laws to enact—for more laws is the masculine solu- I tlon to every difficulty,” rhe Secret of Prayer By ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. For he who climbs to make his prayer Meets half way the descending grace. —Elsa Barker In British Review. r HTS la the secret of all prayers That In God's sight have worth; They must be uttered from the stairs That wind away from earth. And he who mounts to speak the word, He shall be heard, lie shall be heard. And he who will not leave himself, But stays down with his cares (Or with his thoughts of power and pelf), Though loud and loud his prayers, Beyond earth's dome of arching skies They shall not rise, they shall not rise. Oh ye, who seek for strength and power, Seek first some quiet spot. And fashion, through a silent hour. Your stairway, thought by thought. Then climb, and pray to God on high. He shall reply, He shall reply. John Temple Graves Writes on A Ringing Alarm to the Farmer He Q uotes President Charles S. Barrett, of the Farmers’Union, Re garding Foreign Owner ship of Cotton Fields in the South. By JOHN TEMPLE GRAVES I E any man thinks that the mil lions of American farmers are asleep or Indifferent to eco nomic changes and passing events, that man is mistaken. On the tariff, on the currency, on farm credits, and on the outside investments In agriculture every farmer Is readtng, thinking— and preparing to vote! Even if the farmer were ignorant or apathetic upon public questions, he has wise and watchful leaders who, upon the watchtower, are sounding continually the bugles of advance or the alarms of retreat Among the ablest of these is Charles Barrett, president of the Farmers’ Union, with two and a half million enrolled members— perhaps the most popular and In fluential of all American fanners. Foreign Ownership. I asked this great farmer recent ly if he wished to use the far- reaching columns of the Hearst newspapers to sound any new counsel to the American fanner. And he promptly responded: “Yes: l never omit an oppor tunity to use that vast newspaper circulation to speak for my people. ‘‘I have something now to say about the alien or foreign owner ship of our lands, particularly those lands in the South adaptable to cotton. I have said that the steady reach of foreigners after that imperial staple was an' alarm ing development! I believed years ago that this was a serious men ace, and now I am sure of It "Now, listen, you scoffers and un believers. Do you know that be tween twelve and thirteen million acres of the finest eotton lands in the South are now owned outright by foreign individuals and corpor ations? Do you fcnow that agents of these foreign Individuals and corporations are constantly work ing to get more millions of acres of the cream of cotton lands? Do you know that foreign spinners are sending men here to be educated 4» ou r agricultural colleges and schools to take charge of these broad acres, cultivate and raise cotton to ship to spinners in Eng land, France and other foreign countries? Our Richest Heritage. “Do you think deep and sense what this means? Do you know that It means the actual production of cotton in the South on farms owned and cultivated by foreign ers, and whose product will go direct to their mills In Eng land, France and other countries? In plain words, we are sitting su pinely by while foreign capital and corporations are taking our oldest, richest and greatest heritage righJ from under our noses. “Time may not be far distant when our own people, the men who have raised and supplied the world with its cotton for generations, will be restricted absolutely to the home market. Sounds scary, and I want It to sound so, for It Is time to get scared. “This Is a vital question which I would thank the Hearst newspa pers and other great conservators of American interests to help our people to solve.” Life as Seen in the Movies By JAMES J. MONTAGUE. F IRST we see Harold folding Susie In hls arms. In the background is the train that Is to take Harold to the West, where he will make hls fortune, after which he will re turn and tnake Susie the hap piest girl in the world. In the background is George sneering like the plotting villain we know him to be the moment we set eyes on him. The conductor, who has been very patient, gives the signal. Harold climbs aboard at the last minute. The Telegram. Next we behold George and Susie speeding homeward in George’s six-cylinder car. George is talking in what looks like a low, earnest voice, but Susie re fuses to be interested. Suddenly he pulls from his pocket a tele gram. Susie sits up suddenly. And well she may. For the film announces that the contents of the telegram are to the effect that Harold has gone to the West to marry apofher. What other we do not yet know. We now behold Susie weeping at a desk in a room so full of furniture that no burglar could get halfway across it without waking up all the people in the next block. In her little hand she holds the telegram for a time, then tears it spitefully into bits that flutter out on the breeze that is blowing the Valenciennes curtains in twelve windows. George enters. He looks at the fragmentary telegram and sneers. Then he looks at Susie and smiles. Presently he engages in more low, earnest conversation, and you judge he is describing his yacht, his bank account and his country place at Mamaroneck. But Susie shrinks from these things. “At Last!” But evidently George knows more of Susie's disposition than we do. He points to the telegram and sneers, this time for three seconds. Susie sits bolt upright and thinks. Then she rises and paces the floor, deftly threading her way in and out among the furniture like a guide in the North Woods. At last she nods her head, but when George ap proaches / enthusiastically she shakes it. Here in the West, which is de noted by a lonely cabin In a stone quarry, is Harold. He Is sitting by a fire examining nuggets. Evi dently none of them Is good for much but concrete work. But now- he leans forward intently and examines one. Reaching for the only article of wardrobe in evidence, a coat, he dashes madly from the room and we next be hold him entering an opening in the stone quarry through which trickles a rivulet. Bending over the rivulet, he picks up more nuggets. “At last” are the words we see plainly on his lips. They are subsequently verified by the text on the screen, Harold re-enters the lonely cabin, and carefully hangs the coat on the snme nail. A rough, unshaved person enters and hands him a letter. He opens ft. Hls face clouds. Bad news from home, we conjecture. Right. Mighty bad news Harold is be ing invited to Susie’s wedding and George Is going to be the bridegroom. Throwing the newly found nug get out of the window, Harold hurriedly leaves the room. Harold to the Rescue. Here comes the Overland lim ited. Nearer and nearer till we fear it will collide with the au dience. But across the track suddenly darts a man waving a campaign hat. It Is Harold. Will he be run over? No. The train stops. Harold climbs on. The train moves Into nothingness just as we duck to avoid being hit by the pilot. At the same old station Harold alights. He commandeers an au tomobile, and, taking the wheel, departs while the owner indig nantly shakes hls flat after him. Same room, full of same furni ture, but farther embellished with a wedding bell and a minister Enter Harold from one door and Susie from another. Harold steps forward just as George enters from a third. Susie, being In something of a dilemma, gets out of it neatly by fainting. George attempts to sneer, but doesn't get away with it. The .44 Harold has in hls hand Interferes. Evident ly there are explanations. Susie’s father, a gentleman with a li mousine body, comes in and re vives her. George, discovering that hls fake telegram has been exposed, sneers for the laet time and goes out a window. Harold folds Susie to hls stalwart breast. The minister steps forward and the play is done.