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THE ATLANTA GEORGIAN
Published Every Afternoon Except Sunday
By THE GEORGIAN COMPANY
At 20 East Alabama St., Atlanta, Ga
Entered am second-class matter at postoffice at Atlanta, under act of March 3.1873
Subscription Price—Delivered by carrier, 10 cents a week. By mail, $5.00 a year.
Payable in Advance.
The Atlanta Georgian
The Pictures in the Ice
The “Why” of the South’s
Greatest Sunday Paper
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?’’
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
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 news 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
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
conceits 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 c-n’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 HOME RARER
John Temple Graves
Writes on
A Ringing Alarm
to the Farmer
tt ft
He Q uotes President
Charles S. Barrett, of
the Farmers’Union, Re
garding F oreign Owner
ship of Cotton Fields
in the South.
By JOHN TEMPLE GRAVES
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.
I F 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 reading, 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 farmers.
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 farmer.
And he promptly responded:
“Yes; / never omit an oppor
tunity to use that vast near spa per
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 cotton lands in
the South are now owned outright
by foreign individuals and corpor
ationst Do you know that agents
of these foreign individuals and j
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 he educated in
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
countriesf
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 right
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.” J
A Glimpse of the Cowed Women of Japan Life as Seen in the Movies
Selected by EDWIN MARKHAM
By JAMES J. MONTAGUE.
m a :
ARIAN COX has recently
•rltten her reminiscences
of Japan, and Mitchell
Kennerley has published them
undor 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 Jeoanese
woman Is to think of ever;- 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 as the
American is faddish; as reticent
as 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 ftliai. 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,
kissless, 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 Japan or of human na
ture; the Institution of the Yoshi-
wara.
“Classified with our 'white
slave traffic’ and the sordid evils
that nightly stalk Broadway, 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 most 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
The Secret of Prayer
By ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.
For hr irfco climbs to make his prayer
Meets half way the descending grace.
—Elsa Barker in British Review.
T HIS Is 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, he 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 seel; for strength and power,
Seek first some quiet spot.
And fashion, through a silent hour,
Vour stairway, thought by thought.
Then climb, and pray to God on high.
He shall reply, He shall reply.
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 Toshiwara 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. As
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 unchastlty
does not dishonor a woman in
Japan. Even these slaves of the
Toshiwara, involuntary victims,
are treated as below 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
when 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
tion to every difficulty,’'
F IRST we see Harold folding
Susie In his arms. In the
background is the train
that is to take Harold to the
West, where he will make his
fortune, after which he will re
turn and make 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 another. 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
6he 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 same nail. A rough,
unshaved person enters and
hands him a letter. He opens it.
His 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 indigo
nantly shakes his fist aJter him.
Same room, full of same furni
ture, but further 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 his 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 his fake telegram has been
exposed, sneers for the last time
and goes out a window^ Harold
folds Susie to his stalwart breast.
The minister steps forward and
the play is done. i