Atlanta was at that time a town of only about 40,000 inhabitants, but the “Constitution,” in the days of Howell and Grady, had a circulation four times greater than the total population of the city—­a situation almost unheard of in journalism.  Something of the breadth of its influence may be gathered from the fact that in several counties in Texas, where the law provided that whatever newspaper had the largest circulation in the county should be the county organ, the county organ was the Atlanta “Constitution.”

An Atlanta lady tells of having called upon Grady to complain about an article which she did not think the “Constitution” should have printed.

“Why did you put that objectionable article in your paper?” she asked him.

“Did you read it?” he inquired.

“Yes, I did.”

“Then,” said Grady, “that’s why I put it there.”

Grady and Howell always ran a lively sporting department.  Away back in the days of bare-knuckle prize fights—­such as those between Sullivan and Ryan, and Sullivan and Kilrain—­a “Constitution” reporter was always at the ringside, no matter where the fight might take place.  For a newspaper in a town of forty or fifty thousand inhabitants, a large percentage of them colored illiterates, this was real enterprise.

A favorite claim of Grady’s was that his reporters were the greatest “leg artists” in the world.  He used to organize walking matches for reporters, offering large prizes and charging admission.  This developed, in the middle eighties, a general craze for such matches, and resulted in the holding of many inter-city contests, in which teams, four men to a side, took part.  One of the “Constitution’s” champion “leg artists” was Sam W. Small, now an evangelist and member of the “flying squadron” of the Anti-Saloon League of America.

The most widely celebrated individual ever connected with the “Constitution” was Joel Chandler Harris, many of whose “Uncle Remus” stories—­those negro folk tales still supreme in their field—­appeared originally in that paper.  In view of Mr. Harris’s achievement it is pleasant to recall that there was paid to him during his life one of the finest tributes that an author can receive.  As with “Mr. Dooley” of our day, he came, himself, to be affectionately referred to by the name of the chief character in his works.  “Uncle Remus” he was, and “Uncle Remus” he will always be.  Mr. Harris’s eldest son, Julian, widely known as a journalist, is said to have been the little boy to whom “Uncle Remus” told his tales.

Though there is, as yet, no public monument in Atlanta to Joel Chandler Harris, the “Wren’s Nest,” his former home, at 214 Gordon Street, is fittingly preserved as a memorial.  Visitors may see the old letter box fastened to a tree by the gate—­that box in which a wren built her nest, giving the house its name.  It is a simple old house with the air of a home about it, and the intimate possessions of the author lie about as he left them.  His bed is made up, his umbrella hangs upon the mantelshelf, his old felt hat rests upon the rack, the photograph of his friend James Whitcomb Riley looks down from the bedroom wall, and on the table, by the window, stands his typewriter—­the confidant first to know his new productions.