I wonder whether many of the people of Nashville remember a newspaper printed in that city in 1876? To the few it was known as the _Evening Mail_. To the many it was not known at all. We had not advocated municipal ownership, we who conducted the enterprise, but the sheriff somehow took it into his head that we did; and as he could not turn the property over to the city, he kept it for the county. I don’t know what was finally done with it. I suppose it became but an echo of dust. The paper was “established” by a number of printers and newspaper men who had nothing else to do. As we were to share alike in the profits we went alike to the free lunch counter. It was a pure democracy and the man who owned fifteen shares of stock received no more than the man who owned one. The paper was edited with longing and printed with hope. We were all of us optimists. If a cloud arose in our sky we looked upon it as a balloon ascension. I remember but one day of reproof and censure. The foreman came into the “sanctum” and said to the editor-in-chief: “There is trouble in the composing room, sir.” The editor, an old gentleman who loved to write and who vaguely believed that eventually one of his editorials might be read from beginning to end, looked up and sighed. “Trouble?” “Ah, and serious trouble, sir.” “What is it?” “Why, Ewing says that he’s got to eat.” “Eat!” echoed the editor. “What can he mean by such impudence? Did you reason with him?” “I did, sir; I told him he ought to be ashamed of himself.” “And was he?” “No, sir; he forthwith gave me an example of insubordination. He accused me of hiding a sandwich in my desk.” The editor thought a long time. He had written on the situation in Europe and had given advice to England, France and Germany—he had told the Powers what to do with Turkey, but this sandwich required deeper meditation. “How many shares of stock does Ewing hold?” he inquired. “Ten, I believe, sir.” “Well, it seems to me that a man holding so many shares ought to be possessed of more dignity. Let him transfer his stock to some one who stands not high in his regard, and resign. You may go. But, wait a moment, foreman. If you should happen to have a sandwich hidden in your desk, don’t forget me. We have always been good friends, you know.”