The proudest memory of his life, Mr. Harding once admitted, was when he became the leader of that band. One of the great events of those days was the band contest at Findlay, Ohio, to which competitors came from great distances. Upon the occasion that the Marion Band was to compete, its enthusiastic young leader had managed by dint of great strain upon his resources to procure brand-new uniforms, so that his musical flock would make a fine appearance. He was banking on winning prize money for reimbursement. The rival bands all got ahead of the Marion contingent in getting before the judges, and their efforts were so well appreciated by their followings that the Marion bandsmen lost heart and quietly departed, not wanting to suffer the mortification of public defeat. Finally, when their turn came, only the leader, who blew an alto horn, the bass drummer, and the clarinet player were left to perform. But they did their best with their depleted ability, and their delight and surprise may be imagined when the judges called Harding forward and announced that he had won a prize of $200. This was more than enough to pay for the new uniforms, and no prouder group participated in the review of winners than that little trio.
Neither selling insurance nor the intricacies of law held the appeal of journalism, and young Harding decided to follow the press, securing a job on the Mirror, a Democratic paper. Being an ardent Republican and already a firm party man, he fell out with his employer over the stand the editor took in the James G. Blaine campaign for the Presidency. Being a Blaine supporter, the young man found himself without a job.
Just about this time, the run-down little sheet, the Marion Star, was scheduled to be sold by the sheriff. Dr. Harding bought it in at a bargain and turned it over to his boy, because of his faith in him and because he wanted to help him get a start in the line of work he seemed most anxious to follow. From the moment he took possession of the paper that owned only two hundred pounds of type, he put into it hard work, faith, and enthusiasm. Often he could not pay his helpers in the early days, and sometimes when he did pay them off on Saturday night he would have to borrow back a little to tide himself over the opening of the week. Sometimes he had to coax advances on bills from his advertisers to keep going. He filled every position, from printer’s devil to managing editor, but he was never known to lose his pleasure in being just one of the boys. Later, when the paper began to succeed financially, he saw to it that his employees got more pay, and still later he formed a stock company in which they all held shares.
His paper never had a strike; a strike was never even threatened.
No more illuminating view of his character was ever shown than is contained in a tribute he wrote to his dog long before any high honours came to him. The obituary published in the Marion Star about twenty years before he came to the Presidency is worthy of attention. It reads:
“Jumbo, the Star office dog, died Sunday, not from old age, but from somebody’s cruel poisoning or from extreme heat.
“Jumbo was probably known to more people in Marion than any dog in the city. He had been making acquaintances at the Star office for eight years. He had romped with hundreds of newsboys and found canine joy in their familiar greetings.
“Yet there was a serious side to this playful good-natured dog. He had a watchful eye for the suspicious-looking, and would guard a trust with a faithfulness that men might well imitate.
“He was overzealous, perhaps, in exercising the responsibility he felt in keeping watch at the home which sheltered him, but he never harmed anyone without cause. He was only a dumb brute, but had proved his intelligence, made himself understood with his great tender eyes, and possessed a rare combination of dignity and docility.
“The Star workers, from pressroom to business office, felt Jumbo to be part of the force, and it would be false to the feelings of all to allow his passing without notice and tribute.