"Uncle John Ware, whom all old timers know, 
is in town.  He is living in the Bradshaw 
and comes to the city so infrequently that 
his visits are noted.  They would be noted 
anyhow by reason of his tall and commanding 
figure and his hearty laugh which agitates 
the  atmosphere and shakes the windows within 
a dozen blocks.

Many years ago when the town was young he 
was a prosperous blacksmith and owned all 
that part of it lying on both sides of South 
Center Street.

From out the varied and exciting incidents 
of his long life one stands preeminent and 
was contributory to his white hair which 
surmounts his tall form like a light of 
Pharis. 

One morning he awoke from a night's sound 
sleep in an adobe building now occupied by 
the Phoenix Oil Company.  The first object 
upon which his eyes rested was a stark corpse 
on the floor beside him. He turned from it 
in fear only to see another dead body on the 
other side.  He was now awake and filled with 
a curiosity concerning the cause of such unusual 
mortality. He ran into the street half dressed 
and learned that his guests were victims of 
brawls in different saloons and had died 
coicidentally.  Those were days before ice 
and embalmers and a proper respect for the dead."

Source:  The ARIZONA REPUBLICAN, August 28, 1894