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The Washington Even

The Washington Evening Star April 5th, 1884.

Four years ago, a stage running between a mining town in California and a railroad station was stopped by an individual concealed in the bushes bordering the road.

Plainly to be seen amidst the foliage was the muzzle of a double-barreled shotgun, only this and nothing more.

Yet upon the simple request of the unknown, spoken in a mild voice, the driver threw the mail-bags into the road, and half a dozen stalwart mail passengers stood in a line with their hands above their heads,

while the driver again accommodated the softly spoken stranger by turning inside out the pockets of the

unfortunate passengers, depositing their contents upon the mailbags. The stage was then allowed to proceed, and it made excellent

time to the nearest station, where reinforcements were secured, and the party returned to the

scene of the outrage, with the laudable intention of decorating the highest branch of the highest tree

in the vicinity with the person of the highwayman.

The country was scoured for two days, but the only trace left by the gentleman whose company

was in such urgent request were the following lines, evidently written in a disguised hand,

with the exception of the signature.

The Poetry of the Road. Now I lay me down to sleep, not caring for the morrow. Perhaps good

luck, perhaps defeat, and jailfare to my sorrow. Then come what will I'll try my luck.

I'm sure it can't be worse.

For if there's money in that pouch, it's money in my purse.

Signed, Black Bart, the Poet.

This unique production was found scrawled upon a torn newspaper wrapper, lying upon one of the rifled mailbags.

That was the first time the name of Black Bart was heard, but it was not the last.

For one stage line after another in rapid succession paid heavy tribute to him.

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