Sue Sanders wrote about the Drought of 1893: “Spring passed without bringing rain. Ma kept us plowing deeper and deeper, trying to draw up moisture from the earth. Plow deep enough, the farmers said, and things will grow till the rains come. I guess it was a good idea, only the didn’t come. We had a couple of showers, but they couldn’t rightly be called rain; it’s sorter stretching things a little to call ’em showers. As summer came on, we saw that there wasn’t any show at all for a good crop; the main thing was to raise enough for feed and seed. We managed to raise some mighty runty cotton and enough nubbins for feed, but nothing more. Many of our neighbors didn’t do that well, and began putting up wild grass and cornstalks for fodder. . . Winter came along and was sorter dreary. We had lots of hard windstorms and cold weather, but no snow or rain. By watching the feed mighty close we got through all right, and Ma figured we were due for a good crop. “First a bad crop and then a good one,” she said. So Fannie and I started our spring plowing early, as we wanted our ground ready for a good soaking. Plowing that hard ground was real labor. I was stronger than Fannie, and it was all I could stand. But she kept at it, swinging those heavy plows . . . and everything we thought might help to get the crops in and make the seeds sprout. I think this heavy work was the main reason Fannie got to be almost an invalid in later life. But all our work was useless. It didn’t rain. The we began to hear rumors of drought all over the South. During that spring and summer water was mighty scarce in Erath County. We had to haul our water for cooking and drinking from a well four or five miles away, and we never knew how long that supply would last. Horses and cattle, coming in from the hills trying to find water, milled around the fence that protected our little [hand dug] water tank, bawling continually. More and more came, and the bawling kept up for days. We got our horses and drove them miles away, but back they came to the water tank, bringing more of the skinny pitiful specimens with them. When either men or beasts get to ganging up, you can look out for trouble. One noon while we were watering our plow horses, the cattle went mad with thirst, broke through the wire fence, and got to the water. In a minute our much-needed water was nothing but mud, in which several of the skinniest cattle were stuck.” Sue Sanders. Our Common Herd, 1939