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 Rh the neighboring towns. A barrel of vinegar that had been made as the year's supply by the family was exhausted in a week. It required all the time of one person to attend to this part of the business. Wagons, buggies, and horses stood waiting at the gate for the doctor or nurses or provisions, or for all three. Supplies were exhausted so rapidly that sometimes no meat was to be had for the immense household except the squirrels killed by my cousin Thomas. And sometimes there was no food in the house of any kind. As long as it held out it was distributed. But the larder was never empty more than a few hours. The "shot-gun" quarantines at times made it a matter of peril to bring us this relief. One gentleman, a prosperous citizen of Jackson, himself drove a wagon filled with provisions to our door, because he could not hire a driver to do it. He travelled all night, and arrived just in time to avert serious want. Another man was shot at by his own nephew because he persisted in passing the picket line which divided the infected district from the rest of the country. Over one thousand dollars were sent by the Howard associations in different cities and by friends to the family at Burleigh. Three of them had the fever, but all recovered.

It was found necessary during these days of horror to keep up our spirits, by avoiding as far as possible all reference to the pestilence and its ravages. At the table, especially, such allusions were forbidden. The list of deaths occurring the night before was not to be spoken of at breakfast. Afterwards the names of friends who had just died passed quietly and without comment from mouth to mouth. There was no giving way to emotions. A man who had lost his wife and two children, a woman whose husband, mother, brother, and child had died, a young girl who saw eight members of her family borne from the house, these, like the rest, gave no sign.

It seemed so easy to die. Why should we weep? We will soon follow them. Besides, there is no time for tears. The suffering and the dying are calling us. And the dead lie unburied, wrapped in blankets just as