From 1870 to 1882 it was my custom to go to Gilroy Mineral Springs for
my vacation. Many and varied were the programmes we gave there each
year, and not an evening of our stay lagged for entertainment. In 1879
I happened to be there at the time of my birthday. There were 150
guests and all entered with zest into a plan to honor me. I was not
aware that any one knew of my forty-third birthday, so unconsciously I
was doing my utmost to serve the many prominent guests and my friends,
George Roop and wife, who were the proprietors of the Springs. Among
the guests were: Mr. John F. Merrill and wife, the Misses Dolly and
Susie Sroufe, Phil McGovern and party, prominent merchants and
families from the neighboring towns of Santa Cruz, San Jose, Gilroy
and Monterey, Mr. and Mrs. George A. Smiley and others from San
Francisco, Isadore Lazinski of business college fame, the Remillards
and Folkers and Cottles and others.
After an early dinner the dining hall was cleared for our
entertainment. The room was decorated with ferns and wild flowers, and
flags and ribbons streamed in graceful folds. The programme consisted
of songs, music of piano, guitar, violin, classic and negro melodies,
etc. It was after I had given "Sarah Walker's Opinion" that Miss Grace
Roop stepped forward and placed a laurel wreath with streaming ribbons
floating gracefully from it upon my head, wishing me a happy birthday.
To my utter surprise, scarcely had she stepped aside when Mrs. Geo.
Smiley of San Francisco came forward and began reading a letter of
thanks and congratulations from the guests who had enjoyed the many
evenings of entertainment to which I had contributed. She then placed
an envelope in my hand containing three $20 bills and one of $5, as a
token of regard and appreciation from the guests. After a short speech
of thanks and the closing song and chorus of Home, Sweet Home, the
eventful day came to its close.
This was one of the many seasons that, away from the cares of life, I
gave others who were afflicted with many ills a little brightness of
song life. My coming was always heralded a week before, and expectant
faces awaited me, knowing I would give entertainment. There was one
poor sufferer who never expected to see his home again. On my arrival
he was not able to leave his room. Being informed that the singing
lady had arrived, he sadly sighed on his pillow, "Then I'll not hear
her, as I had hoped." After the second evening Mrs. Roop related the
story of the young man who was dying slowly and was so disappointed
that he could not hear me sing before he passed away. I was touched by
this appeal. I soon found four good voices among the guests and we
arranged the quartette and practiced together until we could sing with
soft effect. After we had entertained the guests for an hour we all
marched quietly to the cottage of the young man. The moon was at its
height and the time and scene befitting our tribute to the dying soul.
The nurse opened the door quietly. The invalid had fallen asleep in
the back room, the moon shining in at his window in soft light upon
his pale face. With voices subdued we began the song of Home, Sweet
Home. He talked in his sleep, "Yes, I am coming home." He heard, yet
was not enough awake to know the song was sung by earthly voices. At
last, with a deep sigh, he awoke and said, "Nurse, I have been called
home. Shall I hear her sing before I go?" "Yes, I think so." While he
spoke the sign was given and I sang Nearer, My God, to Thee, with the
other voices softly following each verse. "Oh, the angel has come at
last." "Listen, she is singing to you," said the nurse. "Hark, is it
not the angel voices? Is it real? Then I have heard the heavenly song
before I go. Oh, how beautiful it all is and how kind of all these
friends to come to me and make me so happy with their song in my last
hours on earth. Listen," he whispered. "Still another song for me," he
gasped out. Safe in the Arms of Jesus we sang and he was listening
intently as his life was ebbing away. As we closed the hymn, Sweetly
His Soul Shall Rest, he had crossed the River of Life and nothing
remained but the casket, emaciated and cold in death, with the face of
a saint and a smile on his silent lips--gone to his eternal rest to
hear the music of angelic voices around the Throne of God. This is the
cup of cold water our Savior bade us to give. If the gift of the human
voice is sanctified in such work of love, then it is worth while for
every one who can sing and has this glorious gift of song to strive
for the most beautiful use of it known to the art of tone production
so as to bring happiness to the singer and his enwrapt listeners, be
they young or old, rich or poor, sick or dying, in the sanctuary or
for the bridal rejoicings. Vitiate not this gift with the lower
thought of the art of singing. Strive for the highest ideals and your
happiness will be tenfold greater.