The third string of my musical lute was snapped asunder when the death
knell sounded for a most beloved and talented pupil, Miss Lorina Allen
Kimball. A young miss of sixteen summers, she had come to my studio,
212 Eleventh street, with her mother one afternoon in 1903. I found a
voice and a personality that could not be overlooked in one so young.
Her notes were pure and limpid, untouched by improper use or bad
training. I gladly enrolled her among my singers and she began at once
with her vocal instruction. She sang with marked progress for four
months when there was a break in the regularity of her lessons. She
had entered the Oakland High school and with her studies she was
unable to attend to the voice as she should. Lorina was born in
Manchester, New Hampshire, March 12, 1886, and her death occurred in
Oakland, August 5, 1906, at the age of twenty years. In 1905 her
mother was called away to Manchester on business and Lorina came to
live with me during her mother's absence. It was then that I learned
to know and understand her character and personality. I had moved to
116 Eleventh street, to the old Abbott home. There was a large room
built on for an art studio and another room led off from it which
Lorina called her room. I made this large room my studio and occupied
my couch on one side of it and it was here we worked each evening. She
was a most excellent student and no time was wasted when her lessons
were to be attended to. A bright pupil with clear reasoning ability,
she was first at one lesson, then the other. I used to watch her
evenings as she sat at the opposite side of the table with her books,
in deep study. I often thought of her possibilities and speculated on
all she could do. But our Master gives us from time to time just such
rare flowers of promise for a short season, then quietly transplants
them into His safe keeping from the bitter blasts of life's stormy
weather. He knows they are not made to stand the rough usages of life.
After finishing her term at the high school she entered the summer
school at Berkeley. While there she contracted a cold which became
alarming but she was unconscious that it was touching her vitals and
kept busy with her books. After the school closed her mother returned
and finding she did not improve, removed her to her home and concluded
she had better be attended to at once. She had been gone for over a
month and I supposed she was all right and was hoping to see her each
week return and resume her work. After eight weeks had passed I began
to be alarmed and made inquiries about her and I was informed that she
had been seriously ill for days and by her request the news was kept
from me. She failed rapidly after she went home.
On the morning of August 5, 1906, while I was at my breakfast table,
the telephone bell rang and a voice, strange to me, said "Mrs.
Alverson, Lorina Kimball is dead." Without any warning or thought of
receiving such a shock, of course, the day was done for me. I mourned
for her as for my own. A bright, sunny child, singing and laughing in
her childish glee, she made many friends, among them, members of the
Amoskeg Veterans who made her the Daughter of the Regiment in
Washington, D.C., and presented her with a beautiful silk flag and an
elegant crescent pin of jewels for her fine recitations and character
readings.
A clearer mind I never taught and I prayed and hoped that nothing
would intervene to stop her progress that had been so brilliantly
begun. But my hopes did not avail. Before the bud had unfolded into
maturity it was transplanted into the Garden of Eden above. Only those
who have lost loved ones are able to feel how my heart's deepest
sorrow went out with this young life. It was a pity that her notes
could not have been recorded as they floated out into the still hour
of the night. After her studies were over she would beg of me to join
her in the song duets which we had perfected. When I reasoned with her
not to sing, when so tired, like a spoiled child she pleaded. "My dear
Lady Margaret, I am tired only with my studies, sing with me, I want
to rest before I sleep." Who could resist the tender pleadings of the
tired song bird. I called her my nightingale for her singing was done
at night. One of her songs was the Nightingale's Trill or Queen of the
Night. The memory of her singing ever lingers with me like the sweet
perfume wafted from the distant isle, its subtle influence sinking
upon the senses, calming the tired child as upon the mother's breast
it rests in perfect peace and confidence. Its message accomplished, it
floated away into space to travel on, and, forever until it reached
the Giver of every perfect gift and rested in the Heavenly Courts
above from everlasting to everlasting.
Rest, weary pilgrim, from toil reposing,
Night's darkening shadow round thee is closing,
Drear is the pathway frowning before thee,
No stars on high to guide and watch o'er me;
Rest, weary pilgrim; rest, weary pilgrim.
Rest, weary pilgrim, 'till morning breaking,
And birds around thee bright songs awakening;
Hark, through the forest chill winds are blowing,
Here there is friendship and kind welcome glowing,
Rest, weary pilgrim; rest, weary pilgrim.
--Donizetti.