Circa 1870, Windsor, England.
Date unknown. As of 1916, she was living in a small village in the foothills of the White Mountains, on the border between Maine and New Hampshire.
Pinfold’s six year old niece once said of her,
Aunt Annie, isn’t a lady, ’cause ladies don’t work, and Aunt Annie is always working. That statement helps explain why a sprain brought on serious spinal trouble.
The doctors have told me that I ought to be dead, but I could not see it that way. I tell my friends that the grace of God, grit and gumption kept me alive through those two dark years in bed with a paralyzed right arm.
Her first attempts at literary work were short stories for various Sunday school publications. At the request of various composers, she undertook the writing of hymns for Easter, Children’s Day, Christmas, and other special occasions. Her success was so phenomenal that she devoted her talent largely to those lines of endeavor. Though hindered both physically and financially, she said,
I am a very fortunate woman—happy in the little world that is mine. I am thankful for the small talent entrusted to me, and while it is and has been of financial value to me, I try to use it as a means to help others. With pencil handy (as my memory is poor) I can combine potato peeling and verse making, and so glorify a somewhat common task.
Pinfold’s works include: