A missionary to China, returned to the United States and sent out by the Board of Missions to raise funds from the farmers, spent the night in our house.

It was in the kitchen just after supper, as my mother was helping me undress for bed, and the missionary was showing photographs of the Holy Land.
And what I am about to tell you I should long since have forgotten had I not heard my father recite it to wondering listeners so many times during my childhood.
I cried out at sight of one of the photographs and looked at it, first with eagerness, and then with disappointment.

It had seemed of a sudden most familiar, in much the same way that my father's barn would have been in a photograph.

Then it had seemed altogether strange.

But as I continued to look the haunting sense of familiarity came back.
"The Tower of David," the missionary said to my mother.
"No!" I cried with great positiveness.
"You mean that isn't its name ?" the missionary asked.
I nodded.
"Then what is its name, my boy ?" "It's name is.