"Listen to the youngster," my father chuckled. "You'd think he'd ben
there."

I nodded my head, for in that moment I knew I had been there, though all
seemed strangely different. My father laughed the harder, but the
missionary thought I was making game of him. He handed me another
photograph. It was just a bleak waste of a landscape, barren of trees
and vegetation, a shallow canyon with easy-sloping walls of rubble. In
the middle distance was a cluster of wretched, flat-roofed hovels.

"Now, my boy, where is that?" the missionary quizzed.

And the name came to me!

"Samaria," I said instantly.

My father clapped his hands with glee, my mother was perplexed at my
antic conduct, while the missionary evinced irritation.

"The boy is right," he said. "It is a village in Samaria. I passed
through it. That is why I bought it. And it goes to show that the boy
has seen similar photographs before."

This my father and mother denied.

"But it's different in the picture," I volunteered, while all the time my
memory was busy reconstructing the photograph. The general trend of the
landscape and the line of the distant hills were the same. The
differences I noted aloud and pointed out with my finger.