twenty years ago since you got your naturalization papers, and you may
be thoroughly Americanized, but you can't forget the land of your
birth, and your warmest sympathies go out toward it. Your windows are
open toward Jerusalem. Your father and mother are buried there. It may
have been a very humble home in which you were born, but your memory
often plays around it, and you hope some day to go and see it--the
hill, the tree, the brook, the house, the place so sacred, the door
from which you started off with parental blessing to make your own way
in the world; and God only knows how sometimes you have longed to see
the familiar places of your childhood, and how in awful crises of life
you would like to have caught a glimpse of the old, wrinkled face that
bent over you as you lay on the gentle lap twenty or forty or fifty
years ago. You may have on this side of the sea risen in fortune, and,
like Daniel, have become great, and may have come into prosperities
which you never could have reached if you had stayed there, and you
may have many windows to your house--bay-windows, and
sky-light-windows, and windows of conservatory, and windows on all
sides--but you have at least one window open toward Jerusalem.

When the foreign steamer comes to the wharf, you see the long line of
sailors, with shouldered mail-bags, coming down the planks, carrying
as many letters as you might suppose would be enough for a year's
correspondence, and this repeated again and again during the week.
Multitudes of them are letters from home, and at all the post-offices
of the land people will go to the window and anxiously ask for them,
hundreds of thousands of persons finding that window of foreign mails
the open window toward Jerusalem. Messages that say: "When are you
coming home to see us? Brother has gone into the army. Sister is dead.
Father and mother are getting very feeble. We are having a great
struggle to get on here. Would you advise us to come to you, or will