The money, still unspent, lay in Morris's wallet the day Mr. Lincoln came home to Springfield. The humble rail splitter had returned to his home town in kingly triumph. As his funeral train crossed the continent, every great city, every tiny village, crape-hung and grief-stricken, had sent its citizens to do him homage. Even the farmers from the scattered farms along the way lit funeral pyres as the dark procession thundered past through the night. Now the citizens of Chicago stood bowed in grief as the body of the martyred president was borne through the silent streets. Strong men wept openly and unashamed; but Morris, standing at his father's side on the curbing, did not cry. Somehow, it all seemed too terrible for tears. And, because he was just a small boy, after all not the least of his grief was the thought that now it was too late to send Mr. Lincoln his present. THE LAND COLUMBUS FOUND _The Story of the Tablet Placed Upon the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor._ This isn't a story at all, just a sort of "good-bye" word to the boys and girls who have read these tales of Jewish men and women who tried to do their part in the making of America. Do you remember away back to the first one, the story of the Jews who from Columbus's flag ship dreamed of the promised land, but never knew that the continent their admiral discovered would some day be a place of refuge for their race? Now, every year, thousands of men and women and children, a great many of our own people among them, seek a refuge here. If you go to Ellis Island, you may see them entering this New World where they hope to find home and happiness. I have seen them with their baskets and their bundles of household goods, their little children in their arms, (do you remember how Reuben wandered through the storm carrying his little son?), crossing the gang plank of the steamer which brings them to the island, raising their tired eyes in mute gratitude to the American flag which floats above them as they pass. And from where I stood I could also see the great Statue of Liberty Enlightening the World, the woman with the light in her hand to guide the weary wanderers across the sea. If you visit this statue, boys and girls, you will see at the base a bronze tablet with a short poem engraved upon it. The poem was written by a Jewish woman, Emma Lazarus, our first and greatest Jewish American poet. As a girl she had cared little for the history and traditions of her people; her verses were about the gods of Greece and Rome and the legends of the Middle Ages. Then, when the dreadful persecution of our people in Russia in 1881 drove many of them to our shores, she was called upon to assist in caring for some of the homeless wanderers and, like a loving mother, she gathered them to her heart.