Born in South Africa, our eyes first opened on these African hills and plains; around us, of other parentage but born with us in the land, our birth-fellows, were men of another white race; and we grew up side by side with them. Is it strange that, like all men living, who have the hearts of men, we learnt to love this land in which we first saw light? In after years, when we left it, and lived months or years across the seas, is it strange we carried it with us in our hearts? When we stood on the Alps and looked down on the lakes and forests of Switzerland, that we have said, “This is fair, but South Africa to us is fairer?” That when on the top of Milan Cathedral and we have looked out across the wide plains of Lombardy, we have said, “This is noble; but nobler to us are the broad plains of Africa, with their brown kopjes shimmering in the translucent sunshine?” Is it strange that when, after long years of absence, years it may be of success and the joy which springs from human fellowship and youth, our ship has cast its anchor in sight of Table Bay, and the great front of Table Mountain has reared up before us, a cry of passionate joy has welled up within us; and when we saw the black men with their shining skins unloading in the docks, and the rugged faces of South Africans, browned with our African sun, we put our foot on the dear old earth again, and our hearts have cried: “We are South Africans! We have come back again to our land and to our people?” Is it strange that when we are in other lands and we fear that death approaches us, we say: “Take me back! We may live away from her, but when we are dead we must lie on her breast. Bury us among the kopjes where we played when we were children, and let the iron stones and red sand cover us?” Is it strange that wherever we live we all want to go home to die; and that the time comes when we know that dearer far to us than fame or success is one little handful of our own red South African earth? Is it strange that, when the TIME OF STRESS AND DANGER comes to our land, we realize what, perhaps, we were but dimly conscious of before, that we are Africans, that for this land and people we could live--if need be, we could die? Is it strange we should feel this? The Scotchman feels it for his heathery hills, the Swiss for his valleys. All men who are men feel it for the land of their birth!