h he,
as a man of letters, had always thought of as a trimly gardened plot
surrounded by quiet little old-fashioned houses with brass knockers, and
famous authors tripping in and out. As we stood examining the facade of
Harper and Brothers, our friend grew nervous. He was carrying under his
arm the dummy of an "export catalogue" for a big brass foundry, that
being his line of work. "They'll think we're free verse poets trying to
get up courage enough to go in and submit a manuscript," he said, and
dragged us away.

A windy day, we had said in the grimy recesses of Cliff and Dover
streets. (Approaching this sentiment for the third time, perhaps we may
be permitted to accomplish our thought and say what we had in mind.) But
up on the airy decking of the Brooklyn Bridge, where we repaired with
G---- W---- for a brief stroll, the afternoon seemed mild and tranquil.
It is a mistake to assume that the open spaces are the windier. The
subway is New York's home of AEolus, and most of the gusts that buffet us
on the streets are merely hastening round a corner in search of the
nearest subway entrance so that they can get down there where they feel
they belong. Up on the bridge it was plain to perceive that the March
sunshine had elements of strength. The air was crisp but genial. A few
pedestrians were walking resolutely toward the transpontine borough; the
cop on duty stood outside his little cabin with the air of one ungrieved
by care. Behind us stood the high profiles of the lower city, sharpened
against the splendidly clear blue sky which is New York's special
blessing. On the water moved a large tug, towing barges. Smoke trailed
behind it in the same easy and comfortable way that tobacco reek gushes
over a man's shoulder when he walks across a room puffing his pipe.

The bridge is a curiously delightful place to watch the city from.
Walking toward the central towers seems like entering a vast spider's
web. The footway between the criss-cross cables draws one inward with a
queer fascination, the perspective diminishing the network to the eye so
that it seems to tighten round you as you advance. Even when there is
but little traffic the bridge is never still. It is alive, trembling,
vibrant, the foot moves with a springy recoil. One feels the lift and
strain of gigantic forces, and looks in amazement on the huge sagging
hawsers that carry the load. The bars and rods quiver, the whole lively
fabric is full of a tremor, but one