Boldly across the Harlem River at One Hundred and Seventy-fourth Street stands High Bridge. It differs remarkably from other New York bridges in that it is built entirely of masonry. No steel construction, no suspension cable, no huge rolling lift or counter-poise relate it to the present dynasty of bridges. One hundred and thirty-five feet of solid stone it rises gray and enduring amid the surrounding green. Surely it belongs to the Old World and to another time, and looking through its arches one half expects to see the towers and battlements of some old chateau, clear cut against the sky. One may even fancy, — but here a blunt-nosed tug rams puffing up against the tide, smoke belching from its stumpy funnel, the water churned to froth; and one has lost the wonders of the past in wonders of to-day.