On the banks of the river, rowing clubs, yacht clubs, bathing pavilions—they bump into each other they are so thick; on the water itself their members and their contents bump into each other on holidays—launches, barges, racing-shells and all sorts of small pleasure craft. Near the Manhattan end of McComb's Dam Bridge are the famous fields of famous football victories, baseball championships, track games, open-air horse shows; across the bridge go the bicyclers, hordes of them, brazen braided bicyclists who use chewing gum and lean far over, and all the other varieties. Up the river are college and school ovals and athletic fields; on the ridges upon either side are walks and paths for lovers. For the lonely pedestrian and antiquarians, two old revolutionary forts and some good colonial architecture. Whirly go-rounds and big wheels for children, groves and beer-gardens for picnickers; while down on one bank of the stream upon the broad speedway go the full-blooded trotters with their red-faced masters behind in light-colored driving coats, eyes goggled, arms extended. On the opposite banks are the two railroads taking people to Ardsley Casino, St. Andrew's Golf Club, and the other country clubs and the pretty links at Van Cortlandt Park, and taking picnickers and family parties to Mosholu Park, and regiments and squadrons to drill and play battle in the inspection grounds nearby, and botanists and naturalists and sportsmen for their fun farther up in the good green country. No wonder there is a different feeling in the air up along this best known end of the city's water-front. The small, unimportant looking winding river, long distance views, wooded hills, green terraces, and even the great solid masonry of High Bridge, and the asphalt and stone resting-places on Washington Bridge somehow help to make you feel the spirit of freedom and outdoors and relaxation. This is the tired city's playground. Here is where the town ends, and the country begins. [Illustration] [Illustration: Visions will come at times. _Drawn by Orson Lowell._] THE HERB O' GRACE By Arthur Colton All men who fain would pass their days Amid old books and quiet ways, Quaint thoughts and autumn's mellow haze, The uses of tranquillity— The peace you love be with your souls! Come, fill we up our brown pipe-bowls, And discourse to the bickering coals Of kindness and civility. Sirs, you remember Omar's choice— Wine, verses, and his lady's voice Making the wilderness rejoice? It lacks one more ingredient. A boon the Persian knew not of Had made to mellower music move The lips, to wine, perhaps to love, A trifle too obedient.