It was not difficult to cross over the Brooklyn Bridge about nine in the evening. Rush hour had ended quite a while before, and going into Manhattan was peaceful and simple.

Tonight he was crossing over on his way to LaGuardia, and the plane for Paris, one last ride across the great old structure, and a whirl up the East River. They came down off of the approaches to the river, down the small side streets running alongside the base of the bridge and swung out onto the East River Drive.

Only a few months ago there had been dirty, tottering structures where tonight there were only flat, vacant lots. The city was tearing down its old rat-ridden, cold water, crime breeders, and preparing to put up more of the prison-like housing projects. Already, in his short stay in New York, the new buildings had sprung up along the river for many blocks, and he had noted the builder's startling progress every morning as he had driven in to work from Brooklyn Heights. Sometimes it seemed as though all of Manhattan must soon be living in the new beehives, and yet he knew that even all of these squat, and some tall, structures would only house a fraction of those still waiting to have some abode to call their own. America was building, not enough and with ugliness, but she was building, here in New York. He turned from looking toward the empty lots and new buildings and faced back to the mighty old bridge which he was leaving behind.