DOWN along the Battery sea wall is the place to watch the ships go by Coastwise schooners, lumber laden, which can get far up the river under their own sail big, full rigged clipper ships that have to be towed from the lower bay, their topmasts down in order to scrape under the Brooklyn Bridge barques, brigs, brigantines all sorts of sailing craft, with cargoes from all seas, and flying the flags of all nations White painted river steamers that seem all the flimsy and riverish if they happen to churn out past the dark, compactly built ocean liners, who come so deliberately and arrogantly up past the Statue of Liberty, to dock after the long, hard job of crossing, the home comers on the decks already waving handkerchiefs Plucky little tugs that whistle on the slightest provocation , pushing queer, bulky floats, which bear with ease whole trains of freight cars, dirty cars looking frightened and out of place, which the choppy seas try to reach up and wash And still queerer old sloop scows, with soiled, awkward canvas and no shape to speak of, bound for no one seems to know where and carrying you seldom see what And always, everywhere, all day and night, whistling and pushing in and out between everybody, the ubiquitous, faithful, narrow minded old ferry boats, with their wonderful helmsmen in the pilot house, turning the wheel and looking unexcitable