These old wooden ruins were,
I fancy, the remains of some rude pier, and amid them, when the tide was
low, we used to play, and to pay fancy visits to our fancy friend.
We called her Shriny--why, I know no more than when I first read
Croker's delightful story of "The Soul Cages" I knew why the Merrow whom
Jack went to see below the waves was called Coomara.
My remembrance of even what we fancied about Shriny is very dim now; and
as my brother was only four years old (I was eight), his is not more
distinct. I know we thought of her, and talked of her, and were always
eager to visit her supposed abode, and wander together amongst its
rotten pillars (which, as we were so small, seemed lofty enough in our
eyes), where the mussels and limpets held tightly on, and the slimy,
olive-green fucus hung loosely down--a sea-ivy covering ruins made by
the waves.
I have never been to the place since those days. If Shriny's palace is
there now at all, I dare say I should find the stakes to be stumps, and
all the vastness and mystery about them gone for ever. And yet we used
to pretend to feast with her there. We served up the seed-vessels of the
fucus as fish. I do not think we really ate them, we only sucked out the
salt water, and tried to fancy we were enjoying the repast.
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