“It is easier,” said the fisherman, “to say where they do not grow, unless I just say, they grow wherever there is sea-water. The pier yonder, below high-water mark, is covered with hundreds of them. All the rocks that we see bare at low tide are white with them. Every log or stick that drifts on the sea has them on it. All the old shells on the beach, and many new shells, have dozens fastened on them.
“I have seen an old King Crab crawl up the beach,” the fisherman said. “He had his shell so coated with these things, that it seemed as if he had two shells, one on top of the other. It was so heavy that he could hardly walk.
“I have also seen them growing in the skins of whales, and sharks, and other fish. I have sailed all around the world, and I have found these things everywhere.”
“What do you call them, Mr. Fisherman?”
“Some call them Sea-Acorns, some Sea-Rose-Buds. These are pretty names; but Barnacle is the right name.”
“Do you know, Mr. Fisherman, that they are cousins of the crabs?”
“I’ll never believe that,” said the fisherman. “They do not look like crabs. When I was a boy, folks told me that out of these shells came a little bird that grew into a goose. I saw a picture once, of a tree all covered with big barnacles, and out of each one hung a little bird’s head. Is that tale true? They were not quite like these barnacles.”
“No, Mr. Fisherman, it is not at all true. No birds grow from barnacles. That is an old-time fable.”
“Well,” said the fisherman, “once in the water I saw something hanging out of the shell of a fellow like this. It opened and shut, and looked a little like a bird’s foot.”
“It was a foot, Mr. Fisherman, but not a bird’s foot. It was Mr. Barnacle’s own foot, and as he has no hands, he uses his feet to catch his dinner.”