But the tree episode, I think, was the most curious of all--except,
perhaps, the incident with the children which I shall mention in a
moment--for its closeness to reality was so unforgettable.
Outside the east window of my room stood a giant wellingtonia on the
lawn, its head rising level with the upper sash. It grew some twenty
feet away, planted on the highest terrace, and I often saw it when
closing my curtains for the night, noticing how it drew its heavy skirts
about it, and how the light from other windows threw glimmering streaks
and patches that turned it into the semblance of a towering, solemn
image. It stood there then so strikingly, somehow like a great old-world
idol, that it claimed attention. Its appearance was curiously
formidable. Its branches rustled without visibly moving and it had a
certain portentous, forbidding air, so grand and dark and monstrous in
the night that I was always glad when my curtains shut it out. Yet, once
in bed, I had never thought about it one way or the other, and by day
had certainly never sought it out.
One night, then, as I went to bed and closed this window against a
cutting easterly wind, I saw--that there were two of these trees.
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