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Updated: May 13, 2025
They raised themselves up on tiptoe. On the left hand there was an old black velvet hat trimmed with ragged feathers bobbing about regular hearse's plumes. It was dancing a devil of a dance, this hat bouncing and whirling round, diving down and then springing up again.
These great spreading, gnarled branches are hands, claws monstrous and menacing; those leaves no longer bright remind me of a hearse's plumes; their rustling of the rustling and switching of a pall or winding-sheet. The trunk, black, sinuous, towering, is assuredly no piece of timber, but something pulpy, something intangible, something antagonistic, mystic, devilish. I turn from it and shudder.
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